Split (1)

test · 5k rows

content stringlengths 1k 10k	untruncated_content stringlengths 1k 1M	category stringclasses 10 values	date stringdate 2025-09-22 17:35:38 2025-12-18 00:00:00	url stringlengths 32 237	metadata stringlengths 2 579k
Understall “I don’t know how you can keep your hands to yourself.” Seiya was finally beginning to like drinking with Haruka whenshesaid that. “What?”The straw he was chewing onfellout of his mouth when he responded. Haruka was shameless when she wanted to be. “Well,if it weremewho could—” She mimed Seiya’s transformation sequence instead of saying ‘grow a penis’because theydidn’tquite have that relationship yet.“Iwould’vebeenall over—.” “Woah.Wait.Withthem?They’rebasically family.I’d—. No...Never.” Haruka’s eyebrows shot past her bangs. “Youhave.” Seiya dropped his head onto the sticky bar table. He didn’t want to have this conversation right now. No, no, no. Just, no. “When? The tall or short one?Both?Was this while you were all over our Princessor after?”Seiyakept his head on the table, because if she could see him,she’dknow. She'd never, ever, shut up about his sex life. He hated Earth. The last time he'd used his magical human-boy penis had been in a public restroom. It probably wasn't the kind of activity Haruka had in mind when she'd asked him. Taiki was an experimental fellow(not-so-secret pervert), and Seiya just liked touching things in places heshouldn’ttouch them(normal pervert).The combination has led them to weird places. They hadn’t considered anything public before this, and Seiya wouldn’t say he was an exhibitionist, per se... The possibility of being caught nixed the fun. His career would never allow such risks. However, Seiya trusted Taiki implicitly. There was very little Seiya wouldn’t do at Taiki’s command these days. Seiya pulled his winter coat across his chest, hoping no one wouldnoticehim as he made his way to the men’s room.It wasinthe parking level of amostly defunct mall,empty except for thosein the know.Or sohe’dbeen told. His heart starts thudding in his chest the closer he gets, and he finds himselfadjusting his pantsbefore he steps inside.Taiki told himit’djust be them, butthere was a possibility he would run intoa perfect stranger. When Seiya pushed the door open,its hinges squealed in protest. If anyone decided to follow,he’dhear them before they saw him. All he could smell was antiseptic.The floor wasnearly spotless, aside fromthe faintest hint ofroadsalt dusting the floor.Whoever cleaned the restroom in the morning had left the cleaning supplies on the sink.There simplyweren’tenough visitors tobother withhiding human effort from them, and those who did need the restroom obviously did not care about the presence of (gasp) window cleaner. The bathroom seemedempty atfirstglance.After turning around the partition, hesaw thatno one was standing at the urinals.And while all the stall doors were closed, noneseemed to belocked... except one. Seiya could just barely make out a pair of Derby shoes under one of the stalls.Once he saw the shoes, Seiya shoved his way into the stall to the leftof them. On Earth, everyone seemed to know his name. It was nice to pretend he could be nobody, touching someone whose name he’d never know. These shoes were all he knew about the other person. Maybe they were a stiff businessman, or they just liked to look fancy. Someone who'd never heard of him, or his band, or his droves of fan girls. Seiya was wearingrattysneakers. They were dirty even beforehe’dworn them out in the dreary weatherthey’dbeen having. The laces were looseand frayed, trailing behind and catchingallthe slush. Helooked likea mess. Maybe theperson on the other side was as much of a mess as he was, andthey’dworn the shoes in hopes of impressing an interviewer. In any other situation,he’dask. When hesat down, heunzipped his jeans and rolled them half down his thighs.Seiya looked down at his crotch and shuddered at the sight of his damp briefs.Hedidn’tdareto pullthem down.He just rubbed acrosstaut cotton, circling the wet spot. Then he waited. His eyes drifted down to the gap between the stall and the floor.On the wall, written in black sharpie, wasknock4 fun. It was the kind of graffiti he wouldn’t pay attention to in any other situation. It was locker room talk that’d come out of completely, 100% heterosexual jocks. He thought this stuff was a joke. He still thinks it is, but someone else had clearly been in Seiya’s spot, waiting to do the exact same thing. How long did Taiki know about this place before they’d brought it up? Have they... with other people...? Probably not. Taiki wasn’t that adventurous. Just... strange. They'd probably just seen something they shouldn't have, or read something in a naughty magazine. TheDerbyshoesedgedtowards the divider, stopping whenthey peaked out.They were dirtier thanhe’dfirstthought;saltand melted snowturning shiny black into a matte grey.The winter weatherhadn’tbeen kind to them.Seiyafelt unfocused and fuzzywhen he nudged them with his own sneakers, scuffing them just a little more. They tapped once more. He tapped back. The stranger stood up, and their jeans dropped to the floor. The belt looped around it clattered as the buckle hit the tiles. Seiya could see theirshadowon the floor. Their shoes, their legs, their arms, theirhanddrifting closer to their midsection and wrapping aroundsomething solid. They shuffled until they faced the divider, letting him see as much as the shadows would let him. Seiya swallowed.He could only see the suggestion of it, but he could hear it. The soft huffing, the sliding sound when your hands are dry against it.A single strand of pre-cum hits the tile underneath them, and Seiyacan’ttake his eyesoffit. There itwas;proof that this was really happening. Seiya stuck his hand under the divider, holding his palm up.The ring on his finger caught the light of the light fixture above them. Their pace picked upfor a second before letting go of their cock. The strangergot to theirknees, shuffling so theirstomachwasagainst the divider. Seiya could see muscled thighs, littered withscarshe’dknown sincethey’dbeen bleeding.In their human forms, Taiki was softer aroundthelegs. It’shard to pretendit’sa stranger when you know their body so well.He wanted to pinch the skin andpullit.Maybe he’dfind something newunderthefluorescentlighting. Seiya joined them. The pants he’d kept around his thighs is pulled down to his ankles, and he rolls down his briefs too, just for the hell of it. He might as well show off what he's packing. He grunted as he sat on hishaunches.Thepantsaround his ankles really made it hard to move, huh.His knees popping sounded impossibly loud in the quiet stalls.He briefly skimmedthe inside of Taiki’s thigh, squeezing the soft flesh.Then his fingers continued tothecrux. And then... Taikireached their own hand under the stall, but Seiya pushed it back. If anyone even brushed against hisdickright now,it’dbe over.No one wanted to deal with him afterhe’dhad an orgasm. He got all soft and (occasionally,briefly) weepy. Seiyacurls his fingersagainst them,marvelingat the contrast between thesilver ring he wearsandTaiki’s flesh.He gives it a squeeze,smiles when he hears them whine on the other side. “Sorry,” they whisper.There’sa quavery undertone in their voicethat makes Seiya feel wild. He gives them an experimental tugbefore stumbling his way into a steady rhythm.Taiki’s started to pantalready.Their hips try to follow his hands, fucking his loose fist. For a short while, they both lose themselves in it. It's a familiar push and pull that relaxes him despite the public setting. It's something they've been doing for a long time together. Seiya looks down at his hand, and admires the cock sitting in his palm. He doesn't see it very often. The times they fool around with Taiki's pants off are few and far between, and they have the slightest preference for their other form. It's pretty. Taiki's just so pretty. The hair is neat and trimmed. It's larger than he is by a decent amount, but thinner. Seiya takes a second to collect the pre-cum beading on their tip. Taiki doesn’t warn them before coming. They usually grab him, a shoulder or a shirt, lost for words. With a wall between them, Seiya doesn't know what's happening until he has white dripping down his fingers. He slowly pulls for a second longer, only stopping when Taiki starts hissing in overstimulation. Seiya scoots closer to the divider and pulls his hand to his own crotch. Taiki’s spend drips onto him. He hopes they see it, a pearl of white sitting on top of the flushed, angry skin. The low, tortured sound he gets in response puts a smile to his face. He cups his fist around his cock, watching the way his length disappears under his hand. It almost looks like there's nothing there at all. There’s enough lubricant to make jerking himself off quick and (almost) painless. Seiya’s own cum mixes with Taiki’s in less than 20 seconds. It spills out of his fist and dribbles onto the floor. They should clean that up... Seiya hastily wipes his hand off on a wad of single ply toilet paper and pulls his pants on in a daze. He’s leaving sticky hand prints on his clothes, but finds he doesn't care. Shit, his hand still looks like a mess. He gives the gap between the divider and the floor one last look, and right under theknock 4 fungraffiti is a puddle.Impulse drives Seiya to stick the toe of his sneaker in it. Nothing magical happens, and now he hascumon his shoes.There’sno way to tell ifit’sTaiki’s (embarrassing) or his (embarrassing and loser-ish). Well. He feels sticky and a little gross when he walks out of the stall, and his legs wobble from being on the floor for so long. Actcasual. He goes over to the sinks, eyes on the window cleaner while he lets the tap run. Hedoesn’tput his hands under the water.A few seconds later, Taiki joins him,nearly shoulderto shoulder. “Nice seeing you here,” Seiya says, casually. “You’re not very good at washing your hands,” Taiki responds. They point down at the milky gloss on Seiya’s fingers and streaked across his palm. God, he hates that Taiki looks put together right now. There’s not a single hair out of place or anything. They've got a	Understall “I don’t know how you can keep your hands to yourself.” Seiya was finally beginning to like drinking with Haruka whenshesaid that. “What?”The straw he was chewing onfellout of his mouth when he responded. Haruka was shameless when she wanted to be. “Well,if it weremewho could—” She mimed Seiya’s transformation sequence instead of saying ‘grow a penis’because theydidn’tquite have that relationship yet.“Iwould’vebeenall over—.” “Woah.Wait.Withthem?They’rebasically family.I’d—. No...Never.” Haruka’s eyebrows shot past her bangs. “Youhave.” Seiya dropped his head onto the sticky bar table. He didn’t want to have this conversation right now. No, no, no. Just, no. “When? The tall or short one?Both?Was this while you were all over our Princessor after?”Seiyakept his head on the table, because if she could see him,she’dknow. She'd never, ever, shut up about his sex life. He hated Earth. The last time he'd used his magical human-boy penis had been in a public restroom. It probably wasn't the kind of activity Haruka had in mind when she'd asked him. Taiki was an experimental fellow(not-so-secret pervert), and Seiya just liked touching things in places heshouldn’ttouch them(normal pervert).The combination has led them to weird places. They hadn’t considered anything public before this, and Seiya wouldn’t say he was an exhibitionist, per se... The possibility of being caught nixed the fun. His career would never allow such risks. However, Seiya trusted Taiki implicitly. There was very little Seiya wouldn’t do at Taiki’s command these days. Seiya pulled his winter coat across his chest, hoping no one wouldnoticehim as he made his way to the men’s room.It wasinthe parking level of amostly defunct mall,empty except for thosein the know.Or sohe’dbeen told. His heart starts thudding in his chest the closer he gets, and he finds himselfadjusting his pantsbefore he steps inside.Taiki told himit’djust be them, butthere was a possibility he would run intoa perfect stranger. When Seiya pushed the door open,its hinges squealed in protest. If anyone decided to follow,he’dhear them before they saw him. All he could smell was antiseptic.The floor wasnearly spotless, aside fromthe faintest hint ofroadsalt dusting the floor.Whoever cleaned the restroom in the morning had left the cleaning supplies on the sink.There simplyweren’tenough visitors tobother withhiding human effort from them, and those who did need the restroom obviously did not care about the presence of (gasp) window cleaner. The bathroom seemedempty atfirstglance.After turning around the partition, hesaw thatno one was standing at the urinals.And while all the stall doors were closed, noneseemed to belocked... except one. Seiya could just barely make out a pair of Derby shoes under one of the stalls.Once he saw the shoes, Seiya shoved his way into the stall to the leftof them. On Earth, everyone seemed to know his name. It was nice to pretend he could be nobody, touching someone whose name he’d never know. These shoes were all he knew about the other person. Maybe they were a stiff businessman, or they just liked to look fancy. Someone who'd never heard of him, or his band, or his droves of fan girls. Seiya was wearingrattysneakers. They were dirty even beforehe’dworn them out in the dreary weatherthey’dbeen having. The laces were looseand frayed, trailing behind and catchingallthe slush. Helooked likea mess. Maybe theperson on the other side was as much of a mess as he was, andthey’dworn the shoes in hopes of impressing an interviewer. In any other situation,he’dask. When hesat down, heunzipped his jeans and rolled them half down his thighs.Seiya looked down at his crotch and shuddered at the sight of his damp briefs.Hedidn’tdareto pullthem down.He just rubbed acrosstaut cotton, circling the wet spot. Then he waited. His eyes drifted down to the gap between the stall and the floor.On the wall, written in black sharpie, wasknock4 fun. It was the kind of graffiti he wouldn’t pay attention to in any other situation. It was locker room talk that’d come out of completely, 100% heterosexual jocks. He thought this stuff was a joke. He still thinks it is, but someone else had clearly been in Seiya’s spot, waiting to do the exact same thing. How long did Taiki know about this place before they’d brought it up? Have they... with other people...? Probably not. Taiki wasn’t that adventurous. Just... strange. They'd probably just seen something they shouldn't have, or read something in a naughty magazine. TheDerbyshoesedgedtowards the divider, stopping whenthey peaked out.They were dirtier thanhe’dfirstthought;saltand melted snowturning shiny black into a matte grey.The winter weatherhadn’tbeen kind to them.Seiyafelt unfocused and fuzzywhen he nudged them with his own sneakers, scuffing them just a little more. They tapped once more. He tapped back. The stranger stood up, and their jeans dropped to the floor. The belt looped around it clattered as the buckle hit the tiles. Seiya could see theirshadowon the floor. Their shoes, their legs, their arms, theirhanddrifting closer to their midsection and wrapping aroundsomething solid. They shuffled until they faced the divider, letting him see as much as the shadows would let him. Seiya swallowed.He could only see the suggestion of it, but he could hear it. The soft huffing, the sliding sound when your hands are dry against it.A single strand of pre-cum hits the tile underneath them, and Seiyacan’ttake his eyesoffit. There itwas;proof that this was really happening. Seiya stuck his hand under the divider, holding his palm up.The ring on his finger caught the light of the light fixture above them. Their pace picked upfor a second before letting go of their cock. The strangergot to theirknees, shuffling so theirstomachwasagainst the divider. Seiya could see muscled thighs, littered withscarshe’dknown sincethey’dbeen bleeding.In their human forms, Taiki was softer aroundthelegs. It’shard to pretendit’sa stranger when you know their body so well.He wanted to pinch the skin andpullit.Maybe he’dfind something newunderthefluorescentlighting. Seiya joined them. The pants he’d kept around his thighs is pulled down to his ankles, and he rolls down his briefs too, just for the hell of it. He might as well show off what he's packing. He grunted as he sat on hishaunches.Thepantsaround his ankles really made it hard to move, huh.His knees popping sounded impossibly loud in the quiet stalls.He briefly skimmedthe inside of Taiki’s thigh, squeezing the soft flesh.Then his fingers continued tothecrux. And then... Taikireached their own hand under the stall, but Seiya pushed it back. If anyone even brushed against hisdickright now,it’dbe over.No one wanted to deal with him afterhe’dhad an orgasm. He got all soft and (occasionally,briefly) weepy. Seiyacurls his fingersagainst them,marvelingat the contrast between thesilver ring he wearsandTaiki’s flesh.He gives it a squeeze,smiles when he hears them whine on the other side. “Sorry,” they whisper.There’sa quavery undertone in their voicethat makes Seiya feel wild. He gives them an experimental tugbefore stumbling his way into a steady rhythm.Taiki’s started to pantalready.Their hips try to follow his hands, fucking his loose fist. For a short while, they both lose themselves in it. It's a familiar push and pull that relaxes him despite the public setting. It's something they've been doing for a long time together. Seiya looks down at his hand, and admires the cock sitting in his palm. He doesn't see it very often. The times they fool around with Taiki's pants off are few and far between, and they have the slightest preference for their other form. It's pretty. Taiki's just so pretty. The hair is neat and trimmed. It's larger than he is by a decent amount, but thinner. Seiya takes a second to collect the pre-cum beading on their tip. Taiki doesn’t warn them before coming. They usually grab him, a shoulder or a shirt, lost for words. With a wall between them, Seiya doesn't know what's happening until he has white dripping down his fingers. He slowly pulls for a second longer, only stopping when Taiki starts hissing in overstimulation. Seiya scoots closer to the divider and pulls his hand to his own crotch. Taiki’s spend drips onto him. He hopes they see it, a pearl of white sitting on top of the flushed, angry skin. The low, tortured sound he gets in response puts a smile to his face. He cups his fist around his cock, watching the way his length disappears under his hand. It almost looks like there's nothing there at all. There’s enough lubricant to make jerking himself off quick and (almost) painless. Seiya’s own cum mixes with Taiki’s in less than 20 seconds. It spills out of his fist and dribbles onto the floor. They should clean that up... Seiya hastily wipes his hand off on a wad of single ply toilet paper and pulls his pants on in a daze. He’s leaving sticky hand prints on his clothes, but finds he doesn't care. Shit, his hand still looks like a mess. He gives the gap between the divider and the floor one last look, and right under theknock 4 fungraffiti is a puddle.Impulse drives Seiya to stick the toe of his sneaker in it. Nothing magical happens, and now he hascumon his shoes.There’sno way to tell ifit’sTaiki’s (embarrassing) or his (embarrassing and loser-ish). Well. He feels sticky and a little gross when he walks out of the stall, and his legs wobble from being on the floor for so long. Actcasual. He goes over to the sinks, eyes on the window cleaner while he lets the tap run. Hedoesn’tput his hands under the water.A few seconds later, Taiki joins him,nearly shoulderto shoulder. “Nice seeing you here,” Seiya says, casually. “You’re not very good at washing your hands,” Taiki responds. They point down at the milky gloss on Seiya’s fingers and streaked across his palm. God, he hates that Taiki looks put together right now. There’s not a single hair out of place or anything. They've got a long coat that makes them look even taller, and the stiff fabric accentuates their shoulders... and it all looks good, despite being on the floor for ages. He grumbles. “I’ll fix that for you,” andsticks his fingers in his mouth. (It didn’t matter that it wasn’t just Taiki’s, just that some of it was.) The sight was fucking nasty, not that Taiki seemed to hate it. They exhale sharply out of their nose and stare at his lips like they wanted to bite him. They pull him in for a brief kiss, and Seiya melts into them. No biting involved, but now they both have dick breath. Nice. "I drove here," Taiki says against his lips. "I'm assuming you don't want to take the bus home." He pulls away from them after a second and digs his head into their shoulder, breathing in their scent. "Yeah, that'd be cool." Seiya doesn't quite get weepy, but he leans against Taiki for a long time. Taiki eventually gets the message, and draws him into their arms. They don't let go until the door hinges squeak, letting them know someone else was coming in.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75744656	{"authors": ["MarineCathedral"], "language": "English", "title": "Understall"}
My everything One day, on the top of an old mountain, something happened. What happened chichi, what happened ??? Heh... You all are not ready for the story im about to tell you... It was around 7am. The nature slowly awaken from its slumber and go about its business, the sky was so bright it could turn alive and start singing niccori survey team at any time given, and the rustling of the plants betrayed the unexpected visit of the spring wind. However, something disrupts this peaceful start to the morning. Between two rocks, under a huge toona sinensis, and next to the most dehydrated river in the whole region, a little ball appeared. What ?? A ball ?? What kind of story is this... But listen ! It wasn't any kind of ball... This ball was medium small: it could fit in a hand of a high schooler. And fluffy !! Soooo fluffy, im confident this ball could win against the fluffiest hamster, dog, cat, bunny, your partner, a feet, your partner's feet, whatever you want in a "Who's the fluffiest of them all" contest. But mind you, that wasn't the ball's weirdest attribute. This ball was.... Purple (the #BB88EE way). With a smug cat face on it (like.. this --> (–⩊–)). It had two cyan lines similar to pencil strokes I could've drawn with my mouse during class, one between its eyes and one descending along the left side of its.. face?... .... Completely stupid, isn't it ? Anyway... The ball quietly spawned in the middle of nothing, around one meter from the ground, levitated for two solid seconds before landing all softly on the grass (peter how are you doing that). ... So that's it ? A purple ball ?? My balls could be purple too after a long night with your mo- oi oi that's rude. Back to the intriguing sphere please. Strangely enough, the ball had a conscience. It could think, move, but not speak (yet). Yeah, have you ever seen a ball with a mouth ? That's what I thought. The cute orb looked around, started to feel for the first time what it was like existing. The caress of the wind on its surface, the peaceful atmosphere of this place, everything was so... Alive. As the ball was just born, it didn't have any life goal. To be able to feel its weight pressing on the land was already enough. Time passed, the ball progressively explored each coin of the mountain as the years passed. Days after days, months after months, years after years. The mountain couldn't be better, dressing in its finest clothes depending of the weather (diva, I could never) and seemed to show off its rain coat, snow scarf and flower cardigan at any given opportunity. Our little thing, on the other hand, was kind of lost. Well, it was indeed lost. But we're speaking here about the type of lost... Deeper within. 18 years passed, and no goal. No ambition. No friends either. The animals were too scared to approach him (passing to he/him pronouns from now bc poor little thing has a conscience). One time, a passing fox even called him a "zest fest". Can you believe that ?? What did he do to deserve this ? (everything). Actually, there is only one memory that the sphere cherish. At that time, the ball must be around 15 years old, and as usual, he was feeling pretty lonely. Everything happened in summer, in the middle of a cloudy yet hot day. "Another great time watching the sky" He sighed thoughtfully in his little hea- uuh ball. ? Brain ? Ball brain. You all must be wondering. "IDIOT WHY DON'T YOU MOVE FROM THIS MOUNTAIN" Savannah, slow down. He indeed understood very early (precocious child ahh) how to wal-.. roll, but he also understood that moving out of his comfortable and convenient birth place without knowing anything from the outside world was a really, really stupid idea. Purple ball was no afraid, he was just aware of the potential dangers. "Maybe i should wait a little –⩊–"" was his excuse. Anyway, back to the memory. Our sphere was lost in his thoughts, when suddenly... A giant, enormous, menacing shadow appeared next to him. Something big was approaching, and im not speaking about the shit I've been holding since dawn. As the thing gradually got closer, little ball was staring at it, a little anxious but his curiosity took over every other feelings. Yet he suddenly closed his eyes in a little moment of panick. When he opened them again, he found a being. Staring at him. Rude !! Dont do that kids. "I've never seen this kind of animal in my whole existence" Thought our main character. Considering the ball was on the ground, imagine a light pink very short haired person, around 15 years old too, face planted as if glued to the ground watching with sparkly eyes a random purple sphere who's colors didn't match the environment at all. What a bizarre scene... (BIZARRE ??? JOJO NO KIMYOU NA BOU-) -"WOAHHH !!! A BALL !! Hey it looks pretty cute..." She exclaimed. "Im gonna take it home~~.." As the energumen slowly reached their hand toward the "cute" thing, and when their finger was 2 centimeters from it, they suddenly flinched and stepped back holding their hand. "AHH !! IT BIT ME" Indeed, our weird glob opened his "mouth" for the first time and proceeded from a defensive perspective. "What the... How is that even possible ?? Is that a toy ? Stupid new products they create these days man." Visibly annoyed, the intriguing character decided to sit on the grass next to the ball, watched the clouds for a good minute, and started speaking alone. They seemed so lonely in their everyday life that speaking to a "toy" was apparently better than nothing. She presented herself as Mizuki Akiyama. She claimed to like cute things, but said that other people at her school kept trying to ridiculise her for that. Purple sphere was listening to her ramble, not knowing how to interact. (Mizuki, if you think it's normal to speak to a random purple ball you just found at the peak of a mountain, you have the survival instinct of a potato). She also explained how she got here. "I was searching for a place to think about everything and anything, you know ? If I had friends to talk to, I wouldn't have to visit this mountain and speak to a wannabe pokemon." She giggles mischievously looking at the purple thing. "Who are you calling a pokemon" is what he wanted to say but he wasn't feeling ready to speak yet. Hours passed, and the sky began to darken quickly. "Ahhh.. it's time to go home now. My big sis will be worried." Mizuki starts walking away, and suddenly turns back in the direction of the ball. She says tenderly, but with a hint of sadness in her voice. "Being lonely together wasn't so bad, i hope ill see you around again someday. Bye~ ☆" She then slowly disappeared going down the slope, fading in darkness, as quick as she appeared. What a melancholic individual. Ball thought about that interaction a lot. Not only because it was the first and only time he spoke to this weird specie, but also because it opened his eyes to a brand new catalogue of possibilities. Years passed, and as he thought and thought, one conclusion always came to his mind. It's decided !! He will explore the world and find companions to live his life with. Back to the present (he is 18) After thinking about multiple ways to start his travel, he finally decided to go on a sunny morning. This is the big day ! (Snifff they're growing up so fast...) Carefree and thirsty for curiosity, zest fest started rolling (no little ball roll back to kitchen). At that moment, he was at the peak of the mountain, he didn't even move a distance of seven meters that he found himself heading toward a slope and suddenly started rolling, rolling, rolling... ("MOU IKKAI, MOU IKKAI, WATASHI WA KYOU MO KOROGARIMASU TO ") The ball went past trees, rocks, didn't miss hitting countless poor plants and pebbles as he was going faster and faster down the slope. "Fu fu fu, this is kind of fun..." He thought as he was going so fast he could break sound barrier and create impact frames on spot. Wait, how does he know our language ??? Is that what you're worried about ? We're speaking about a purple sphere that appeared out of nowhere. Unfortunately (or fortunately), all good things must come to an end. At the end of the slope was waiting a giant rock. The ball didn't manage to stop in time- BOOM !!!!!!! What a great way to start a big journey. Dizzy and kind of hurt, the curious ball continued slowly along its trajectory, making sure not to fall this time. He met multiple animals on the way. Well... Met was a strong word, since all the species were seeing him as an outcast. "What is that thing doing here ??" Murmured anxiously a squirrel. A cocky doe added "It's not welcome in here. Seems like it's planning to leave the mountain. It finally understood its place." A bird who was flapping above them all finally said "Honestly, he always scared me a little..." (Bitch how) Little ball pretended not to hear anything, determined to find people he could call his friends, people who could accept the true him. As he descended the mountain, the sky darkened and thousands of stars appeared one by one and illuminated the way, alongside with the extravagant blue moon (no Caine hold back). He must not be very far from the end of the mountain. Finally ! he was tired of rolling on sneaky pebbles and encounter contemptuous animals. He was about to call it a day and hide inside ferns to sleep when something captivated his attention. Lower down, below him and about a hundred meters away, floating lights were making their way on a winding path between the trees. What ?? Little ball, arent you tired... There was around a dozen yellow lights, probably from lanterns, reflecting... People !!!! And horses. Little ball didn't know what horses were, but definitly knew what the other specie is. "The same as that person i met 3 years ago !!!" He thought with excitement. He could've ignored that and start sleeping right away, but we know our little sphere is a curious one. Without thinking twice, he started to tail them while hiding behind trees, all while being	My everything One day, on the top of an old mountain, something happened. What happened chichi, what happened ??? Heh... You all are not ready for the story im about to tell you... It was around 7am. The nature slowly awaken from its slumber and go about its business, the sky was so bright it could turn alive and start singing niccori survey team at any time given, and the rustling of the plants betrayed the unexpected visit of the spring wind. However, something disrupts this peaceful start to the morning. Between two rocks, under a huge toona sinensis, and next to the most dehydrated river in the whole region, a little ball appeared. What ?? A ball ?? What kind of story is this... But listen ! It wasn't any kind of ball... This ball was medium small: it could fit in a hand of a high schooler. And fluffy !! Soooo fluffy, im confident this ball could win against the fluffiest hamster, dog, cat, bunny, your partner, a feet, your partner's feet, whatever you want in a "Who's the fluffiest of them all" contest. But mind you, that wasn't the ball's weirdest attribute. This ball was.... Purple (the #BB88EE way). With a smug cat face on it (like.. this --> (–⩊–)). It had two cyan lines similar to pencil strokes I could've drawn with my mouse during class, one between its eyes and one descending along the left side of its.. face?... .... Completely stupid, isn't it ? Anyway... The ball quietly spawned in the middle of nothing, around one meter from the ground, levitated for two solid seconds before landing all softly on the grass (peter how are you doing that). ... So that's it ? A purple ball ?? My balls could be purple too after a long night with your mo- oi oi that's rude. Back to the intriguing sphere please. Strangely enough, the ball had a conscience. It could think, move, but not speak (yet). Yeah, have you ever seen a ball with a mouth ? That's what I thought. The cute orb looked around, started to feel for the first time what it was like existing. The caress of the wind on its surface, the peaceful atmosphere of this place, everything was so... Alive. As the ball was just born, it didn't have any life goal. To be able to feel its weight pressing on the land was already enough. Time passed, the ball progressively explored each coin of the mountain as the years passed. Days after days, months after months, years after years. The mountain couldn't be better, dressing in its finest clothes depending of the weather (diva, I could never) and seemed to show off its rain coat, snow scarf and flower cardigan at any given opportunity. Our little thing, on the other hand, was kind of lost. Well, it was indeed lost. But we're speaking here about the type of lost... Deeper within. 18 years passed, and no goal. No ambition. No friends either. The animals were too scared to approach him (passing to he/him pronouns from now bc poor little thing has a conscience). One time, a passing fox even called him a "zest fest". Can you believe that ?? What did he do to deserve this ? (everything). Actually, there is only one memory that the sphere cherish. At that time, the ball must be around 15 years old, and as usual, he was feeling pretty lonely. Everything happened in summer, in the middle of a cloudy yet hot day. "Another great time watching the sky" He sighed thoughtfully in his little hea- uuh ball. ? Brain ? Ball brain. You all must be wondering. "IDIOT WHY DON'T YOU MOVE FROM THIS MOUNTAIN" Savannah, slow down. He indeed understood very early (precocious child ahh) how to wal-.. roll, but he also understood that moving out of his comfortable and convenient birth place without knowing anything from the outside world was a really, really stupid idea. Purple ball was no afraid, he was just aware of the potential dangers. "Maybe i should wait a little –⩊–"" was his excuse. Anyway, back to the memory. Our sphere was lost in his thoughts, when suddenly... A giant, enormous, menacing shadow appeared next to him. Something big was approaching, and im not speaking about the shit I've been holding since dawn. As the thing gradually got closer, little ball was staring at it, a little anxious but his curiosity took over every other feelings. Yet he suddenly closed his eyes in a little moment of panick. When he opened them again, he found a being. Staring at him. Rude !! Dont do that kids. "I've never seen this kind of animal in my whole existence" Thought our main character. Considering the ball was on the ground, imagine a light pink very short haired person, around 15 years old too, face planted as if glued to the ground watching with sparkly eyes a random purple sphere who's colors didn't match the environment at all. What a bizarre scene... (BIZARRE ??? JOJO NO KIMYOU NA BOU-) -"WOAHHH !!! A BALL !! Hey it looks pretty cute..." She exclaimed. "Im gonna take it home~~.." As the energumen slowly reached their hand toward the "cute" thing, and when their finger was 2 centimeters from it, they suddenly flinched and stepped back holding their hand. "AHH !! IT BIT ME" Indeed, our weird glob opened his "mouth" for the first time and proceeded from a defensive perspective. "What the... How is that even possible ?? Is that a toy ? Stupid new products they create these days man." Visibly annoyed, the intriguing character decided to sit on the grass next to the ball, watched the clouds for a good minute, and started speaking alone. They seemed so lonely in their everyday life that speaking to a "toy" was apparently better than nothing. She presented herself as Mizuki Akiyama. She claimed to like cute things, but said that other people at her school kept trying to ridiculise her for that. Purple sphere was listening to her ramble, not knowing how to interact. (Mizuki, if you think it's normal to speak to a random purple ball you just found at the peak of a mountain, you have the survival instinct of a potato). She also explained how she got here. "I was searching for a place to think about everything and anything, you know ? If I had friends to talk to, I wouldn't have to visit this mountain and speak to a wannabe pokemon." She giggles mischievously looking at the purple thing. "Who are you calling a pokemon" is what he wanted to say but he wasn't feeling ready to speak yet. Hours passed, and the sky began to darken quickly. "Ahhh.. it's time to go home now. My big sis will be worried." Mizuki starts walking away, and suddenly turns back in the direction of the ball. She says tenderly, but with a hint of sadness in her voice. "Being lonely together wasn't so bad, i hope ill see you around again someday. Bye~ ☆" She then slowly disappeared going down the slope, fading in darkness, as quick as she appeared. What a melancholic individual. Ball thought about that interaction a lot. Not only because it was the first and only time he spoke to this weird specie, but also because it opened his eyes to a brand new catalogue of possibilities. Years passed, and as he thought and thought, one conclusion always came to his mind. It's decided !! He will explore the world and find companions to live his life with. Back to the present (he is 18) After thinking about multiple ways to start his travel, he finally decided to go on a sunny morning. This is the big day ! (Snifff they're growing up so fast...) Carefree and thirsty for curiosity, zest fest started rolling (no little ball roll back to kitchen). At that moment, he was at the peak of the mountain, he didn't even move a distance of seven meters that he found himself heading toward a slope and suddenly started rolling, rolling, rolling... ("MOU IKKAI, MOU IKKAI, WATASHI WA KYOU MO KOROGARIMASU TO ") The ball went past trees, rocks, didn't miss hitting countless poor plants and pebbles as he was going faster and faster down the slope. "Fu fu fu, this is kind of fun..." He thought as he was going so fast he could break sound barrier and create impact frames on spot. Wait, how does he know our language ??? Is that what you're worried about ? We're speaking about a purple sphere that appeared out of nowhere. Unfortunately (or fortunately), all good things must come to an end. At the end of the slope was waiting a giant rock. The ball didn't manage to stop in time- BOOM !!!!!!! What a great way to start a big journey. Dizzy and kind of hurt, the curious ball continued slowly along its trajectory, making sure not to fall this time. He met multiple animals on the way. Well... Met was a strong word, since all the species were seeing him as an outcast. "What is that thing doing here ??" Murmured anxiously a squirrel. A cocky doe added "It's not welcome in here. Seems like it's planning to leave the mountain. It finally understood its place." A bird who was flapping above them all finally said "Honestly, he always scared me a little..." (Bitch how) Little ball pretended not to hear anything, determined to find people he could call his friends, people who could accept the true him. As he descended the mountain, the sky darkened and thousands of stars appeared one by one and illuminated the way, alongside with the extravagant blue moon (no Caine hold back). He must not be very far from the end of the mountain. Finally ! he was tired of rolling on sneaky pebbles and encounter contemptuous animals. He was about to call it a day and hide inside ferns to sleep when something captivated his attention. Lower down, below him and about a hundred meters away, floating lights were making their way on a winding path between the trees. What ?? Little ball, arent you tired... There was around a dozen yellow lights, probably from lanterns, reflecting... People !!!! And horses. Little ball didn't know what horses were, but definitly knew what the other specie is. "The same as that person i met 3 years ago !!!" He thought with excitement. He could've ignored that and start sleeping right away, but we know our little sphere is a curious one. Without thinking twice, he started to tail them while hiding behind trees, all while being extremely careful not to be seen. He doesn't know yet that... This action will have consequences 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 TO BE CONTINUED~~	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75745276	{"authors": ["Nogirui"], "language": "English", "title": "My everything"}
Things Change The festival was fun. Town all dressed up in new colors, peppered with attractions and stands. Streets overflowing with people enjoying their day. Kris had fun. They enjoyed spending time with Susie and Noelle. Laughed at the way Susie tore into every snack they grabbed. Smiled after the thousandth time they scared Noelle today. It was all just a great time. Kris didn't mind that Susie and Noelle were going together. Kris was fine just happening to tag along. Kris felt okay with being a third wheel to their childhood friend and school bully. They were happier together, anyways. Susie smiled more with Noelle, Noelle laughed more with Susie. They just clicked. Clicked better than what you get from growing up together year after year after year. Felt more than what comes from the weight of years, from all the things unsaid but known from familiarity alone. Clicked better than what you get from almost dying together time and time again. Loosened up more than laughing at insurmountable odds before winning anyways. Made more moments than adventuring through an impossible world. It was for the best. They would be happier this way. The moon was high by the time Noelle had to return home. The grand iron gate stood before the trio, high and mighty. Susie took a step beyond the threshold. "Um...Sorry Susie, I don't think Mom would...be okay with that. After...what happened yesterday." Susie stepped back quickly. "Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry 'bout that." "No need to apologize! It's...you didn't do anything wrong. It's just her being...unreasonable." "Pft, yeah. Old women, eh?" The skin by Noelle's eyes scrunched up as she laughed. "Fahaha, yeah!" "Anyways, I really need to get going...it was fun, though! Bye Susie!" "Bye!" Susie's rough purple hand fluffed Noelle's hair, the doe flushing at the touch. "OkIreallyreallyhavetogosorrybye!" And with that, Kris and Susie were alone. Kris knew they could follow if they wanted, but...why bother at this point. "Guess it's just us now, huh?" Kris nodded. A devilish grin alighted on Susie's face. "So, what now?" Just a couple hours ago, Kris would have loved to do just about anything. But now? "You go home." The dinosaur's shoulders slumped a slight before she picked herself back up. "...'Spose so, it's late. Gonna go with me?" "No." And then there was one, Kris, just Kris and a full moon. One step, two steps, three steps, four... ...but Kris didn't want to go home. Last night...there was probably going to be a repeat of that anyways. They didn't want to come home to that. Susie didn't want Kris seeing her home. Noelle...no. Ralsei...Kris wouldn't be able to get into the school. As Kris contemplated a destination, the feeling of grass underfoot alerted them that they had already chosen one. Bordered by deciduous trees in blazing tones, Kris took in the autumn air. The path was long and took a few twists through the woods, but it was one remembered well. Across the small bridge over the stream, through the marked trees, was the shelter. A rusty red metal door carved into a hillside, a keypad uncovered by a loosened panel. Within, countless acrid memories. Yet also within, the one friend Kris could always count on. With a satisfying crunch of leaves, Kris stepped into the small clearing around the shelter, only to find an unusual sight. Sitting in front of the door was a large white cat in a band tee and jeans, bangs forming a thin coat over her eyes. "What are you doing here?" Kris questioned. Catti's tail twitched as her head jerked to face Kris. "Sitting." "Why here?" "Quiet. Far from noise." "It's late. No noise." "A problem? With my position?" "No." "Then why. Do you inquire." "Didn't expect you here." Catti stood up, beckoning Kris to come closer as she indicated the keypad. "New. Unearthed." Kris was grateful that they always spoke in monotone. Otherwise, they would need to feign curiosity. "Weird. What do you think happened?" "Great impact. Dislodged. Revealed." Kris nodded. "Makes sense." Especially considering that was exactly what happened. "The glyphs. Meaning unknown." "Probably says who has what code." "...Sensible. Theories?" First, Kris indicated the pine tree. There was only one reasonable explanation for this one. "Carol." Then, the police badge. The current chief would make sense. "Undyne." And finally, the Delta Rune. It only seemed intuitive that the priest would have it! "Alvin." Catti's head tilted down for an instant before bobbing back up. "Agreed." A silence hung in the air for a few seconds. A small gust of wind chilled Kris through their sweater and bristled Catti's fur. Amber and ruby eyes lingered on the keypad before shifting to each other, and then the grass. Catti made a dull thud as she sat down, Kris following shortly after. The birds had fallen asleep, Kris presumed, going off the lack of song. So too had the town, and so too had the sun. For a moment, Kris supposed that the entire world outside this clearing had fallen asleep. They recalled staying up late with other friends in the twilight years of Dess' presence. It was always nice staying up beyond the hours one was meant to. In years past, a certain exciting, forbidden feeling filled their heart, amplified by the cover of shadow allowing things parents never would. Yet the night had been explored, and now was known well. Any sense of novelty had long faded as silence became not permission to rebel, but permission to think, to introspect, to mourn, to contemplate. Possibly a mandate. Still, the cold light of the moon felt like the warmth of a friend, and the dark of night like the light of home. Kris' scarlet gaze drifted to the cat beside them. Once, when they were smaller, this cat meant more. A friend. Although, upon second thought, perhaps she meant more now. A memory. That slight ache of a connection gnawed halfway through and pulled taut as the thread's endpoints grew further and further. Now was a good opportunity to reconnect, but...they'd grown apart, no? Catti had become a melancholic, dark creature speaking in fragments. Kris had become a monotone bundle of secrets and nostalgia, now twinged with envy. Unjustified envy, of course. Susie and Noelle were perfect for each other. Kris was a fool to think anything else. They shook their head and pushed the thought to the rim of their mind, noticing their current companion's glassy stare through the stars. Contemplating too, they supposed. A light tap on her shoulder roused Catti from her stupor, leaving her no time to recover before a question escaped Kris. "Was the festival fun?" Catti nodded quickly. "Was there anything you liked?" Her eyes narrowed as a circle spun itself in her frontal lobe and the walls of her skull closed in a slight. Her claws reached out for a response, but none came. "No. Lie." "Thought so." "Better out here. Quiet. No family. Just the night." "Yeah." "And you? The festival?" As if a trap had been sprung, the words fell from Kris' mouth immediately. "It was fun." Catti's tail hooked as her head tilted to the side. "Quick response. Suspicious." Kris' eyes fell to the grass once more, their voice falling in tandem. "It was fine. Nothing actually that bad." Catti smiled softly. "Your emotions. Shine brightly. No need to hide." "...it's stupid." "Life is so." Kris raised their view back up to Catti, interlocking their left hand's fingers with their right before releasing them again, over and over. "It's..." "...Guess it's just. Stuff with friends. Me being stupid over it all." "Complicated?" "Not really, just...unreasonable. Selfish, maybe." "Your friends. You care for them." Kris nodded. "I knew already. From past. Unless you changed?" Kris shook their head. "I...I'm pretty stuck in the past." "Memories. Precious things. Want to go back. Always. Can't." "...yeah." "But you. The same?" Were they? Kris considered. They... ...They absolutely weren't. They were so much more carefree back then. More hopeful. Playing silly pranks on Noelle, beating Asriel at video games, sitting in awe as Dess was so cool so effortlessly, using random objects as toys for no real reason, carrying that headband everywhere... There wasn't any prophecy, or at least it wasn't so real. There wasn't any Knight, or at least it wasn't their friend. It was all so much simpler, so much easier. Easier to smile, to hope, to connect, to wake up every morning and keep trying. But now...now... "A lot? To think?" One nod. "But you still care?" Many nods. Of course they did. "And them. Do they? For you. Does it seem?" ... "...No. I--I know they do, but, it just--they just--" "Silence to you?" "It's more...it feels fake. Like they just want to...to be alone. Together." A sharp crack accentuated Kris' voice. "Without...me." "And, I...don't get it. But I do, it makes sense, but..." Catti sat there, eyes fixated on the branch of a nearby tree for a few seconds before leaping to another branch, and another. "Have no answers. Difficult." A quivering smile spread across Kris' face. "...You have experience with this stuff?" Catti blinked once, twice, as her paw contracted and relaxed. She turned to face Kris fully. "Yes. You." Kris curled into themself. They'd hurt her? They'd really...they just messed it up, huh? Naturally. "In my mind. You lived on a pedestal." "Like a wellspring of happiness." "You, long ago. But no more." "You left. You left me." "From random entropy. Our bond withered." "No change, no event brought it." "It happened. And I learned." "Learned to live." "With it." "Without you." "I learned." "I grew." "Without you." "New friends. New style." "Not the same." Kris sighed. "Never the same." "Never." "I...I don't remember why I stopped talking to you. If you wanted an answer." "Did it. Not matter?" "It did. I don't get why I would have. Stopped." Piercing ochre eyes swept over Kris' form. The eyes of a cat	Things Change The festival was fun. Town all dressed up in new colors, peppered with attractions and stands. Streets overflowing with people enjoying their day. Kris had fun. They enjoyed spending time with Susie and Noelle. Laughed at the way Susie tore into every snack they grabbed. Smiled after the thousandth time they scared Noelle today. It was all just a great time. Kris didn't mind that Susie and Noelle were going together. Kris was fine just happening to tag along. Kris felt okay with being a third wheel to their childhood friend and school bully. They were happier together, anyways. Susie smiled more with Noelle, Noelle laughed more with Susie. They just clicked. Clicked better than what you get from growing up together year after year after year. Felt more than what comes from the weight of years, from all the things unsaid but known from familiarity alone. Clicked better than what you get from almost dying together time and time again. Loosened up more than laughing at insurmountable odds before winning anyways. Made more moments than adventuring through an impossible world. It was for the best. They would be happier this way. The moon was high by the time Noelle had to return home. The grand iron gate stood before the trio, high and mighty. Susie took a step beyond the threshold. "Um...Sorry Susie, I don't think Mom would...be okay with that. After...what happened yesterday." Susie stepped back quickly. "Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry 'bout that." "No need to apologize! It's...you didn't do anything wrong. It's just her being...unreasonable." "Pft, yeah. Old women, eh?" The skin by Noelle's eyes scrunched up as she laughed. "Fahaha, yeah!" "Anyways, I really need to get going...it was fun, though! Bye Susie!" "Bye!" Susie's rough purple hand fluffed Noelle's hair, the doe flushing at the touch. "OkIreallyreallyhavetogosorrybye!" And with that, Kris and Susie were alone. Kris knew they could follow if they wanted, but...why bother at this point. "Guess it's just us now, huh?" Kris nodded. A devilish grin alighted on Susie's face. "So, what now?" Just a couple hours ago, Kris would have loved to do just about anything. But now? "You go home." The dinosaur's shoulders slumped a slight before she picked herself back up. "...'Spose so, it's late. Gonna go with me?" "No." And then there was one, Kris, just Kris and a full moon. One step, two steps, three steps, four... ...but Kris didn't want to go home. Last night...there was probably going to be a repeat of that anyways. They didn't want to come home to that. Susie didn't want Kris seeing her home. Noelle...no. Ralsei...Kris wouldn't be able to get into the school. As Kris contemplated a destination, the feeling of grass underfoot alerted them that they had already chosen one. Bordered by deciduous trees in blazing tones, Kris took in the autumn air. The path was long and took a few twists through the woods, but it was one remembered well. Across the small bridge over the stream, through the marked trees, was the shelter. A rusty red metal door carved into a hillside, a keypad uncovered by a loosened panel. Within, countless acrid memories. Yet also within, the one friend Kris could always count on. With a satisfying crunch of leaves, Kris stepped into the small clearing around the shelter, only to find an unusual sight. Sitting in front of the door was a large white cat in a band tee and jeans, bangs forming a thin coat over her eyes. "What are you doing here?" Kris questioned. Catti's tail twitched as her head jerked to face Kris. "Sitting." "Why here?" "Quiet. Far from noise." "It's late. No noise." "A problem? With my position?" "No." "Then why. Do you inquire." "Didn't expect you here." Catti stood up, beckoning Kris to come closer as she indicated the keypad. "New. Unearthed." Kris was grateful that they always spoke in monotone. Otherwise, they would need to feign curiosity. "Weird. What do you think happened?" "Great impact. Dislodged. Revealed." Kris nodded. "Makes sense." Especially considering that was exactly what happened. "The glyphs. Meaning unknown." "Probably says who has what code." "...Sensible. Theories?" First, Kris indicated the pine tree. There was only one reasonable explanation for this one. "Carol." Then, the police badge. The current chief would make sense. "Undyne." And finally, the Delta Rune. It only seemed intuitive that the priest would have it! "Alvin." Catti's head tilted down for an instant before bobbing back up. "Agreed." A silence hung in the air for a few seconds. A small gust of wind chilled Kris through their sweater and bristled Catti's fur. Amber and ruby eyes lingered on the keypad before shifting to each other, and then the grass. Catti made a dull thud as she sat down, Kris following shortly after. The birds had fallen asleep, Kris presumed, going off the lack of song. So too had the town, and so too had the sun. For a moment, Kris supposed that the entire world outside this clearing had fallen asleep. They recalled staying up late with other friends in the twilight years of Dess' presence. It was always nice staying up beyond the hours one was meant to. In years past, a certain exciting, forbidden feeling filled their heart, amplified by the cover of shadow allowing things parents never would. Yet the night had been explored, and now was known well. Any sense of novelty had long faded as silence became not permission to rebel, but permission to think, to introspect, to mourn, to contemplate. Possibly a mandate. Still, the cold light of the moon felt like the warmth of a friend, and the dark of night like the light of home. Kris' scarlet gaze drifted to the cat beside them. Once, when they were smaller, this cat meant more. A friend. Although, upon second thought, perhaps she meant more now. A memory. That slight ache of a connection gnawed halfway through and pulled taut as the thread's endpoints grew further and further. Now was a good opportunity to reconnect, but...they'd grown apart, no? Catti had become a melancholic, dark creature speaking in fragments. Kris had become a monotone bundle of secrets and nostalgia, now twinged with envy. Unjustified envy, of course. Susie and Noelle were perfect for each other. Kris was a fool to think anything else. They shook their head and pushed the thought to the rim of their mind, noticing their current companion's glassy stare through the stars. Contemplating too, they supposed. A light tap on her shoulder roused Catti from her stupor, leaving her no time to recover before a question escaped Kris. "Was the festival fun?" Catti nodded quickly. "Was there anything you liked?" Her eyes narrowed as a circle spun itself in her frontal lobe and the walls of her skull closed in a slight. Her claws reached out for a response, but none came. "No. Lie." "Thought so." "Better out here. Quiet. No family. Just the night." "Yeah." "And you? The festival?" As if a trap had been sprung, the words fell from Kris' mouth immediately. "It was fun." Catti's tail hooked as her head tilted to the side. "Quick response. Suspicious." Kris' eyes fell to the grass once more, their voice falling in tandem. "It was fine. Nothing actually that bad." Catti smiled softly. "Your emotions. Shine brightly. No need to hide." "...it's stupid." "Life is so." Kris raised their view back up to Catti, interlocking their left hand's fingers with their right before releasing them again, over and over. "It's..." "...Guess it's just. Stuff with friends. Me being stupid over it all." "Complicated?" "Not really, just...unreasonable. Selfish, maybe." "Your friends. You care for them." Kris nodded. "I knew already. From past. Unless you changed?" Kris shook their head. "I...I'm pretty stuck in the past." "Memories. Precious things. Want to go back. Always. Can't." "...yeah." "But you. The same?" Were they? Kris considered. They... ...They absolutely weren't. They were so much more carefree back then. More hopeful. Playing silly pranks on Noelle, beating Asriel at video games, sitting in awe as Dess was so cool so effortlessly, using random objects as toys for no real reason, carrying that headband everywhere... There wasn't any prophecy, or at least it wasn't so real. There wasn't any Knight, or at least it wasn't their friend. It was all so much simpler, so much easier. Easier to smile, to hope, to connect, to wake up every morning and keep trying. But now...now... "A lot? To think?" One nod. "But you still care?" Many nods. Of course they did. "And them. Do they? For you. Does it seem?" ... "...No. I--I know they do, but, it just--they just--" "Silence to you?" "It's more...it feels fake. Like they just want to...to be alone. Together." A sharp crack accentuated Kris' voice. "Without...me." "And, I...don't get it. But I do, it makes sense, but..." Catti sat there, eyes fixated on the branch of a nearby tree for a few seconds before leaping to another branch, and another. "Have no answers. Difficult." A quivering smile spread across Kris' face. "...You have experience with this stuff?" Catti blinked once, twice, as her paw contracted and relaxed. She turned to face Kris fully. "Yes. You." Kris curled into themself. They'd hurt her? They'd really...they just messed it up, huh? Naturally. "In my mind. You lived on a pedestal." "Like a wellspring of happiness." "You, long ago. But no more." "You left. You left me." "From random entropy. Our bond withered." "No change, no event brought it." "It happened. And I learned." "Learned to live." "With it." "Without you." "I learned." "I grew." "Without you." "New friends. New style." "Not the same." Kris sighed. "Never the same." "Never." "I...I don't remember why I stopped talking to you. If you wanted an answer." "Did it. Not matter?" "It did. I don't get why I would have. Stopped." Piercing ochre eyes swept over Kris' form. The eyes of a cat could be an unsettling thing. "Is it too late to resume?" "Never too late." "Friends once more?" "Always were." "But never the same." "Never the same." Kris looked to the moon, high overhead. They supposed it must be past midnight by now. The air bit at their ears. "'S late." "You desire. To return home?" "Hell no. Mom's probably drinking again." "Stay here?" Kris shrugged, but the smile on their face betrayed a facade of apathy. "Nowhere better to be." "Agreed." The cat yawned, Kris following shortly after as if infected. "Where are you sleeping?" "Here. Fur holds warmth. Avoiding home tonight." "...Can I sleep here, too? Like old times. Sleepovers." Catti smiled at the memories. "You are welcome." She stood and on light footfalls treaded to the edge of the clearing, lying between the trees in a soft spot of grass. Kris followed a few feet behind, finding a nice spot to curl up. Catti's pupils shifted to Kris. "No fur. Will be cold." "It'll be fine. Sweater's warm enough." Catti's tail twitched a slight, just enough for Kris' drowsy eyes to notice. "No. Over here. Warmer close." She wanted them to sleep closer to her? They guessed that she was probably still comfortable around them. Time spent together wouldn't disappear that easily. Yet, Kris couldn't shake a small twinge of discomfort, that it would be upsetting. She did ask, though, and they didn't mind the idea in and of itself... ...And they were lying. They'd get cold...their sweater wasn't THAT warm, they could use to be a bit warmer... Before Kris could work up the strength to stand, they noticed a large, warm fluffy thing beside them. "Did myself." Kris tried to come up with a response, but there was nothing to say. Silence felt like enough. A furry arm hovered in the air for a few seconds before wrapping around Kris and pulling them closer, Catti's warmth comforting Kris alongside a flush of their own. "Just for warmth. No wrong ideas." Never the same.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75742766	{"authors": ["Radi__7"], "language": "English", "title": "Things Change"}
Lullaby That numbing feeling has come to haunt him once again.The guilt that has been with him ever since the death of his mother. A slow, agonizing ache that seems to envelop his entire soul. It cradles it wholly in misery and snuffs out any of his hopes with cynical glee. Oswell lets his horse tread slowly, lazily, further behind and away from everyone else. He wanted to get away from everything that left him with a mean taste in his mouth.Away from his men, their inquisitive eyes, their questions, their arguments (he's gotten too used to those lately). Away from the twins and everything their explosive temper entailed.It was a poor attempt to try and still the stirring in his gut that tended to spread all throughout and leave even his bones agitated. Especially now, whenever he gets a moment to think about his current situation. It's gotten bad ever since he had convinced his men to ride with Quinlan. Particularly now that they've acquired a horde of human fodder and he's been roped into playing shepherd. He could complain about it a thousand times over, he would never have agreed to it if he knew that this is where Quinlan was planning to take it. Nothing about dragging the remaining braves back into their makeshift settlement was enjoyable to him. His physical self entirely was repulsed and protesting, telling him that this was wrong. So he tries to think of something else. He returns to seek refuge in the fact that at least the mind could be soothed, or so he would tell himself. He would let himself be lured into the sickly sweet lie when his eyes grazed over the thick stashes of lush green cash he had collected with his boss earlier that day. He would swear by it when he felt the soft bills cascade and dance over his fingertips as he counted through them, and they seemed endless. Even compared to the affairs he had been through, it was an amount he'd never seen before.Tomorrow they'd go back to collect the rest of what they were owed, and he could lie to himself all over again. Try to still the murmur of his aching nerves once again. Fail once again when he watches how effortless it seems to be on Quinlan. Yes, so he thinks of Quinlan. The matter that's been stewing in his brain ever since their first meeting is now regurgitating back up again like bile. It seemed almost baffling to him, even back then, how absolutely unaffected Quinlan seems to be by the very thing that eats Oswell from the inside out. He's almost fascinated, in a way. He was able to watch how the other man worked, up close, when they were alone together. How effortless the lies came to him, how easily sweet sob stories spilled off his tongue, to be lapped up and believed by those who were none the wiser. Oswell had considered getting lost in it himself, considered how the cold Quinlan exudes could be used to soothe the slow simmering, burning sensation of his guilt cooking him alive. A glimpse into a small world of carelessness Oswell could have, if things were different, giving him a break from his racing mind, even if only for a second. A glimpse of the approaching camp creeping into his field of vision startles him enough to rattle this train of thought out of his brain and drag him back down to reality. He shakes his head to make sure it's truly gone. He finally approaches their encampment, after everyone else had already arrived and settled. He spares a glance off towards his own neglected tent, but the pleasant lullaby of the crackling, still lit campfire lures him in like a siren's song. His tent stays neglected for the night. He wagers that this is a better option than trying to retreat into a sleep that he knew would not come to bless him tonight. Everything that he's seen today, whatever would happen tomorrow, he knew it would only keep him up. Rile up the embers of shame in his gut once again. His steps steer towards the inviting glow, he relishes in the thought of the fire warming his tender skin, stroking deep into his soul as some form of spiritual cleansing. He lets this moment of temporary tranquility wash over him, until something presses into his vision, until he's able to muse at the sight of his boss's shadow, drawn long by the flames on the horizon. The almost unreadable stature that was Quinlan, hunched over, sitting in front of the fire in careful observation, seemed to not have taken notice to his approach yet. Or so he thinks. "You're up." Quinlan says, throws it at him before Oswell could even begin to figure out a way to approach the other man. He struggles to catch it as his mouth starts moving before his brain has a chance to process or compose itself. He stops in his obvious, betraying tracks for a moment and curses himself for not thinking that Quinlan — out of all people — could hear him coming. "Yeah-" he chokes out, just barely stopping short from blurting out the added explanation of 'I'm on edge'. He manages to keep that thought carefully tucked away in his brain. It's too soon. He thinks as he takes the last few steps needed to situate himself next to his boss. He doesn't know what a man like Quinlan would do with a hint of weakness. Quinlan glances at him, Oswell is sure the other man can decipher the befuddled expression of a man caught in the act currently still plastered on his face. He stares intently forward as he tries to ignore Quinlan sniffing his agitation out like a trained bloodhound. The following stretch of silence that feels just a little too long practically confirms it for him. His heart skips a beat and he rushes to start talking again before Quinlan gets a chance to interrogate him. "I'm on edge." There it is. He admits it. He notices that Quinlan's expression now seems to mirror his own visage of confusion. For a second he doesn't know if the pang of pride he feels over managing to startle the other man is appropriate. "On edge?" Quinlan retorts, his attention shifting and seeming to back off and move away from Oswell for now. Oswell chooses to ignore how this tone manages to extinguish that insolent flame in him again very quickly. Tension rises to replace it. He can tell that his brain is starting to grasp at straws trying to figure out a way to plead his case to the other man. He resorts to something much simpler for his riled up demeanour - an accusation. He settles his piercing gaze on Quinlan, entirely unfazed. "You seem to be sure about your plan— for tomorrow." He muses, adding more quietly as the anger he's channeling seems to snuff out the moment Quinlan looks over to meet his eyes. "You look like you're handling it quite well." Nothing but a disgruntled grumble. The implication that he, in turn, is not handling it well, seems entirely lost in the moment. Quinlan looks back at him, and says nothing. The murmur of anticipation softly strums Oswell's nerves. He thinks for a moment that the other man didn't even hear him. He shuffles in his seat, leaning in closer, and attempts it differently. "I'm just concerned about—" He swallows, trying to choose his words carefully this time. "About tomorrow. All the... just— everything..." his own voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard to him. "that we'll have to do." He lets any further thought trail off, he puts his trust in the assumption that Quinlan is smart enough to catch it. "You're scared it won't work?" The sting that reverberates all throughout him when Quinlan hits the nail right on the head shakes his conviction just a little. Oswell huffs. He wouldn't call it scared, more like rightfully concerned about their safety and the legality of the scheme they're going to pull. He can't let Quinlan be exactly right. "You're right, I'm not worried about it."Quinlan answers his own question offhandedly before Oswell has the chance to take his swollen pride and dig himself an even deeper hole. Quinlan shifts, Oswell notices how the fire he'd been intent on staring into (and ignoring him in the process) suddenly seems no longer interesting to the Irishman, as he inches closer to bar the distance between the two. Quinlan's undivided attention, fully on him now, makes Oswell shudder. The other man looks almost expectant, a challenging air reaching out to grasp at Oswell, asking him, what else have you got in that little brain of yours? threatening to dissect his entire being right then and there. He's sure that whatever else he does decide to throw at the Irishman would be spun undone by his words in seconds. He decides to try his luck, mustering up the courage to leave his last shred of decency behind in the scrutinizing judgement of blue and green. "How do you do it?" It was timid, almost too subservient for his liking, but the beating of his heart currently managed to drown out any rational thought. He watches the way the other man backs off to ruminate over the question, looking up to the night sky seemingly deep in thought. One part of him was relieved that he'd managed to get Quinlan's suffocating attention away from him for just a moment, the other observed how he was clearly faking it. He had seen his boss deep in thought before, it wasn't a very rare sight, as it seemed to Oswell that that was all the other man ever did. The thoroughly entertained smile currently plastered on his lips with almost childlike glee was a telltale sign that was utterly betraying his attempt at some twisted act of kindness to try and protect Oswell's dignity. He had asked a really stupid question. Oswell shook his head, ready to get up and leave to bury this interaction safely away in the back of his mind for the foreseeable future. Quinlan's response shakes him out of his train of thought. "I do what I have to." Oswell nods, one single, slow and deliberate movement of his head. Without anymore furor to channel into the conversation, he decides to leave it at that. Silence follows, Quinlan is still intent on watching him. He seemed to have noticed that this answer didn't actually satisfy Oswell's curiosity. The Irishman stands up, swiftly, the	Lullaby That numbing feeling has come to haunt him once again.The guilt that has been with him ever since the death of his mother. A slow, agonizing ache that seems to envelop his entire soul. It cradles it wholly in misery and snuffs out any of his hopes with cynical glee. Oswell lets his horse tread slowly, lazily, further behind and away from everyone else. He wanted to get away from everything that left him with a mean taste in his mouth.Away from his men, their inquisitive eyes, their questions, their arguments (he's gotten too used to those lately). Away from the twins and everything their explosive temper entailed.It was a poor attempt to try and still the stirring in his gut that tended to spread all throughout and leave even his bones agitated. Especially now, whenever he gets a moment to think about his current situation. It's gotten bad ever since he had convinced his men to ride with Quinlan. Particularly now that they've acquired a horde of human fodder and he's been roped into playing shepherd. He could complain about it a thousand times over, he would never have agreed to it if he knew that this is where Quinlan was planning to take it. Nothing about dragging the remaining braves back into their makeshift settlement was enjoyable to him. His physical self entirely was repulsed and protesting, telling him that this was wrong. So he tries to think of something else. He returns to seek refuge in the fact that at least the mind could be soothed, or so he would tell himself. He would let himself be lured into the sickly sweet lie when his eyes grazed over the thick stashes of lush green cash he had collected with his boss earlier that day. He would swear by it when he felt the soft bills cascade and dance over his fingertips as he counted through them, and they seemed endless. Even compared to the affairs he had been through, it was an amount he'd never seen before.Tomorrow they'd go back to collect the rest of what they were owed, and he could lie to himself all over again. Try to still the murmur of his aching nerves once again. Fail once again when he watches how effortless it seems to be on Quinlan. Yes, so he thinks of Quinlan. The matter that's been stewing in his brain ever since their first meeting is now regurgitating back up again like bile. It seemed almost baffling to him, even back then, how absolutely unaffected Quinlan seems to be by the very thing that eats Oswell from the inside out. He's almost fascinated, in a way. He was able to watch how the other man worked, up close, when they were alone together. How effortless the lies came to him, how easily sweet sob stories spilled off his tongue, to be lapped up and believed by those who were none the wiser. Oswell had considered getting lost in it himself, considered how the cold Quinlan exudes could be used to soothe the slow simmering, burning sensation of his guilt cooking him alive. A glimpse into a small world of carelessness Oswell could have, if things were different, giving him a break from his racing mind, even if only for a second. A glimpse of the approaching camp creeping into his field of vision startles him enough to rattle this train of thought out of his brain and drag him back down to reality. He shakes his head to make sure it's truly gone. He finally approaches their encampment, after everyone else had already arrived and settled. He spares a glance off towards his own neglected tent, but the pleasant lullaby of the crackling, still lit campfire lures him in like a siren's song. His tent stays neglected for the night. He wagers that this is a better option than trying to retreat into a sleep that he knew would not come to bless him tonight. Everything that he's seen today, whatever would happen tomorrow, he knew it would only keep him up. Rile up the embers of shame in his gut once again. His steps steer towards the inviting glow, he relishes in the thought of the fire warming his tender skin, stroking deep into his soul as some form of spiritual cleansing. He lets this moment of temporary tranquility wash over him, until something presses into his vision, until he's able to muse at the sight of his boss's shadow, drawn long by the flames on the horizon. The almost unreadable stature that was Quinlan, hunched over, sitting in front of the fire in careful observation, seemed to not have taken notice to his approach yet. Or so he thinks. "You're up." Quinlan says, throws it at him before Oswell could even begin to figure out a way to approach the other man. He struggles to catch it as his mouth starts moving before his brain has a chance to process or compose itself. He stops in his obvious, betraying tracks for a moment and curses himself for not thinking that Quinlan — out of all people — could hear him coming. "Yeah-" he chokes out, just barely stopping short from blurting out the added explanation of 'I'm on edge'. He manages to keep that thought carefully tucked away in his brain. It's too soon. He thinks as he takes the last few steps needed to situate himself next to his boss. He doesn't know what a man like Quinlan would do with a hint of weakness. Quinlan glances at him, Oswell is sure the other man can decipher the befuddled expression of a man caught in the act currently still plastered on his face. He stares intently forward as he tries to ignore Quinlan sniffing his agitation out like a trained bloodhound. The following stretch of silence that feels just a little too long practically confirms it for him. His heart skips a beat and he rushes to start talking again before Quinlan gets a chance to interrogate him. "I'm on edge." There it is. He admits it. He notices that Quinlan's expression now seems to mirror his own visage of confusion. For a second he doesn't know if the pang of pride he feels over managing to startle the other man is appropriate. "On edge?" Quinlan retorts, his attention shifting and seeming to back off and move away from Oswell for now. Oswell chooses to ignore how this tone manages to extinguish that insolent flame in him again very quickly. Tension rises to replace it. He can tell that his brain is starting to grasp at straws trying to figure out a way to plead his case to the other man. He resorts to something much simpler for his riled up demeanour - an accusation. He settles his piercing gaze on Quinlan, entirely unfazed. "You seem to be sure about your plan— for tomorrow." He muses, adding more quietly as the anger he's channeling seems to snuff out the moment Quinlan looks over to meet his eyes. "You look like you're handling it quite well." Nothing but a disgruntled grumble. The implication that he, in turn, is not handling it well, seems entirely lost in the moment. Quinlan looks back at him, and says nothing. The murmur of anticipation softly strums Oswell's nerves. He thinks for a moment that the other man didn't even hear him. He shuffles in his seat, leaning in closer, and attempts it differently. "I'm just concerned about—" He swallows, trying to choose his words carefully this time. "About tomorrow. All the... just— everything..." his own voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard to him. "that we'll have to do." He lets any further thought trail off, he puts his trust in the assumption that Quinlan is smart enough to catch it. "You're scared it won't work?" The sting that reverberates all throughout him when Quinlan hits the nail right on the head shakes his conviction just a little. Oswell huffs. He wouldn't call it scared, more like rightfully concerned about their safety and the legality of the scheme they're going to pull. He can't let Quinlan be exactly right. "You're right, I'm not worried about it."Quinlan answers his own question offhandedly before Oswell has the chance to take his swollen pride and dig himself an even deeper hole. Quinlan shifts, Oswell notices how the fire he'd been intent on staring into (and ignoring him in the process) suddenly seems no longer interesting to the Irishman, as he inches closer to bar the distance between the two. Quinlan's undivided attention, fully on him now, makes Oswell shudder. The other man looks almost expectant, a challenging air reaching out to grasp at Oswell, asking him, what else have you got in that little brain of yours? threatening to dissect his entire being right then and there. He's sure that whatever else he does decide to throw at the Irishman would be spun undone by his words in seconds. He decides to try his luck, mustering up the courage to leave his last shred of decency behind in the scrutinizing judgement of blue and green. "How do you do it?" It was timid, almost too subservient for his liking, but the beating of his heart currently managed to drown out any rational thought. He watches the way the other man backs off to ruminate over the question, looking up to the night sky seemingly deep in thought. One part of him was relieved that he'd managed to get Quinlan's suffocating attention away from him for just a moment, the other observed how he was clearly faking it. He had seen his boss deep in thought before, it wasn't a very rare sight, as it seemed to Oswell that that was all the other man ever did. The thoroughly entertained smile currently plastered on his lips with almost childlike glee was a telltale sign that was utterly betraying his attempt at some twisted act of kindness to try and protect Oswell's dignity. He had asked a really stupid question. Oswell shook his head, ready to get up and leave to bury this interaction safely away in the back of his mind for the foreseeable future. Quinlan's response shakes him out of his train of thought. "I do what I have to." Oswell nods, one single, slow and deliberate movement of his head. Without anymore furor to channel into the conversation, he decides to leave it at that. Silence follows, Quinlan is still intent on watching him. He seemed to have noticed that this answer didn't actually satisfy Oswell's curiosity. The Irishman stands up, swiftly, the gesture being just enough to rip Oswell out of his melancholic introspection. "Come," Oswell looks up, the muddled expression he wore on his face seemed to be enough to spur his boss on to continue voicing his request. "Come into my tent." Oswell lets the request ring in his ears. It wasn't a question. The sharp upwards inclination of tone, that would normally define it as such, wasn't there. It was not a question, because if it had been, Oswell would have denied it. He would have answered the question witI'm flattered but- or even it wouldn't be proper... If it had been a question, Oswell wouldn't have rushed to desert his seating place and hurry after Quinlan. The other man sauntered off casually, especially in comparison to Oswell's demeanour, still riddled by nerves. His stature made his strides just slightly faster than Oswell's own and he had to make a conscious effort to keep up, to keep close. He watched the Irishman hurriedly tug at the sleeves of his coat and discard it via a careless, quick shrug of his gaunt shoulders, intent on letting it fall to the dusty floor behind himself. Out of reflex, Oswell reaches out to catch it. Quinlan spins around to meet him, (for a second Oswell thinks that the other man had planned it this way.) A cold hand holds onto Oswell's as he grabs the coat, almost commanding enough to keep him in place entirely. "We'll go together," Quinlan begins, "tomorrow, just you—" A long, bony finger reaches out to point at Oswell, the emphasis in the very minimal space still lingering between them makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He quickly rubs his free hand over it to soothe himself. "—and me." Quinlan retracts his hands and plucks the coat out of Oswell's. He ends his gesture with a sly smile. Oswell swears that he's harvesting this glee from his nervousness like some form of sadistic energy vampire. "I'll make you comfortable, come." Quinlan turns and dips his head down to enter the tent. Oswell follows suit, he watches how Quinlan lazily stretches out on his back, hands resting idly over his stomach, and, for a moment, he thinks that he's been lured into a trap. That this was too good to be true, and that Quinlan would strike at any moment, like some predator toying with its prey. He tries, very quickly, to ignore the picture that thought paints in his mind. He settles in next to the Irishman, (and is almost surprised when he doesn't feel the searing pain of fangs clasping onto his neck). He situates himself so that Quinlan would have to turn his head to look at him, out of and away from that direct line of sight that could read him like an open book. Strung so tight, he fears that he could come undone by only one look from the Irishman. So he searches for a place to shift his attention to, somewhere else that won't make his heart beat out of his chest. Whatever words Quinlan had reserved to share with Oswell in this more intimate setting get very lost, very quickly. Oswell does not listen to a word Quinlan says when he notices how he could count the individual freckles on Quinlan's chest through the soft linen of his shirt, hardly concealing bare, pale flesh now. And, for a moment, Oswell lets his mind wander. He lets himself get wrapped up in their current arrangement, and thinks, just maybe, it wouldn't be bad to give in. He lets himself consider it, just for a moment, what it would be like to get close to him, to touch him, and let that cold touch embrace him wholly. Give and devote himself to his boss entirely. It lights the flames of nervousness licking at his gut anew, stronger, brighter than he'd ever felt before. It makes his fingertips itch with need to grab onto something tangible. He balls his hands into fists and focuses on the way his fingernails dig into his skin instead. A sliver of movement from the other man chases him out of his contemplation. Quinlan solemnly drags a hand from his stomach, to his chest and up towards his face.Oswell lets his gaze chase after it, the realization that he'd been unabashedly staring at his boss in a completely non-professional way only sets in when he locks eyes with Quinlan once again. Oswell swallows, afraid that any treacherous words could spill out of him if he wasn't careful. One last thought rushes through his brain as he wonders if the other man has ever felt like this as well. He pictures how he could relish in the salvation a simple i do could give him in his current state, he's entirely at the other man's mercy. Quinlan squints, a scrutinizing look meets Oswell and it makes him feel thoroughly exposed, as if the other were able to peel away all the layers that make him whole and reach down to simply grasp at the burning desire within him, make him quiver under his touch and toy with it to entertain any sadistic desires he might hold. It ignites the flames licking at his soul and this time they engulf his entire being, from his racing head to his shaking fingertips. He averts his eyes and rushes to try and compose himself. "I should—" He wipes the back of his hand over his lips, which had gone just as dry as his mouth. "I should go now." His haste change in demeanour seems to startleQuinlan, he sits up on his elbows, an inquisitive expression paints his face, (if Oswell had it in him to pay attention, he would almost be able to make out a hint of frustration within it). Instead, he scrambles to stand as the atmosphere in the tent turns almost suffocating, for a moment he fears that it could crush him whole. "I— I need sleep," he mumbles his excuse in haste, not daring to look back at Quinlan, he fears what it would do to him. "Goodnight." He stumbles out of the tent almost clumsily, tripping over his own feet as his weak knees struggle to properly support him. The sweet embrace of burying himself face-down in the earth doesn't seem that bad anymore when he remembers that he'll have to face his boss again come morning.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75742776	{"authors": ["sulfur_killingz"], "language": "English", "title": "Lullaby"}
Shake It Out The sun hung low over the campsite, casting long shadows across the trampled earth. Tav stood, sword in hand staring into the distance. Her pace was steady as she moved with relentless focus. Her blade a flash of silver and a rusting hue of dried blood from the battle won. Sweat traced down her brow, but her grip never faltered. She was alone in the clearing, not too far from the others but enough to be just out of earshot of any conversations. She had taken the opportunity to shed her armour and take a moment alone to steady her thoughts the only way the fighter knew how. By swinging her sword over and over till thoughts became clear. Each strike to the air was precise, each parry deliberate, as though she were carving discipline into the air itself. Her breath was steady and controlled and eyes sharp with determination. This battle had been a particularly tiresome one. And though they were victorious in the end the severity of it all weighed heavily on the fighter. She was experienced with many a foe with many a weapon. Slain goblins in their hordes, warlock and wizard alike. Defeated dragonborn at hand to hand combat. Thrashed and overcome even hellspawn in recent times. The more time went on the more she realised she wasn’t as experienced as she had thought, however. The dangerous of this journey becoming more and more consuming. Decisions becoming taxing and tiresome. In both body and soul. Today, taking on the likes of a wicked hag in her own lair had rattled something inside. Or perhaps it was when her comrades in arms were close to succumbing to injury that had rattled her. Heavy weighs the burden of leadership, and the role was so foreign to Tav that at each trial she wished to submit and step back. She happily would let Lae’zel step forward, as she so often threatened. Or perhaps the war bound Karlach and her years of commanding an army she hated would prove more efficient. Or the famous Blade of Frontiers Wyll surely was a better fit. He would know what to do when times were hard. A hero always knows.Tav was no hero. She was a selfish and lonesome person. She always opted the choice that meant an easy way out in life. She was accustomed to taking orders. The voice of her previous masters hissed in her ears, they had warned she would never survive without their guiding hands on shoulders. "How can you lead these people. You’ll lead them to their deaths.” Her sword swang in an aggressive response. Over and over she fought back against the doubtful voice of a master long dead. Each swing of her sword cut the air with a hiss. Beneath her boots the packed earth shifted slightly, gritty and firm. Grounding her stance with every step. She dug her right foot deeper into the earth, grounding herself into the real world. She pivoted, the soles scraping against the dirt sending up faint dust that caught the fading light. Dust rose in faint clouds as her boots shifted across the makeshift training ground. She drove the sword forward, then pulled back, over and over. Testing the precision of her stance. Each step was deliberate—heel planting, toes pivoting, weight transferring smoothly from one leg to the other. The ground’s firmness pushed against her soles, reminding her that balance was as much about the earth beneath her as the steel in her hands. All her life she had to fight. Fight for food shelter, the right to breathe. Even fight for what little pleasure she was ever afforded. Her head swelled with emotion. The hag has sensed the doubt in Tav’s heart, or perhaps the fear was written plainly on her face. The threat of an innocent woman’s safety in question and an unborn child, and then to have that woman swear and curse out the efforts at an apparent undesired rescue. The hag offered to end the fight prematurely, even the promise of power or anything the fighter desired in fact. She could feel the numbness of the beasts magic, tantalising and beckoning her to submit. It would have been all too easy, especially seeing the blood gathering on the others and the tiresome look in their eyes. And yet, like many decisions as of late, Tav did not choose the easy route. Yes, the witch was slain through harrowing efforts. But no thanks were given from the so called rescued. Astarion even chastised they shouldn’t have worried themselves. Gale at least praised efforts as he searched the lair for anything useful. A rather battered Shadowheart simply stood by quietly. Perhaps it was the lack of applause that knotted away. Was that why Tav did what she did? Simply for rewards and praise like some filthy dog begging for any scrap of approval. Had the rush from saving the tiefling’s become so infectious she now would seek out any opportunity to play hero. “Hero. Is that what you think you are, little mouse?” Her sword cut through the air with a sharp whistle, each swing heavier than the last. The rhythm of steel whipping through air echoed all around, but Tav's focus was no longer on precision—it was on force. Her fists clenched around the hilt, knuckles whitening and veins rising beneath her skin. The leather wrapping bit into her palms as she squeezed harder, anger fuelling every strike. So long she had not heard her master’s voice, but now it echoed as if he still breathed. Still held her leash. She shifted her stance, boots grinding into the dirt almost burying herself. The ground felt rough beneath her soles, anchoring her even as her movements grew reckless. Her breath came ragged, frustration spilling into every motion. She wanted control, wanted to steady herself but her grip betrayed her—too tight, too desperate. Pain began to bloom in her hands, sharp and insistent. The friction of leather against skin tore at her resolve, blistering her palms where sweat mixed with grit. Still, she refused to loosen her hold. Each blister was a mark of her stubbornness, a reminder that she was pushing herself beyond discipline into fury. The sword was no longer just a weapon. It was a test of her endurance of how much pain she could bear before her spirit broke. Like it would when she was so little. So weak. The pain in her hands was sharp, but it was more than suffering it was proof. Each blister, each sting of torn skin against the hilt reminded her she was alive, present, and unyielding. The ache grounded her, tethering her to the moment with a clarity no calm training ever could. She squeezed tighter in hopes to feel the rush that would eventually come from the pain she sought. The rush the priest granted back in the Goblin Camp. Tav knew the dangerous of dabbling once more in the worship of pain. How addictive it once was. How often she would push herself to the edge and teeter on the point of finality. How close she had come so many times in her extended half elven life. Dancing before the blade and antagonising it over and over to finally finish the job. Pushing through the pain to feel the dull ache of the eventual pleasure that followed. But the emptiness and shame, that would always ache in her heart afterwards. Never truly ending the void within. She could feel the ghost of a hand on her lower back. A memory of such. Fingers tracing long faded lines, scars that never truly went away. Not matter how many tattoos tried to cover them. A hand that once brought both pleasure and pain, sometimes not in that order. A hand that Tav would give anything to forget the sickening feeling of. One master firmly at the neck, while the other bound hands. She was their puppet, their plaything. Little pet. Her fists trembled, not from weakness but from the intensity of her grip. The force of her will poured into steel. Tears welled in her eyes, but they weren’t born of pain. They came from something deeper. Frustration, determination, the fierce knowledge that she was pushing herself beyond limits. The sting in her palms was a fire, and that fire made her real. She wasn’t there anymore. But where she was now, was it any better. She inhaled sharply, tasting dust and sweat, feeling the weight of her body ploughed to the earth. A trembling shake building from deep within. She had to shake it off. Stay strong. Remain focused. Her blade rose and fell in a relentless rhythm, each strike harder than the last. The air echoed with the metallic ring of steel, the sound growing ragged as her fury deepened. Harsh sharp breaths merging with the sound of steel to create a symphony of painful music. Her fists clenched so tightly around the hilt that the leather tore at her skin, raw pain spreading through her palms. Warmth seeped between her fingers, the sting of torn flesh mingling with sweat. A crimson wash running down her hands but she refused to stop. The only way she knew how to feel, to be alive was to be close to death. She swung again, boots grinding into the dirt and shoulders burning, breath ragged. Her body ached to stop and she ignored it’s plea just as she ignored the torturous voices of doubt. The pain was no longer just in her hands—it was in her chest, in her heart, in the weight of everything she carried. Tears welled in her eyes, she fought them back just like the thoughts. She fought against it, striking over and over, until her body betrayed her. "You are no hero. You are a pet, just missing your leash." At last, the sword slipped from her grasp, clattering against the earth. Fresh blood know decorating the hilt and running down like exposed veins. She dropped to her knees, trembling, her vision blurred by tears. The fight was gone, replaced by the raw release of emotion. She hung her head, squeezing hard and refusing to let loose the release that threatened beneath. She wasn’t this week, this pitiful. Shake it off, shake away the feelings.Maybe she was. Maybe she truly was broken beyond the point any bandages could put her back together. Pitifully broken. She could feel the hands pushing down on her shoulders, devil’s whispering doubt in both ears. Hissing the regret she ever thought she could live without their	Shake It Out The sun hung low over the campsite, casting long shadows across the trampled earth. Tav stood, sword in hand staring into the distance. Her pace was steady as she moved with relentless focus. Her blade a flash of silver and a rusting hue of dried blood from the battle won. Sweat traced down her brow, but her grip never faltered. She was alone in the clearing, not too far from the others but enough to be just out of earshot of any conversations. She had taken the opportunity to shed her armour and take a moment alone to steady her thoughts the only way the fighter knew how. By swinging her sword over and over till thoughts became clear. Each strike to the air was precise, each parry deliberate, as though she were carving discipline into the air itself. Her breath was steady and controlled and eyes sharp with determination. This battle had been a particularly tiresome one. And though they were victorious in the end the severity of it all weighed heavily on the fighter. She was experienced with many a foe with many a weapon. Slain goblins in their hordes, warlock and wizard alike. Defeated dragonborn at hand to hand combat. Thrashed and overcome even hellspawn in recent times. The more time went on the more she realised she wasn’t as experienced as she had thought, however. The dangerous of this journey becoming more and more consuming. Decisions becoming taxing and tiresome. In both body and soul. Today, taking on the likes of a wicked hag in her own lair had rattled something inside. Or perhaps it was when her comrades in arms were close to succumbing to injury that had rattled her. Heavy weighs the burden of leadership, and the role was so foreign to Tav that at each trial she wished to submit and step back. She happily would let Lae’zel step forward, as she so often threatened. Or perhaps the war bound Karlach and her years of commanding an army she hated would prove more efficient. Or the famous Blade of Frontiers Wyll surely was a better fit. He would know what to do when times were hard. A hero always knows.Tav was no hero. She was a selfish and lonesome person. She always opted the choice that meant an easy way out in life. She was accustomed to taking orders. The voice of her previous masters hissed in her ears, they had warned she would never survive without their guiding hands on shoulders. "How can you lead these people. You’ll lead them to their deaths.” Her sword swang in an aggressive response. Over and over she fought back against the doubtful voice of a master long dead. Each swing of her sword cut the air with a hiss. Beneath her boots the packed earth shifted slightly, gritty and firm. Grounding her stance with every step. She dug her right foot deeper into the earth, grounding herself into the real world. She pivoted, the soles scraping against the dirt sending up faint dust that caught the fading light. Dust rose in faint clouds as her boots shifted across the makeshift training ground. She drove the sword forward, then pulled back, over and over. Testing the precision of her stance. Each step was deliberate—heel planting, toes pivoting, weight transferring smoothly from one leg to the other. The ground’s firmness pushed against her soles, reminding her that balance was as much about the earth beneath her as the steel in her hands. All her life she had to fight. Fight for food shelter, the right to breathe. Even fight for what little pleasure she was ever afforded. Her head swelled with emotion. The hag has sensed the doubt in Tav’s heart, or perhaps the fear was written plainly on her face. The threat of an innocent woman’s safety in question and an unborn child, and then to have that woman swear and curse out the efforts at an apparent undesired rescue. The hag offered to end the fight prematurely, even the promise of power or anything the fighter desired in fact. She could feel the numbness of the beasts magic, tantalising and beckoning her to submit. It would have been all too easy, especially seeing the blood gathering on the others and the tiresome look in their eyes. And yet, like many decisions as of late, Tav did not choose the easy route. Yes, the witch was slain through harrowing efforts. But no thanks were given from the so called rescued. Astarion even chastised they shouldn’t have worried themselves. Gale at least praised efforts as he searched the lair for anything useful. A rather battered Shadowheart simply stood by quietly. Perhaps it was the lack of applause that knotted away. Was that why Tav did what she did? Simply for rewards and praise like some filthy dog begging for any scrap of approval. Had the rush from saving the tiefling’s become so infectious she now would seek out any opportunity to play hero. “Hero. Is that what you think you are, little mouse?” Her sword cut through the air with a sharp whistle, each swing heavier than the last. The rhythm of steel whipping through air echoed all around, but Tav's focus was no longer on precision—it was on force. Her fists clenched around the hilt, knuckles whitening and veins rising beneath her skin. The leather wrapping bit into her palms as she squeezed harder, anger fuelling every strike. So long she had not heard her master’s voice, but now it echoed as if he still breathed. Still held her leash. She shifted her stance, boots grinding into the dirt almost burying herself. The ground felt rough beneath her soles, anchoring her even as her movements grew reckless. Her breath came ragged, frustration spilling into every motion. She wanted control, wanted to steady herself but her grip betrayed her—too tight, too desperate. Pain began to bloom in her hands, sharp and insistent. The friction of leather against skin tore at her resolve, blistering her palms where sweat mixed with grit. Still, she refused to loosen her hold. Each blister was a mark of her stubbornness, a reminder that she was pushing herself beyond discipline into fury. The sword was no longer just a weapon. It was a test of her endurance of how much pain she could bear before her spirit broke. Like it would when she was so little. So weak. The pain in her hands was sharp, but it was more than suffering it was proof. Each blister, each sting of torn skin against the hilt reminded her she was alive, present, and unyielding. The ache grounded her, tethering her to the moment with a clarity no calm training ever could. She squeezed tighter in hopes to feel the rush that would eventually come from the pain she sought. The rush the priest granted back in the Goblin Camp. Tav knew the dangerous of dabbling once more in the worship of pain. How addictive it once was. How often she would push herself to the edge and teeter on the point of finality. How close she had come so many times in her extended half elven life. Dancing before the blade and antagonising it over and over to finally finish the job. Pushing through the pain to feel the dull ache of the eventual pleasure that followed. But the emptiness and shame, that would always ache in her heart afterwards. Never truly ending the void within. She could feel the ghost of a hand on her lower back. A memory of such. Fingers tracing long faded lines, scars that never truly went away. Not matter how many tattoos tried to cover them. A hand that once brought both pleasure and pain, sometimes not in that order. A hand that Tav would give anything to forget the sickening feeling of. One master firmly at the neck, while the other bound hands. She was their puppet, their plaything. Little pet. Her fists trembled, not from weakness but from the intensity of her grip. The force of her will poured into steel. Tears welled in her eyes, but they weren’t born of pain. They came from something deeper. Frustration, determination, the fierce knowledge that she was pushing herself beyond limits. The sting in her palms was a fire, and that fire made her real. She wasn’t there anymore. But where she was now, was it any better. She inhaled sharply, tasting dust and sweat, feeling the weight of her body ploughed to the earth. A trembling shake building from deep within. She had to shake it off. Stay strong. Remain focused. Her blade rose and fell in a relentless rhythm, each strike harder than the last. The air echoed with the metallic ring of steel, the sound growing ragged as her fury deepened. Harsh sharp breaths merging with the sound of steel to create a symphony of painful music. Her fists clenched so tightly around the hilt that the leather tore at her skin, raw pain spreading through her palms. Warmth seeped between her fingers, the sting of torn flesh mingling with sweat. A crimson wash running down her hands but she refused to stop. The only way she knew how to feel, to be alive was to be close to death. She swung again, boots grinding into the dirt and shoulders burning, breath ragged. Her body ached to stop and she ignored it’s plea just as she ignored the torturous voices of doubt. The pain was no longer just in her hands—it was in her chest, in her heart, in the weight of everything she carried. Tears welled in her eyes, she fought them back just like the thoughts. She fought against it, striking over and over, until her body betrayed her. "You are no hero. You are a pet, just missing your leash." At last, the sword slipped from her grasp, clattering against the earth. Fresh blood know decorating the hilt and running down like exposed veins. She dropped to her knees, trembling, her vision blurred by tears. The fight was gone, replaced by the raw release of emotion. She hung her head, squeezing hard and refusing to let loose the release that threatened beneath. She wasn’t this week, this pitiful. Shake it off, shake away the feelings.Maybe she was. Maybe she truly was broken beyond the point any bandages could put her back together. Pitifully broken. She could feel the hands pushing down on her shoulders, devil’s whispering doubt in both ears. Hissing the regret she ever thought she could live without their leashes, without their chains and shackles. She wasn’t worth freedom. Tav knelt in the dirt, shoulders heaving but no sob escaped her lips. She refused. The tears burned at the edges of her eyes threatening to spill, yet she held them back with sheer defiance. Her gaze locked on the fallen blade before her. Its steel dulled by dust, dirt now merging with wielders freshly the spilled blood. She wanted to reach for it, to keep swinging over and over to fight all the pain. But it looked so heavy. She felt so heavy.The earth pressed cold and rough against her knees, grounding her in silence. Her blistered hands trembled, hovering just above the hilt. Unwilling to reach for it yet unable to let it go. Like a lost limb she needed to reclaim. It lay there motionless, just a tool covered in dirt and blood. Useless until picked up. Until needed. Dull unless sharpened, blunt and rusted. Dirty unless cleaned. Without a wielder it was nothing. Lifeless. She clenched her jaw, forcing the storm inside to stay contained. No sobs, no collapse. Only the quiet ache of exhaustion and the unspoken vow that she would not break here, not now. In the stillness of the clearing, she was both fragile and unyielding. Alone, as she so desperately wanted go be. Just her and her sword as it always was. Her hands lowered to the dirt, she gripped it and clenched desperately to feel connected to something more then this guttural feeling. The knot in her throat threatening to strangle the more she swallowed it back. Hands stinging as wounds merged with gritty dirt. Tav couldn’t even say the graveling sensation against open flesh even hurt. The numbness was almost blinding. The air was near silent, save for the sound of her own heart threatening to burst from ribs. Eerily so, when the air shifted Tav became aware she was no longer alone. A presence lingered behind her, quiet but undeniable. Soft hesitant steps in her direction until they stopped but an inch from contact. “Tav?” The voice was all too familiar, and yet the severity that lingered in it was new. Shadowheart stood there, watching, the weight of their gaze heavy with concern. She waited for a response before taking another hesitant step, unsure of the reaction the fighter would exhibit being discovered in this state. Tav did not speak, for fear her words would fail her and give way to the emotions she was keeping at bay. Her back stiffened, she refused to turn afraid to let Shadowheart see her this way. See her weak and for little reason to be so. She stared at her hands bloodied in the dirt and tried to hide the mess of them in her lap.Shadowheart’s breath was steady, but heavy with worry. She slowly took a few more steps to be closer. She remained quiet, patiently awaiting a response from Tav. Be it a welcome, or a refusal of her presence. Tav sat still unsure of what to do. When no acknowledgement came Shadowheart sat herself beside Tav, eyes never once lifted from the broken fighter. Tav tried to look away, but she felt a stern and yet gentle hand take her cheek. She tried to resist and look away but her body almost surrendered to the controlled touch. Their eyes finally met, her clouded green and blue meeting with the severe green gaze of the very concerned cleric. Her eyes darted all over, like she almost wanted to attempt to read the hurt woman’s thoughts for clarification. Tav sat in silence feeling more vulnerable then she ever dared to be in a past life. She looked on at the woman in front of her and almost spoke but the words choked before they could leave. Tav clenched her jaw and squeezed her hands to distract once more with pain. Shadowheart looked down and her eyes widened when she spied the fighters self inflictions. Her breath caught and gaze softened, almost knowingly on what she had discovered. She reached out with hesitant but caring fingers and turned Tav’s torn hands upwards. She rested them in her own lap and Tav sat almost trapped in the exchange. Fearfully silent. Shadowheart rested her own hand above them, fingers tracing the cuts and deepened wounds. Tav continued to clench her jaw, embarrassed the usually quite stern and at times rather ruthless Sharran woman had discovered her in such a state. She surely now thought the leader worthless, pitiful and broken. A blue glow emitted from Shadowheart as she attempted to heal the battered hands. “Wait...” Tav finally spoke. Feeling undeserving of the gesture. Shadowheart’s brow furrowed in concern. She looked up and the gaze was hard to read. There was concern, and almost frustration, and deep down something else. Her eyes sparkled slightly, she swallowed hard as she looked onto the heavy eyes of Tav. “You need your hands.” She finally spoke. “We need your hands. We need you strong.” Tav’s face fell, she stared at the dirt feeling numbness. Undeserving of any lie the Sharran woman possibly struggled to conjure. Tav already knew she needed to shake it off, pick herself up. But maybe she didn’t want to. “No one needs me.” She whispered, a raspy broken sound that barely carried. “Someone else can do this.” “Maybe someone else could.” Shadowheart shrugged. “But I know they wouldn’t think like you. They wouldn’t care like you do. Fight like you do.”Tav looked up, feeling a lip tremble. “They wouldn’t be you.” The cleric smiled gently. It seemed genuine. “We need you. All of us do. I-" she paused a moment as if she heard something Tav did not. “I need you.” “Why me?” Tav sighed, feeling suddenly so tired. “I don’t know how to answer that,” Shadowheart held Tav’s hands a bit heavier now allowing her magic to fix them. “Maybe in another world it isn’t you this burden falls to. Maybe some other adventurer. Perhaps the others. Or even myself.” Tav almost felt the lump threaten to strangle once more, the heaviness weighing her down and shackling her to the ground. Shadowheart watched the vagueness wash over Tav and almost sensed the loss of her, she squeezed her hand a little tighter. An almost reminder. “I don’t know why you are here.” She finally spoke. “But I-I am glad you are. I am glad you found me on that Nautiloid. Glad you woke me at the crash site. And every moment since. You’ve been a true.... friend.” Her grip tightened and loosened all at once. Tav was certain the woman had been punished for her kindness she had shown this fallen fighter. Shadowheart had no reason to risk her own well-being for someone so useless. So broken. They had shared a heated moment or two, but Shadowheart had made it clear despite Tav hoping for anything more this would be all they ever could be. At least for now. She looked into the Sharran’s eyes and saw sadness. Tav wanted to say something. To thank her, or deny her and push her away. To accuse of lying, or jest and brush aside any genuineness. She wanted to tell Shadowheart she was glad, she was thankful. But fearful and remorseful. Broken and dull, like the blade in the dirt. That she couldn’t keep shaking these doubts away. Couldn’t go on. The more she looked into the bright green eyes however, the lighter she felt. The weight on her shoulders slowly lifted. The aching in her hands slowly replaced with a soothing feeling. A few silent tears rolled down her cheeks and landed in the dirt. Each one lifting a weight of their own. No more words were spoken, the two sat in silence as Tav’s breathing slowly began to match that of Shadowheart. And for the short time they sat together, Tav didnt feel so broken. She felt heard without needing to speak. She gently cried a few remainder tears slowly coming back down as Shadowheart gently held her hands in her own. She felt a different type of weight, like she was being held. Held for the first time by someone she could trust. Someone who dared enough to seek her out. Like Shadowheart had her and wasn’t letting go, not unless she wanted her to. She didn’t want her to. Never.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75739466	{"authors": ["Jade_Dragon_Rider"], "language": "English", "title": "Shake It Out"}
Once More to See You Robby and Whitaker began dating not long after Dennis became an intern at the Pitt. It wasn't out of the blue. They had been talking even after Dennis left the Pitt after his placement was over because Whitaker was living with Trinity, who kept dragging him out to join her and the Pitt gang on their nights out in town. In the beginning, Robby didn't go often. Once a week, maybe two or three if they were lucky. Or if he was having a bad week. But, Dennis had that warm smile and bright eyes that drew him out his door more and more. They'd chat often at the bar, Dennis talking about his other placements in the various wards with recollections of fond experiences, but expressing that they were nothing like the Pitt. His heart had been set on emergency medicine after the shit show that they call Pittfest. It had been just as exhilarating as it was traumatising, and Dennis hadn't had felt that much adrenaline on any other ward he'd been on. Robby occasionally shot a question for the student who'd answer to the best of his abilities but it was getting more difficult after every shot they shared. One thing led to another, and numbers were exchanged. That led to occasional texts. It began as nothing much, but soon became frequent texts as they recalled their days to each other. Frequent texts became offers to meet up outside of work. And when Robby had the time, he did. In cafes, diners, anywhere new that had opened up in the city for them to experience together. Sometimes Robby would help Dennis study for exams, getting the financially challenged student snacks whatever soft drink, hot drink, or milkshake on the menu that Dennis wanted to try. He told himself it was just out of slight concern for Dennis since he didn't want the younger man to go the whole day without eating or drinking, but deep down, he knew that smile Dennis wore with every sip of whatever sugary drink he was having made him want to see it more. Wanted to be the reason that smile widened, rounding his cheeks and wrinkling the eye bags beneath those gorgeous blues. And Dennis's graduation was just another nail in the coffin of his burning heart. Robby, Trinity, and anyone that was off that day at the Pitt attended, cheering loud and proud when his name was called. The blush on Dennis's cheeks and nervous smile televised on the jumbotron for the whole crowd to see made it all worth it. Made every study session and every late night phone call filled with Dennis doubting himself and his abilities worth it. Dennis was so worth it. That night, they went out to celebrate. And celebrate they did. He'd never seen Dennis so drunk. All thanks to Trinity pouring shots down his throat, even as it spilled down the corners of those soft lips and down his chin, his equally drunk friend giggling and wiping his lips clean with his chin. Robby would watch, almost too intensely, as Trinity's thumb would swipe and push on those wet lips, pulling a grunt from Whitaker as he would stumble back and wipe his own mouth. By the end of the night, Robby was behind him in the bathroom, holding back the curls Trinity had made Dennis grow out as Whitaker emptied the colourful contents of the alcoholic drinks he'd been chugging all down the toilet. Robby rubbed his back with his free hand, only moving it once Whitaker was done retching to grab some tissue to wipe his lips. "M'sorry..." Whitaker let out as Robby wiped his mouth. Robby had to swallow thickly to stop himself from reacting to the terrible smell coming from Dennis's mouth. But alas, he smiled. "Don't worry about it. I was your age once, too. You're allowed to have fun," Robby reassured him, pulling him up once he was done and throwing the tissue into the toilet, flushing it down before they left the cubicle. "But I think it's time to go home. It'd be a bad idea for you to start drinking again." Dennis could only respond with a heavy nod, leaning on Robby as they walked back to the group. Only to find Santos and King gone. "Where's Santos and King?" Robby asked Dana, who sat beside McKay. "King took Santos back to her apartment," Dana said over the loud music. "She was fucked up, and King was the most sober. Wanted to make sure Santos got home safe so she went in the taxi with her, bless her," She explained with a fond smile. Then, her eyes looked over at Dennis, who was currently falling asleep on Robby's shoulder. While standing. "He should probably get going too." Dana hummed, a maternal coo in her voice that she gave to the young man. "I'll get him home safe." Robby said. He hadn't drank since he drove them all to Dennis's graduation then to the bar. So, drinking was out of the question tonight. Dana nodded, finishing the conversation to let Robby take Whitaker outside and to his car. It was a bit of a struggle since Dennis wasn't being the most co-operative. He was stumbling, coming to a stop every few steps to mumble that he was tired. Robby just had to keep explaining that he was trying to get Dennis home, and Dennis would follow obediently. Once they got to his car, Dennis slumped in the passenger seat. Robby turned to his phone, getting up Google Maps. "Do you know your address, kid?" He asked, tapping on the search bar. Being met with silence, he looked at Dennis. His head was slumped completely, his eyes shut heavily. Robby sighed at the sight of him sleeping so peacefully. He did try to wake Dennis up, but not even shaking him worked. So, with a heavy sigh, he drove Dennis to his own house and carried him up the steps. Robby wasn't the strongest in the world, but Dennis wasn't exactly that heavy, and Robby had been lifting patients for longer than Dennis had been alive, so he wasn't weak, either. As respectfully as he could, he undid Dennis's button up and peeled it from him as gently as he could. Robby was glad for the vest Dennis was wearing underneath. So, he let Dennis sleep in that vest and a pair of his freshly cleaned shorts. Dennis slept in his bed that night, while Robby slept on his own couch. That morning, Dennis was beyond confused. Waking up in a bed that wasn't his, wearing shorts that weren't his. And the killer headache wasn't helping him collect himself. But he got up anyway, padding through the empty house until he reached the kitchen, where a note lay on the counter beside a pint glass of water and some tylenol. It read,'Morning, kid, it's Robby. You're in my house since you and Santos got pretty hammered tonight. Santos is safe with King, but I have work today so I'm not gonna be back until about 7:30 tonight. Feel free to stay as long as you want, everything you need is in the bathroom if you want a shower. Your breakfast is in the microwave if you like eggs and bacon, and your phone is charged in the living room. Xo' It put a warm smile on Dennis's face. Robby had been doing that a lot lately, putting such a wide smile on his face that it hurt his cheeks and made his heart flutter. So, Dennis had his breakfast and took the pain medication for his headache and nursed the pint glass of water for his dehydrated body. He sat in the living room for a while, texting Trinity and making sure she was safe and letting her know of his whereabouts. She teased relentlessly, of course, but it was expected with her. She knew everything about him. Even about his developing crush for the older doctor. Then at noon, he took a shower once his headache had subsided to freshen up. He washed his mouth out with mouthwash only since it was definitely too far to use Robby's toothbrush. His body moved automatically, taking himself back to Robby's bedroom to get dressed. There, he saw a picture frame of Robby and Jake smiling widely. It made him wonder whether Jake was talking to him again since Robby had revealed that they weren't on the best of terms since Pittfest during one of their more solemn conversations. He knew Robby cared deeply for Jake, so for Robby's sake, he hoped Jake would come around. However, as Dennis was getting himself ready, he realised he didn't want to leave. And Robby did say he could stay for as long as he wanted. So, he carried himself back to the living room in the shorts and vest, sitting on the couch and debriefing his plan to Trinity who, again, teased him relentlessly. Dennis didn't mind at all. He just hoped Robby wouldn't, either. That night, Robby returned at 7:38pm. Kicking his shoes off at the door, he took himself to the living room, only to pause at the light still being on and a mousy brown, curly head of hair visible from where Robby was standing. "You're still here?" Robby hummed, setting his bag on the floor beside his spot on the couch and sat beside him with a relaxed sigh, releasing the tension of the day. "Yeah. I'm staying as long as I want." Dennis smirked, to which Robby matched the smirk as he looked to the younger man. "I hope I'm not gonna regret that offer." He chuckled. "Well, this is your house. Kick me out if you don't want me here." Dennis shrugged. He wouldn't be offended if he did. Robby was probably exhausted and get to bed as fast as he could. "I didn't saythat," Robby hummed. "I don't mind the company... especially if it's you." He slid smoothly on the end. Dennis raised a brow. "Yeah?" Dennis hummed. "Yeah," Robby gave a nod, getting a little red in the cheeks as his eyes struggled to meet Dennis's now. "You've easily became one of my favourites in the past few months." "Good," Dennis let out, only to realise how cocky that sounded. "That's nice, I mean. Glad I could make a good impression." Robby could only smile, finally meeting Dennis's eyes again. "How are you feeling? You were pretty fucked up." It was Dennis's turn to chuckle. "Yeah, no thanks to Trinity," He let out. "I'm doing a lot better than I was this morning. No headache, and I freshened up in the shower." Robby nodded. "I'm glad," He said. "You hungry?" They went through the trials of deciding what takeout to get, arguing fondly over what option was better. But	Once More to See You Robby and Whitaker began dating not long after Dennis became an intern at the Pitt. It wasn't out of the blue. They had been talking even after Dennis left the Pitt after his placement was over because Whitaker was living with Trinity, who kept dragging him out to join her and the Pitt gang on their nights out in town. In the beginning, Robby didn't go often. Once a week, maybe two or three if they were lucky. Or if he was having a bad week. But, Dennis had that warm smile and bright eyes that drew him out his door more and more. They'd chat often at the bar, Dennis talking about his other placements in the various wards with recollections of fond experiences, but expressing that they were nothing like the Pitt. His heart had been set on emergency medicine after the shit show that they call Pittfest. It had been just as exhilarating as it was traumatising, and Dennis hadn't had felt that much adrenaline on any other ward he'd been on. Robby occasionally shot a question for the student who'd answer to the best of his abilities but it was getting more difficult after every shot they shared. One thing led to another, and numbers were exchanged. That led to occasional texts. It began as nothing much, but soon became frequent texts as they recalled their days to each other. Frequent texts became offers to meet up outside of work. And when Robby had the time, he did. In cafes, diners, anywhere new that had opened up in the city for them to experience together. Sometimes Robby would help Dennis study for exams, getting the financially challenged student snacks whatever soft drink, hot drink, or milkshake on the menu that Dennis wanted to try. He told himself it was just out of slight concern for Dennis since he didn't want the younger man to go the whole day without eating or drinking, but deep down, he knew that smile Dennis wore with every sip of whatever sugary drink he was having made him want to see it more. Wanted to be the reason that smile widened, rounding his cheeks and wrinkling the eye bags beneath those gorgeous blues. And Dennis's graduation was just another nail in the coffin of his burning heart. Robby, Trinity, and anyone that was off that day at the Pitt attended, cheering loud and proud when his name was called. The blush on Dennis's cheeks and nervous smile televised on the jumbotron for the whole crowd to see made it all worth it. Made every study session and every late night phone call filled with Dennis doubting himself and his abilities worth it. Dennis was so worth it. That night, they went out to celebrate. And celebrate they did. He'd never seen Dennis so drunk. All thanks to Trinity pouring shots down his throat, even as it spilled down the corners of those soft lips and down his chin, his equally drunk friend giggling and wiping his lips clean with his chin. Robby would watch, almost too intensely, as Trinity's thumb would swipe and push on those wet lips, pulling a grunt from Whitaker as he would stumble back and wipe his own mouth. By the end of the night, Robby was behind him in the bathroom, holding back the curls Trinity had made Dennis grow out as Whitaker emptied the colourful contents of the alcoholic drinks he'd been chugging all down the toilet. Robby rubbed his back with his free hand, only moving it once Whitaker was done retching to grab some tissue to wipe his lips. "M'sorry..." Whitaker let out as Robby wiped his mouth. Robby had to swallow thickly to stop himself from reacting to the terrible smell coming from Dennis's mouth. But alas, he smiled. "Don't worry about it. I was your age once, too. You're allowed to have fun," Robby reassured him, pulling him up once he was done and throwing the tissue into the toilet, flushing it down before they left the cubicle. "But I think it's time to go home. It'd be a bad idea for you to start drinking again." Dennis could only respond with a heavy nod, leaning on Robby as they walked back to the group. Only to find Santos and King gone. "Where's Santos and King?" Robby asked Dana, who sat beside McKay. "King took Santos back to her apartment," Dana said over the loud music. "She was fucked up, and King was the most sober. Wanted to make sure Santos got home safe so she went in the taxi with her, bless her," She explained with a fond smile. Then, her eyes looked over at Dennis, who was currently falling asleep on Robby's shoulder. While standing. "He should probably get going too." Dana hummed, a maternal coo in her voice that she gave to the young man. "I'll get him home safe." Robby said. He hadn't drank since he drove them all to Dennis's graduation then to the bar. So, drinking was out of the question tonight. Dana nodded, finishing the conversation to let Robby take Whitaker outside and to his car. It was a bit of a struggle since Dennis wasn't being the most co-operative. He was stumbling, coming to a stop every few steps to mumble that he was tired. Robby just had to keep explaining that he was trying to get Dennis home, and Dennis would follow obediently. Once they got to his car, Dennis slumped in the passenger seat. Robby turned to his phone, getting up Google Maps. "Do you know your address, kid?" He asked, tapping on the search bar. Being met with silence, he looked at Dennis. His head was slumped completely, his eyes shut heavily. Robby sighed at the sight of him sleeping so peacefully. He did try to wake Dennis up, but not even shaking him worked. So, with a heavy sigh, he drove Dennis to his own house and carried him up the steps. Robby wasn't the strongest in the world, but Dennis wasn't exactly that heavy, and Robby had been lifting patients for longer than Dennis had been alive, so he wasn't weak, either. As respectfully as he could, he undid Dennis's button up and peeled it from him as gently as he could. Robby was glad for the vest Dennis was wearing underneath. So, he let Dennis sleep in that vest and a pair of his freshly cleaned shorts. Dennis slept in his bed that night, while Robby slept on his own couch. That morning, Dennis was beyond confused. Waking up in a bed that wasn't his, wearing shorts that weren't his. And the killer headache wasn't helping him collect himself. But he got up anyway, padding through the empty house until he reached the kitchen, where a note lay on the counter beside a pint glass of water and some tylenol. It read,'Morning, kid, it's Robby. You're in my house since you and Santos got pretty hammered tonight. Santos is safe with King, but I have work today so I'm not gonna be back until about 7:30 tonight. Feel free to stay as long as you want, everything you need is in the bathroom if you want a shower. Your breakfast is in the microwave if you like eggs and bacon, and your phone is charged in the living room. Xo' It put a warm smile on Dennis's face. Robby had been doing that a lot lately, putting such a wide smile on his face that it hurt his cheeks and made his heart flutter. So, Dennis had his breakfast and took the pain medication for his headache and nursed the pint glass of water for his dehydrated body. He sat in the living room for a while, texting Trinity and making sure she was safe and letting her know of his whereabouts. She teased relentlessly, of course, but it was expected with her. She knew everything about him. Even about his developing crush for the older doctor. Then at noon, he took a shower once his headache had subsided to freshen up. He washed his mouth out with mouthwash only since it was definitely too far to use Robby's toothbrush. His body moved automatically, taking himself back to Robby's bedroom to get dressed. There, he saw a picture frame of Robby and Jake smiling widely. It made him wonder whether Jake was talking to him again since Robby had revealed that they weren't on the best of terms since Pittfest during one of their more solemn conversations. He knew Robby cared deeply for Jake, so for Robby's sake, he hoped Jake would come around. However, as Dennis was getting himself ready, he realised he didn't want to leave. And Robby did say he could stay for as long as he wanted. So, he carried himself back to the living room in the shorts and vest, sitting on the couch and debriefing his plan to Trinity who, again, teased him relentlessly. Dennis didn't mind at all. He just hoped Robby wouldn't, either. That night, Robby returned at 7:38pm. Kicking his shoes off at the door, he took himself to the living room, only to pause at the light still being on and a mousy brown, curly head of hair visible from where Robby was standing. "You're still here?" Robby hummed, setting his bag on the floor beside his spot on the couch and sat beside him with a relaxed sigh, releasing the tension of the day. "Yeah. I'm staying as long as I want." Dennis smirked, to which Robby matched the smirk as he looked to the younger man. "I hope I'm not gonna regret that offer." He chuckled. "Well, this is your house. Kick me out if you don't want me here." Dennis shrugged. He wouldn't be offended if he did. Robby was probably exhausted and get to bed as fast as he could. "I didn't saythat," Robby hummed. "I don't mind the company... especially if it's you." He slid smoothly on the end. Dennis raised a brow. "Yeah?" Dennis hummed. "Yeah," Robby gave a nod, getting a little red in the cheeks as his eyes struggled to meet Dennis's now. "You've easily became one of my favourites in the past few months." "Good," Dennis let out, only to realise how cocky that sounded. "That's nice, I mean. Glad I could make a good impression." Robby could only smile, finally meeting Dennis's eyes again. "How are you feeling? You were pretty fucked up." It was Dennis's turn to chuckle. "Yeah, no thanks to Trinity," He let out. "I'm doing a lot better than I was this morning. No headache, and I freshened up in the shower." Robby nodded. "I'm glad," He said. "You hungry?" They went through the trials of deciding what takeout to get, arguing fondly over what option was better. But they both came to a common ground on pizza. Double pepperoni. Robby ordered a large so they could share, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the couch with the pizza box on their lap once it arrived and eating their respective halves to whatever shitty programme was on the TV. But, their mechanical movements came to a stop as their hands touched. Robby's over Dennis's, the tips of his fingers wet with pizza grease. Dennis didn't mind. His own hand was greasy from his slices, and their movements had been so mechanical that they didn't even realise that the pizza box was empty in record breaking time. It pulled a soft laugh from them as they noticed, looking at each other. But as their eyes met, something seemed to click. In that moment, in such a serene setting so comfortable with each other's presence. It seemed so right, the pair being together so close. So they got closer, and didn't stop until their lips were touching. It was Dennis to pull away first, only an inch, with a smirk playing on his lips. "You taste like pizza." That put a wide smile on Robby's face, his wrinkles setting naturally into place. "So do you." He hummed. They dove back into each other, discarding the pizza box and wiping their greasy fingers on each other's shirts so it wouldn't be as gross as they touched each other's faces. They were guys at the end of the day. Guys too busy kissing to pause and clean their fingers properly. It all felt so natural, like they'd done this a thousand times before. Lips opening with ease, tongues meeting for the first time as their hands rested wherever felt comfortable. Robby's large hands swallowed Dennis's hips, and Dennis's rested on Robby's chest. They only pulled away to catch their breath, spending what felt like a lifetime just kissing. But they had to pull away. Had to communicate what they wanted. What they needed. Both answers being 'you', they swiftly ended up in Robby's bed. And if solving cases in the Pitt with Robby wasn't exhilarating enough, then the sex they had took the cake. Robby didn't even flinch when Dennis took his shorts and boxers off, revealing that he was a trans man. It made all the shame and guilt Dennis had felt over his transness wash away with something so simple as acceptance. Robby took his time with Dennis, with it being his first time, lulling him softly as he pulled orgasm after orgasm from him using his fingers, mouth and cock. Dennis had never felt so looked after as Robby cleaned him up with a warm wash cloth, bringing him another glass of water to have. They cuddled, of course, Robby's thick fingers running through the thick curls of his hair as Dennis rested his head on Robby's chest. From that night on, they began dating. They agreed to keep it a secret, just so they could love in the comfort of their own home. But it wasn't long before people got suspicious. Especially after Dennis became an intern. They spent almost all of their time together, and Whitaker was spending 5 out of 7 days a week at Robby's house, the rest spent with Trinity at the place he was supposed to be living at. It was so perfect. They went on dates whenever they had time off: watching movies at the cinema, having cliche picnics on a field, and going to fancy restaurants. They were completely smitten with each other, practically eating out of each other's hands. Weekly sex exploring each other, nights spent together filled with laughter and so much love. But, 7 months into their relationship. Dana had confronted Robby about Whitaker. He had denied they were together, of course. She didn't believe him, saying she 'hoped he wasn't being way over his head with the kid'. Robby didn't tell Dennis about the conversation. Mainly because it scared him, and he didn't want to scare Dennis with his doubts. What if he was? It was such a simple comment, but Dennis wasa kid in comparison to Robby's age. Robby didn't want people to think that he was some weirdo, preying on his intern and exploiting the power dynamic between them. It planted a seed in his head, that grew overgrown with thorns and not enough roses. But Dennis was on cloud 9. So high in the clouds he didn't even realise Robby was slipping from his grasp until it was too late. It was subtle, at first. Less kisses, but not none. The odd date cancelled with the excuse of managerial work he was overdue. But the longer Robby kept his mouth shut around Dennis, the worse it got. By their eighth month together, Dennis was only spending 3 out of 7 days a week at Robby's house, and the nights he spent there, Robby was being distant. Quiet. Withdrawn. Dennis didn't pick up on it until their ninth month together. He had just assumed Robby was tired from work, but there's only so long that excuse can run until it goes dry. They had stopped going on dates on their dates off. Robby had stopped texting as much when Dennis was at Trinity's house. Hell, Robby had even started avoiding him at work, assigning him to other doctors or putting him on the rota for the night shift. And Dennis would be damned if he was going to let this - whatever Robby was doing - affect the internship he'd busted his ass to get. And that brought them to this night. Dennis had found Robby on the roof, on the right side of the railing for once, after his messages had been left on delivered. "What's going on with you?" Dennis asked. "If you're struggling, then I'm here, babe. Just... talk to me. Please." He begged. Whitaker knew Robby struggled with his mental health. He wasn't stupid. This job will fuck you up if you let it, he'd heard Robby say before. He found Robby in pedes, and held him close on nights Robby would have a terrible shift or generally poor mental health. "I- I can't, Whitaker. I can't do this to you, anymore." Robby let out, trying to sound resolute but the weakness in his voice failed him. Whitaker? Dennis thought,Robby hasn't called me Whitaker since I was a student. "Do what to me?" Whitaker pushed, walking up beside him and looking up at his boyfriend. Above the city, Robby's looked so gorgeous, reflecting the glittering lights beneath the pair. "This," Robby said, looking at Dennis. "Us." He gestured between them. Dennis felt his heart drop out of his body with how far it fell, looking at him with a look that could only be described as unadulterated fear. "W-What? What is that supposed to mean?" Robby looked away from him, back out to the city. Unspoken words weighed heavy between them. Heavier than any shame or guilt Dennis had ever felt about himself growing up. Heavier than any weight that had rested on Robby's chest when he struggled to breathe through any panic attacks. "I think you know what I mean." Dennis grabbed him shoulder and pulled Robby to look at him, tears pooling in his eyes. "Don't you dare. Don't fucking do this to me, Robby." He seethed through clenched teeth. He wasn't angry. Or maybe he was. He couldn't quite put a finger on the emotion squeezing his lungs and constricting his throat, making it hard to speak. "People are starting to get suspicious of us," Robby mumbled, looking down at Whitaker. However, he never met his eyes. Robby didn't want to see how he was breaking the love of his life. "I have a reputation I need to keep, Whitaker." "Fuck what everyone else thinks, Robby! And f-fuck you for not thinking that too," Dennis let out, not wanting to shout but it was getting harder. He balled up a hand and pressed it into Robby's chest, trying to steady himself as his body shook with the gut-wrenching sobs he let out. "I l-love you so, so much, Robby. For fucks sake, don't do this to me. I-I'll do whatever you want me to..." He sniffled, feeling pathetic for begging so shamelessly. "I can't do that to you. You need to find someone your own age. Not someone old enough to be your dad. You deserve better." Robby frowned. He wanted to tell himself to stop. But it was too late now. Trying to salvage this would mean this night would be remembered forever, and it would leave an awkward crack between them. They'd never be 100% them ever again. And it was all Robby's fault. "You don't get to decide that for me! I love you, I want you, Robby!" Dennis let out, wanting so desperately for Robby to meet his eyes and see how much this was hurting him. Just so Robby would stop driving the blade deeper into his heart. "I don't want anyone my age. You made me feel so loved. So normal, like I wasn't some freak to be looked down upon. You taught me how to love me. And I can't lose that. I can't lose you." Robby just had to shake his head, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the tears that were stinging his eyes from slipping. He could feel the heavy pit of regret sitting in his throat. But he swallowed it down to let it get burned to a crisp by his stomach acid, the feeling making him nauseous. "People watch us, Whitaker. I don't want them to think that I'm taking advantage of you. I don't want people to doubt my abilities to be the boss of staff I keep making inappropriate relationships with. And I don't want people to doubt you, either." Dennis let out a laugh. But he wasn't happy. Nor was he finding this very funny. "Yeah, right. All of this is to save my ass. And you realise this after nine months of making me feel like I'm on top of the world," He spat out, dropping his hands from Robby to wipe his impossibly wet face. It didn't stop the tears from falling. Especially now that he knew that would be the last time he would ever touch Robby ever again. And Robby didn't even have the balls to respond. Dennis took a heavy step back. "So that's it then, huh?" "All I can say is that I'm sorry." Robby mumbled, the place on his chest where Dennis's fist lay burned. Right over his heart. "Fuck your fucking sorry," Dennis snapped, caving in on himself. "Fuck me, I guess, for thinking I was ever worth of something like that," Dennis mumbled self-deprecatingly. "And f-fucking- fuck you for... being everything I needed." He let out, not having the guts to insult him. Not yet. The wound was still fresh and spraying blood, as if Robby had nicked an artery. "Whitaker, I-" "Put me on the night shift. Permanently." Dennis finished, letting his mind connect to the rest of his body as he took heavy steps, leaving the roof. Robby could hear his sobs echoing down the stairwell. Robby couldn't stop the regret rushing from his angry stomach up his throat and onto the ground beneath him. Dennis found himself walking to Trinity's apartment. He was far too hysterical to put himself on the bus. He'd end up sobbing all the way home. Not that he wasn't now, but at least it would be less loud in the open space. He kept a hand clamped over his mouth to muffle himself, only letting up to take in shaky and painful breaths. He couldn't help but feel completely betrayed and confused. How did he never see Robby becoming doubtful of their love? Maybe if he had caught it sooner, he would've been able to talk to him through what he was feeling and reassure him. His steps were so heavy, his legs so weak and desperate to turn around and run to Robby's house. He had become so comfortable there. It wasn't easy for Dennis to get comfortable in a new place. With a new someone. But now it's all gone. He just wanted to scream until his lungs gave out. Instead, he could only continue to sob against his hand, stumbling into Trinity's apartment building and knocking on her door. Wearing her pyjamas, she answered with a slight crack in the door. Dennis wasn't offended. She was expecting him to be staying at Robby's tonight, and being alone in an apartment at night and getting a random knock at the door would make him nervous, too. But it swung open quickly seeing the condition he was in. "Holy fuck, Denny, what's wrong?" Trinity was quick to get him inside, taking off his jacket for him and resting his bag by the door, helping him with his shoes and pulling him to the living room where she could pull him onto her chest where he could sob all he liked. "H-He fucking broke up with me," Dennis sniffled. Fuck secrecy. Fuck that high and mighty bastard on his high horse, desperate to maintain his 'reputation'. Because if he didn't have that, what else would the great Dr. Michael Robinavitch have? A loving relationship? Fuck that. Why would he have that when he can just work his life away to a hospital ready to drop him and his department? "O-Out of nowhere... th-the best months of my life are all gone, b-because-" He couldn't keep speaking. The anger, betrayal, and immense sadness was at all time peak and he needed to catch his breath before passing out. "It's okay, you're okay... just breathe." Trinity hummed, threading her fingers through his curls, just as Robby would. Everything hurt so much. And all Dennis could do was cry. And Trinity let him, no matter how wet her shirt was getting with tears and snot. She just held him and let him cry until he stopped. She got him a hot chocolate, knowing he didn't like coffee and preferred making his own tea so it was perfect. Then, Dennis poured his heart out to her. About everything. How Robby had made him feel, their nine months together, and the abrupt end. He finished with, "And I told him to put me on the night shift permanently." Trinity sat for a moment, just to process. "What an asshole," She grumbled, referring to Robby. "I get that you want to be on the night shift. I might join you every once and a while. I probably wouldn't be able to see him without ripping him a new one." Dennis let out a dry chuckle. "I just don't know if I can put it behind me right now. And I'm not letting this ruin my internship. I've worked too fucking hard," He mumbled, wiping his nose with a tissue from the box that sat on the coffee table. "I might come back in a few months or something. I don't think I could spend the rest of my life on night shift." Trinity smiled softly. "I get that. Take as long as you need," She said, resting a hand on his shoulder as he took a drink from his mug. "Don't let it eat you up inside, though. I know it's hard right now, but there's more guys out there. We can go to as many gay bars as you want to start scouting this weekend, if you want." Dennis looked up at her, his eyes puffy and red. "No thanks. Not yet, anyway," He chuckled once again. "Might take you up on that though, going out this weekend. I could do with a fucking drink." "You're telling me," Trinity chuckled with him. Once Dennis finished his hot chocolate, she took the mug from his hand. "Come on, lets go to bed. You can stay with me tonight if you want to." Dennis nodded. He didn't want to be left alone with his thoughts in the dark of his room. "Thanks." So, they moved in tandem to Trinity's room and they cuddled up together once they were under the blankets. It became normal for them after one too many movie marathons using Trinity's laptop on their lap as they huddled in close. Dennis was glad he had someone else he felt comfortable with. But it wasn't the same. Dennis didn't know if it was ever going to be the same ever again.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75739471	{"authors": ["yaoi_master"], "language": "English", "title": "Once More to See You"}
I Don't Love You Anymore Shang Qinghua hated Luo Binghe. Once he thought of him as his son, but that was before Shen Qingqiu, before the Endless Abyss. Mobei-Jun hated him as well, and Shen Qingqiu. It was only thanks to careful persuasion (begging, pleading and crying) from Shang Qinghua that Mobei-Jun didn’t wage war on them. He didn’t know if Shen Qingqiu knew his husband’s true nature or not, but he didn’t want to risk his friendship with the only one who understood his situation. After the marriage, Luo Binghe grew increasingly jealous, glaring constantly at Shang Qinghua. Then, one day, when delivering a letter from Shen Qingqiu, he cornered Shang Qinghua. “Why is it you’re so close with Shizun?” Shang Qinghua stared up at him in confusion. “We’re friends? Why would I not be?” That had been the wrong thing to say, as Luo Binghe snapped his arm like a twig, clutching the broken limb tightly in his hand. “You cannot just be friends. You have your own language, inside jokes, and are with him constantly.” Shang Qinghua had been terrified. “We are just friends, really!” Luo Binghe had glared at him with cold eyes. “Don’t reach out to Shizun anymore. Don’t even talk to him, don’t look at him. I’ll destroy you.” But Shang Qinghua had to talk to him, about paperwork if nothing else. Luo Binghe remained true to his word, snapping his legs next. Mu Qingfang was barely able to keep up with the injuries Luo Binghe kept giving him. Shang Qinghua refused to say what was wrong, too afraid of the consequences. Luo Binghe kept visiting, kept injuring him, and breaking bones. Mobei-Jun found out, and hadn’t had the chance to say a word before Luo Binghe was gone, Shang Qinghua left barely in one piece and conscious on the floor. He had been openly more hostile towards Luo Binghe ever since. The emperor either didn’t notice, or was too arrogant to care. It was only thanks to Shang Qinghua begging Mobei-Jun that a war didn’t break out. “Why not?” Mobei-Jun snarled. “He hurt you!” “I- I know, but please-” Shang Qinghua begged. “He hurt you. I’ll destroy him.” “Don’t!” Shang Qinghua cried. “Please, Shen-shixiong is my friend, he loves him, don’t do that to him-” “Who’s to say he doesn’t know! How could he not know his own husband’s actions, he’s just as guilty, and should die as well!” Mobei-Jun was barely able to refrain from unleashing his power in an uncontrollable blast with how angry he was. “Even if he is, you can’t kill him, I’d have to take on his workload,” Shang Qinghua said. A flimsy excuse, but it worked. To Shang Qinghua, it mattered not if Shen Qingqiu knew, he couldn’t lose the only other transmigrator. The only other person he could reminisce about his past life with. It didn’t matter…	I Don't Love You Anymore Shang Qinghua hated Luo Binghe. Once he thought of him as his son, but that was before Shen Qingqiu, before the Endless Abyss. Mobei-Jun hated him as well, and Shen Qingqiu. It was only thanks to careful persuasion (begging, pleading and crying) from Shang Qinghua that Mobei-Jun didn’t wage war on them. He didn’t know if Shen Qingqiu knew his husband’s true nature or not, but he didn’t want to risk his friendship with the only one who understood his situation. After the marriage, Luo Binghe grew increasingly jealous, glaring constantly at Shang Qinghua. Then, one day, when delivering a letter from Shen Qingqiu, he cornered Shang Qinghua. “Why is it you’re so close with Shizun?” Shang Qinghua stared up at him in confusion. “We’re friends? Why would I not be?” That had been the wrong thing to say, as Luo Binghe snapped his arm like a twig, clutching the broken limb tightly in his hand. “You cannot just be friends. You have your own language, inside jokes, and are with him constantly.” Shang Qinghua had been terrified. “We are just friends, really!” Luo Binghe had glared at him with cold eyes. “Don’t reach out to Shizun anymore. Don’t even talk to him, don’t look at him. I’ll destroy you.” But Shang Qinghua had to talk to him, about paperwork if nothing else. Luo Binghe remained true to his word, snapping his legs next. Mu Qingfang was barely able to keep up with the injuries Luo Binghe kept giving him. Shang Qinghua refused to say what was wrong, too afraid of the consequences. Luo Binghe kept visiting, kept injuring him, and breaking bones. Mobei-Jun found out, and hadn’t had the chance to say a word before Luo Binghe was gone, Shang Qinghua left barely in one piece and conscious on the floor. He had been openly more hostile towards Luo Binghe ever since. The emperor either didn’t notice, or was too arrogant to care. It was only thanks to Shang Qinghua begging Mobei-Jun that a war didn’t break out. “Why not?” Mobei-Jun snarled. “He hurt you!” “I- I know, but please-” Shang Qinghua begged. “He hurt you. I’ll destroy him.” “Don’t!” Shang Qinghua cried. “Please, Shen-shixiong is my friend, he loves him, don’t do that to him-” “Who’s to say he doesn’t know! How could he not know his own husband’s actions, he’s just as guilty, and should die as well!” Mobei-Jun was barely able to refrain from unleashing his power in an uncontrollable blast with how angry he was. “Even if he is, you can’t kill him, I’d have to take on his workload,” Shang Qinghua said. A flimsy excuse, but it worked. To Shang Qinghua, it mattered not if Shen Qingqiu knew, he couldn’t lose the only other transmigrator. The only other person he could reminisce about his past life with. It didn’t matter…	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75746141/chapters/198115571	{"authors": ["Tachi_short_for_Tachihara"], "language": "English", "title": "I Don't Love You Anymore"}
An Avian Menace A sharp, cold gust of wind blows down the streets of Mantle, making old hanging signs sway, loose windows rattle, and the people pull their coats closer to themselves. Ghira Belladonna, to-be Chieftain of Menagerie finds himself as one of these people, the biting chill cutting through even his healthy mass and fur as he trudges through the slush persisting through Mantle’s aging heaters. He may not have as good of hearing as his wife and- his daughter, but he can still hear better than any human around. Which, in turn, is why he finds himself in the rain and slush, hunting for the source of a child’s cry. Ghira lets out a deep sigh, as he peeks down another darkened alleyway, his faunus eyes allowing him to clearly see the single dumpster and nothing else. He’s just about to move on when he hears the sound again, a quiet, whimpering cry from near the dumpster. With eyes narrowed in concern, Ghira makes his way to the large metal trash bin, the relative warmth of the larger street’s heaters quickly giving way to the freezing temperature in the alley. Rounding the bin, Ghira’s eyes finally land on the source of the noise he’s been in search of for what feels like hours, and almost stumbles as he sees distinctive, if tangled and dirty, white hair, along with icy blue eyes, peering back at him from the ratty blanket wrapped around what is unmistakably Weiss Schnee, middle child of the Schnee family. For a moment, Ghira simply stands in place, unsure what to do. Dozens of questions come to mind, even as Weiss shifts and turns her body towards Ghira, the blanket falling from her shoulders as she does. It’s then that Ghira receives the answer to a lot of his questions, as his eyes move from Weiss’ messy hair to the white down covered pair of wings behind her back. Anger, mixed with stunned confusion, flashes across the large faunus, though he schools his expression and lowers himself to one knee with a quick choice to revisit the perspective altering discovery later. If even half his assumptions are a quarter right, Ghira doesn’t think the child will respond to any anger from him well, regardless of its target. “Hello little one. Are you cold?” Ghira puts a smile on his face, holding a hand out palm-up towards the small Schnee. When she nods her head, eyes glancing to the hand, he continues. “Well, it is pretty chilly out. Do you have somewhere to go?” The answer he both dreads and hopes for comes, as Weiss shakes her head no. He lets out a breath, fogging in the frigid, industrial alley, though what emotion it was driven by Ghira couldn’t say. “I see. I know someone who can help you. It’s only going to get colder, and that blanket doesn’t look very warm. What do you say?” As the young Weiss looks from Ghira’s eyes, intently staring at them like she can read them, to his hand, still held out for her to take, the large faunus feels his smile become a bit more genuine as the thin, pale fingers cautiously wrap around only half of his own, such is the small size of the Schnee. Ghira stands upright, and gently gathers the blanket and things in it into his arm, as he leads Weiss at a slow pace back towards the hotel he and the other Menagerian Outreach Council members are staying at. A low chuckle escapes Ghira as he briefly lets himself think about the absurdity of the situation, finding a Schnee child- a faunus no less- in his second least favorite city, that he only came to in order to escape his hollow home for a short while. Perhaps, he muses, he simply needs to care for people, and the Gods guided him to her now that he- Now that he has the extra time. Ghira resets his mood quickly, pushing away the painful feelings and focusing on finding a way to the hotel that won’t end up on an Atlas newsreel by the morning. —---------------------------------------------------- Ghira peers through the window of the door and into the hotel’s makeshift check up office, watching Weiss’ legs kick as they dangle off the side of the examination table. Getting back, he had asked for one of the aides to get the doctor they had brought, one Jade Finemost, to check the young girl’s condition. Explaining to Weiss, though, had gotten an odd request. She had asked him to be in the room with her, and when he had asked why, she had only said… “I trust your eyes.” He’s shaken from his thoughts as he hears footsteps approaching, turning to see Dr. Finemost arriving with her well kept medical bag held by the pale green monkey’s tail that is her trait. He guesses she had been getting ready to settle down for the night, as he sees her still wearing the comfortable lounging clothes- a thick shirt and soft pants- with her white coat draped overtop, and running shoes on. Orange eyes give him a look from behind her round framed classes, the same straight, shoulder length pale green colored hair framing the tanned skin of her face, one that says she’s going to be expecting a favor in return. Ghira nods to her, already planning to bring some Atlesian wine back for her, and follows her into the room. Weiss looks up from the table, eyes flicking from Dr. Finemost to Ghira and back again, before settling on the doctor as she sits in front of Weiss. Ghira takes a spot by the door, leaning against the unremarkable beige wall of what he thinks used to be a laundry room, unsure of what he’s to do for Weiss besides watch. Dr. Finemost pulls a few items from her bag, setting them on a wheeled trolley as she speaks, her calm, flat tone managing to be free of the ice she’s often known for. “Hello there, I believe Mister Belladonna told you who I am, correct?” Upon receiving a nod, Finemost picks up a clipboard, and marks a few things Ghira can’t make out. “Then I believe we shall begin the examination.” What follows, Ghira assumes, is a mostly normal check-up. He isn’t a medical man by any stretch, beyond the most basic of field medicine and first aid, so his knowledge of what the doctor is doing is limited. Weiss looks mostly at ease throughout the experience, only getting a little hesitant about her wings, but in the end the doctor tells Weiss she’s gotten everything she needs. Ghira hands Weiss the spare room key he had been given by the front desk, and the aide who retrieved Dr. Finemost leads Weiss off with a promise that Ghira won’t be too far away if she needs anything. Ghira feels a smile forming as he watches her follow the aide off. His smile fades, as he turns to Dr. Finemost. He can tell something is wrong, and while not a doctor… “Jade, is it… is it bad?” Ghira feels the dread in his stomach grow as Jade’s scowl grows, her tail tapping the examination table as she seems to be trying to glare a hole in the chart in her hands. “It is. In some ways, it’s… here.” Jade presses the chart into Ghira’s hands, and steps back, pulling her bag up with her tail. “I’m sorry, Ghira, I- I need to go sit down. I… Call me if you need something, and try not to need something.” Ghira watches as Jade quickly walks off, tightening his grip on the unread chart in his hands and making his way to his own hotel room for the night to make an important choice, and an even more important call. —------------------------------------------------------------------------ “I know, dear, it’s… a lot to ask. Especially with-” Ghira cuts himself off, looking away from the call screen. He doesn’t need to finish the sentence, both of them know how it ends. Taking a breath, he looks back to the image of Kali, his darling wife, and resists the repeated urge to cringe away again at her expression of distraught horror mixed with deep emotional pain. “I don’t think… That leaving her here is a good idea. I don’t know what goes on behind the closed doors of the Schnee manor, but those wings… Jade thinks she’s been binding them frequently since birth. It’s a miracle they’re even functional.” Through the screen, Kali Belladonna nods almost absentmindedly. She had been sent the chart and attached photos by Ghira, and seemed to be almost transfixed by them. As he watches her let out an almost mournful sigh, Kali nods again, this time with more energy behind it. “I think you’re right, love. If her father- no. If that man was willing to… Gods, what else has he done? He just left her out in the streets, Ghira. In January!” He hears Kali’s voice hitch, and aches to be able to wrap his arms around her. Instead, he places a hand on the call’s display, which Kali mirrors. After a moment of listening to her quiet whines, she composes herself and continues. “Yes. I… I support it, Ghira. I’ll call the house and have a bedroom set up for her. I won’t let that man do any more harm to her.” Ghira smiles, as he listens to the sorrow in his wife’s voice solidify into the fierce, maternal determination he’s always loved about her, and he knows that Weiss will be safe. Only a small part of him is worried that Kali might not then let Weiss go, but… As much as it hurts him to think it, with Blake… gone, now, it would be a shame for such a large house to be lived in by only the couple. Weiss isn’t a replacement for his beloved daughter, nothing could take Blake’s place in his heart, but people have told him his heart is large. He can make space for another in there, if he has to. “I’ll ask her tomorrow, then. Goodnight, dear, I’ll see you soon.” “Goodnight, love.” The image of Kali flickers out, the call ending as Ghira sits back and gazes out of the window at the city. Neon lights and the glow of the heaters make Mantle shine even through the fog and smoke throughout it in a way Ghira, despite his general dislike of the place, simply can’t get anywhere else on Remnant. As the large faunus stands and moves over to the bed, pulling off his shirt and setting it on the chair to fold in the morning, he supposes that the city isn’t all bad, in the morning he may well have something wonderful to show for his journey out here. For the first time in months, ever since the day at the docks of Kuo Kuana, Ghira	An Avian Menace A sharp, cold gust of wind blows down the streets of Mantle, making old hanging signs sway, loose windows rattle, and the people pull their coats closer to themselves. Ghira Belladonna, to-be Chieftain of Menagerie finds himself as one of these people, the biting chill cutting through even his healthy mass and fur as he trudges through the slush persisting through Mantle’s aging heaters. He may not have as good of hearing as his wife and- his daughter, but he can still hear better than any human around. Which, in turn, is why he finds himself in the rain and slush, hunting for the source of a child’s cry. Ghira lets out a deep sigh, as he peeks down another darkened alleyway, his faunus eyes allowing him to clearly see the single dumpster and nothing else. He’s just about to move on when he hears the sound again, a quiet, whimpering cry from near the dumpster. With eyes narrowed in concern, Ghira makes his way to the large metal trash bin, the relative warmth of the larger street’s heaters quickly giving way to the freezing temperature in the alley. Rounding the bin, Ghira’s eyes finally land on the source of the noise he’s been in search of for what feels like hours, and almost stumbles as he sees distinctive, if tangled and dirty, white hair, along with icy blue eyes, peering back at him from the ratty blanket wrapped around what is unmistakably Weiss Schnee, middle child of the Schnee family. For a moment, Ghira simply stands in place, unsure what to do. Dozens of questions come to mind, even as Weiss shifts and turns her body towards Ghira, the blanket falling from her shoulders as she does. It’s then that Ghira receives the answer to a lot of his questions, as his eyes move from Weiss’ messy hair to the white down covered pair of wings behind her back. Anger, mixed with stunned confusion, flashes across the large faunus, though he schools his expression and lowers himself to one knee with a quick choice to revisit the perspective altering discovery later. If even half his assumptions are a quarter right, Ghira doesn’t think the child will respond to any anger from him well, regardless of its target. “Hello little one. Are you cold?” Ghira puts a smile on his face, holding a hand out palm-up towards the small Schnee. When she nods her head, eyes glancing to the hand, he continues. “Well, it is pretty chilly out. Do you have somewhere to go?” The answer he both dreads and hopes for comes, as Weiss shakes her head no. He lets out a breath, fogging in the frigid, industrial alley, though what emotion it was driven by Ghira couldn’t say. “I see. I know someone who can help you. It’s only going to get colder, and that blanket doesn’t look very warm. What do you say?” As the young Weiss looks from Ghira’s eyes, intently staring at them like she can read them, to his hand, still held out for her to take, the large faunus feels his smile become a bit more genuine as the thin, pale fingers cautiously wrap around only half of his own, such is the small size of the Schnee. Ghira stands upright, and gently gathers the blanket and things in it into his arm, as he leads Weiss at a slow pace back towards the hotel he and the other Menagerian Outreach Council members are staying at. A low chuckle escapes Ghira as he briefly lets himself think about the absurdity of the situation, finding a Schnee child- a faunus no less- in his second least favorite city, that he only came to in order to escape his hollow home for a short while. Perhaps, he muses, he simply needs to care for people, and the Gods guided him to her now that he- Now that he has the extra time. Ghira resets his mood quickly, pushing away the painful feelings and focusing on finding a way to the hotel that won’t end up on an Atlas newsreel by the morning. —---------------------------------------------------- Ghira peers through the window of the door and into the hotel’s makeshift check up office, watching Weiss’ legs kick as they dangle off the side of the examination table. Getting back, he had asked for one of the aides to get the doctor they had brought, one Jade Finemost, to check the young girl’s condition. Explaining to Weiss, though, had gotten an odd request. She had asked him to be in the room with her, and when he had asked why, she had only said… “I trust your eyes.” He’s shaken from his thoughts as he hears footsteps approaching, turning to see Dr. Finemost arriving with her well kept medical bag held by the pale green monkey’s tail that is her trait. He guesses she had been getting ready to settle down for the night, as he sees her still wearing the comfortable lounging clothes- a thick shirt and soft pants- with her white coat draped overtop, and running shoes on. Orange eyes give him a look from behind her round framed classes, the same straight, shoulder length pale green colored hair framing the tanned skin of her face, one that says she’s going to be expecting a favor in return. Ghira nods to her, already planning to bring some Atlesian wine back for her, and follows her into the room. Weiss looks up from the table, eyes flicking from Dr. Finemost to Ghira and back again, before settling on the doctor as she sits in front of Weiss. Ghira takes a spot by the door, leaning against the unremarkable beige wall of what he thinks used to be a laundry room, unsure of what he’s to do for Weiss besides watch. Dr. Finemost pulls a few items from her bag, setting them on a wheeled trolley as she speaks, her calm, flat tone managing to be free of the ice she’s often known for. “Hello there, I believe Mister Belladonna told you who I am, correct?” Upon receiving a nod, Finemost picks up a clipboard, and marks a few things Ghira can’t make out. “Then I believe we shall begin the examination.” What follows, Ghira assumes, is a mostly normal check-up. He isn’t a medical man by any stretch, beyond the most basic of field medicine and first aid, so his knowledge of what the doctor is doing is limited. Weiss looks mostly at ease throughout the experience, only getting a little hesitant about her wings, but in the end the doctor tells Weiss she’s gotten everything she needs. Ghira hands Weiss the spare room key he had been given by the front desk, and the aide who retrieved Dr. Finemost leads Weiss off with a promise that Ghira won’t be too far away if she needs anything. Ghira feels a smile forming as he watches her follow the aide off. His smile fades, as he turns to Dr. Finemost. He can tell something is wrong, and while not a doctor… “Jade, is it… is it bad?” Ghira feels the dread in his stomach grow as Jade’s scowl grows, her tail tapping the examination table as she seems to be trying to glare a hole in the chart in her hands. “It is. In some ways, it’s… here.” Jade presses the chart into Ghira’s hands, and steps back, pulling her bag up with her tail. “I’m sorry, Ghira, I- I need to go sit down. I… Call me if you need something, and try not to need something.” Ghira watches as Jade quickly walks off, tightening his grip on the unread chart in his hands and making his way to his own hotel room for the night to make an important choice, and an even more important call. —------------------------------------------------------------------------ “I know, dear, it’s… a lot to ask. Especially with-” Ghira cuts himself off, looking away from the call screen. He doesn’t need to finish the sentence, both of them know how it ends. Taking a breath, he looks back to the image of Kali, his darling wife, and resists the repeated urge to cringe away again at her expression of distraught horror mixed with deep emotional pain. “I don’t think… That leaving her here is a good idea. I don’t know what goes on behind the closed doors of the Schnee manor, but those wings… Jade thinks she’s been binding them frequently since birth. It’s a miracle they’re even functional.” Through the screen, Kali Belladonna nods almost absentmindedly. She had been sent the chart and attached photos by Ghira, and seemed to be almost transfixed by them. As he watches her let out an almost mournful sigh, Kali nods again, this time with more energy behind it. “I think you’re right, love. If her father- no. If that man was willing to… Gods, what else has he done? He just left her out in the streets, Ghira. In January!” He hears Kali’s voice hitch, and aches to be able to wrap his arms around her. Instead, he places a hand on the call’s display, which Kali mirrors. After a moment of listening to her quiet whines, she composes herself and continues. “Yes. I… I support it, Ghira. I’ll call the house and have a bedroom set up for her. I won’t let that man do any more harm to her.” Ghira smiles, as he listens to the sorrow in his wife’s voice solidify into the fierce, maternal determination he’s always loved about her, and he knows that Weiss will be safe. Only a small part of him is worried that Kali might not then let Weiss go, but… As much as it hurts him to think it, with Blake… gone, now, it would be a shame for such a large house to be lived in by only the couple. Weiss isn’t a replacement for his beloved daughter, nothing could take Blake’s place in his heart, but people have told him his heart is large. He can make space for another in there, if he has to. “I’ll ask her tomorrow, then. Goodnight, dear, I’ll see you soon.” “Goodnight, love.” The image of Kali flickers out, the call ending as Ghira sits back and gazes out of the window at the city. Neon lights and the glow of the heaters make Mantle shine even through the fog and smoke throughout it in a way Ghira, despite his general dislike of the place, simply can’t get anywhere else on Remnant. As the large faunus stands and moves over to the bed, pulling off his shirt and setting it on the chair to fold in the morning, he supposes that the city isn’t all bad, in the morning he may well have something wonderful to show for his journey out here. For the first time in months, ever since the day at the docks of Kuo Kuana, Ghira Belladonna goes to sleep feeling hopeful for tomorrow. —---------------------------------------- “Goodnight, love.” Kali Belladonna taps the end call button on her scroll, her black feline ears flicking as the image of her husband vanishes. Setting the device down, Kali leans back into the soft lounge chair in her parents’ Mistral home and lets out a saddened whine. Her eyes close for a moment, and the image of the bent, almost twisted wings crosses her mind. The wings had lacked almost all their feathers, and the shape! Gods, she can’t even imagine how little Weiss must feel, must have felt living in that home with that man. She hears a sound, the lightest of footsteps by the kitchen, and opens her eyes to see her mother, the wizened old apothecary, Durga Karavira, holding a tray with two cups. Kali smiles, as she sits back upright. “Oh, my dear young one. Is news like this so bad? Another little beast sounds wonderful.” The heavy accent of her mother’s voice calls out as she slowly makes her way over, setting the tray on the coffee table, and carefully settles into the chair beside the one Kali is seated in. Kali rubs a hand over the worn leather of the chair’s arm, her father’s chair. She can still get a bit of his scent, the earthy, grounding smell of a man who loved and worked as best as possible. “It… Mama, the girl, she’s a Schnee. A faunus and a Schnee, and she’s so hurt. I can’t even imagine what she’s been through.” Kali picks up one of the cups, opening her mouth to better take in the aroma of her mother’s tea blend. Even after all these years, almost four decades of life, Kali still can’t make anything like it. Durga takes up her own cup, sipping down a healthy amount before speaking. “Oh what she has been through. Yes, yes, well it has already happened, hasn’t it? You cannot change it. I cannot, the Animal God cannot even. You worry about what already is done, but you should look at what is not yet done.” Kali nods, half absently as her mother’s words hit her in more ways than their current topic. She can’t change what’s already happened. Lingering on it, on what she could have done, doesn’t help, but focusing on what she can do… She speaks after a moment of thought and a sip of tea. “Thank you mama. I think I needed that. What is not yet done, hmm…? I’ve got to imagine a lot hasn’t been done for the poor girl.” As Kali begins to think of several things at once, Durga just laughs and pushes herself back to her feet. Kali barely notices the fond look her mother sends, but very much does notice her words. “Then, to sleep it is. I have to be up early for those Safed brothers, the butter won’t make itself and I think no other payment to move my home is appropriate.” Collecting the tray and empty cups, Durga starts to walk away when Kali breaks her trance. “You- mama? You’re coming with me? But… It’s Menagerie, and you…” Kali stands as well, her amber eyes meeting the same color in her mother’s gaze, one of a mix of emotions that Kali can’t properly parse right now. Durga smiles, setting the tray down and pulling Kali into a hug much tighter than her old age would suggest possible. “I still hate that blood soaked reef of an island. I am not, though, one to miss the life of a new granddaughter, more so that this one will have much to learn, and the great oaf you wed will teach her all wrong.” Kali smiles, returning her mother’s hug as she listens to the calming, if slightly harsh, voice talk and complain about Menagerie, as she feels, for the first time since her darling little Blake stepped aboard a boat Kali could never follow, like what lies ahead isn’t destined to be so hollow after all.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75743436/chapters/198108326	{"authors": ["TheWashingtonGem"], "language": "English", "title": "An Avian Menace"}
Merging my past with the future I get to have At the San Fransokyo Mall, Sunday May 27th 2035, 11:03am… Juniper pops her lips as she, Olivia, Karmi and Ari walk through the mall, having enjoyed some McDonald’s at the food court for a late breakfast as they enjoy their mall outing. “So, what store should we hit first?” Olivia asks as she stretches her back. “And let’s spice things up today. We hit the Barnes & Noble AFTER the next two stops.” “Sounds fun.” Ari says chipperly. “Have anything in mind?” The Latina shrugs as she looks around, spotting a hair salon. “How about haircuts?” Karmi then touches the tips of her hair and shrugs. “My hair’s still rather short from two weeks ago, but maybe we could do something else there.” She says with a smile of brilliance. “Like maybe hairdos.” “Or braids.” Juniper suggests, but then Ari’s eyes widen as she gets a great idea. “How about we get parts of our hair dyed.” She smiles with joy, the whole group pausing for elaboration. “Wait, what?” Karmi warmly chuckles. “Well, I was thinking when I saw June’s hair.” The blue-eyed brunette explains. “And I saw the tuft on purple in her hair and then it came to me; me and Juni with matching purple tufts.” She smiles warmly. “Making us cousins with matching hair.” She gushes, making Juniper blush from flattery and their friends melt on the inside from how loving Ari’s suggestion was. “Well, I dunno about my own hair, but how I can say no to that face?” She says lovingly, making Ari happy. Inside the salon… The four then enter the salon, where they walk up to the dyed hair chart on the wall to see what they want. “Hmm, what do you want, Vi?” Karmi asks. “Dunno, maybe a blue streak since my Mechadama suit glows blue.” Olivia smiles and shrugs. “I’ll have to see. What about you?” Her biotech friend then clicks her tongue as she thinks. “Maybe icy blue.” “I already know what I want.” Ari gushes. “Say June, what color is your dye anyway?” “Lavendar.” The dancer assures her cousin before running her hand through her own hair. “You know, this brings back memories.” She warmly chuckles. “When I was 13, I admired my mom SO much, that I wanted to be look like her. Then after begging on my knees for like an hour, she let me dye my hair blonde.” “Oh yeah, your natural hair is dark brown, right?” Olivia says, remembering that Juniper had brought it up in Klamath Falls 2033. Her best friend then nods happily. “Yeah, and I liked it enough to keep it for 6 years.” The blonde warmly chuckles. “I got to dye it during my time in prison due to me being a model prisoner.” She runs her fingers through her hair again, feeling something weird. “Um, I need to make a call, be right back.” She says before heading outside, her friends hoping everything was alright. Outside the salon… Juniper taps her foot rapidly as she waits for her cousin to answer her FaceTime call. Trina then picks up, calling from the backyard. “Hey June, what’s up?” She asks chipperly. “Trin, if you don’t mind me asking, why did you want your original hair back?” The 18-year-old asks in a low but curious voice. “Besides wanting it long again.” While taken back by the question, Trina thinks about it. “Well, I cut my hair that short to be like my father.” She points out. “And besides wanting it long again, I wanted to look like myself; not him. Mind if I ponder why you ask?” Juniper then lets out a warm chuckle. “Could never get anything past you, huh? Well, I think I want to dye my hair back to brown.” She says with uncertainty. “But, it feels like a hard decision. It feels like I’m taking back the love I displayed for mama when I dyed it all those years ago.” She says somberly, making her cousin feel empathy for her. “You’re not betraying Aunt Barb.” She assures her softly, the videocall making her tone raspier. “You just want to change your look, and I’m pretty sure she’d agree that your love for her goes beyond your hair color.” The dancer then warmly smiles as she feels her eyes almost getting wet. “You’re right, thanks Trin. See you later cuz. Love you.” She softly gushes, moving Trina to blow a kiss at her through the videocall. “Love you too, June.” She says before the dancer hangs up and takes a deep breath before heading back into the building. But as she steps one foot through the door, Ari’s words rung in her head; giving her another idea. Later at the Ferns Residence, around 3:01pm… Barb whistles as she helps Sally roll up some tubes of dough in the kitchen. They were making delicious cinnamon rolls since it was the last weekend of the month. “At this rate we should have the cinnamon rolls done by 4, ish.” Barb says before snickering, which Sally does as well. “Yeah, reminds me of when you helped Steven bake when the two of you were younger.” “Yeah, he always got the sugar powder on his face within the first 30 seconds I set it down.” The former dancer warmly smiles. “He’s basically my brother, and I have no problem with that.” “And I have no problem with you being my sister-in-law.” Sally gushes back, making her friend’s heart melt more. “I’m back with Ari!” The two hear Juniper yell from the living room. “COMING!” Sally says as she and Barb set the dough down and head on out. The two then enter the living room; shocked from what they were seeing. Ari had a lavender tuft in her hair; specifically the tuft that went across her forehead was now lavender. But that wasn’t even the most shocking part; as Juniper had dyed the blonde portion of her hair back to its natural chocolate brown color with the lavender portion remaining. She also had a light blue lightning bolt hairpin in the left side of her hair; akin to Ari’s rosemary pin. While Ari was chipper, Juniper had her arms behind her back as she nervously smiled. “What do you think?” She nearly squeaks from the nervousness. It takes Barb’s mind a moment to realize that she’s not in 2029 anymore; that her daughter had not only restored her former hair color, but mixed it with her modern one. “I- I didn’t know you wanted to dye your hair back June.” She says. “I’m not mad, just surprised.” “Well, Ari recommended that we all get streaks of color in our hair.” Her dancer daughter says, feeling her nervousness fluctuating. “She wanted to be matching since we were cousins, so she got my lavender streak. But then I realized I wanted my brown hair back, so I called Trina and she assured me that you wouldn’t get mad.” “But, why would I be mad?” Barb asks, concerned that her daughter might be feeling unnecessary guilt. Juniper then takes another deep breath as she explains. “Because, I dyed my hair blonde because I love you so much to the point I wanted to look like you. And I worried that if I restored my normal hair, the love I showed before would disappear.” She squeaks, making her mom and aunt’s faces soften with sad hearts. “Juni the fact that you wanted to be more like me was loving enough.” Barb smiles weakly. “It assured my heart that I was doing right, that one decision alone. But if you want to have your old hair back, that’s ok with me.” She says sweetly with a closed hand on her daughter’s shoulder, since she didn’t want to get Juniper’s shirt dirty with flour. Her assuring words make her daughter’s heart melt, which warmed much more as she hugged her mom lovingly. “Thanks, mama.” She gushes softly, getting a loving closed hand pat on the back. As Sally and Ari melt from the loving moment, a realization hits the blue-head’s mind. “You kept your purple tuft because of Ari, didn’t you?” Her niece nods as the hug ends. “Well she did say ‘matching cousins’.” She says before pointing to her hairpin. “It’s like, my new self is properly displayed now.” Juniper warmly chuckles. “The lavender symbolizing the new life I got thanks to Go Go, with the brown representing the life I got back. And the hairpin represents how far I’ve come thanks to my loved ones.” She gushes before pulling Ari into a warm hug. “Thanks again Ar.” Her blue-eyed cousin warmly chuckles as she kisses her cousin’s cheek. “Anytime, June.” She gushes. “Now then, are we not going to talk about the fact that your mom and our aunt were baking something?” “You follow them to the kitchen, I’ll join after I do something.” Juniper smiles, Barb and Sally rolling their eyes in amusement as Ari followed them into the kitchen. “OOH CINNAMON ROLLS!” She squeaks with excitement, getting a small chuckle out of Juniper as she takes out her phone and looks at the group photo she and the others took as they walked around the mall with their new hairdos. While she and Ari were matching, Karmi had a few dark blue streaks throughout her hair while Olivia got some icy blue streaks on her bangs. She chuckles as she sends it to the group chat, accidentally swiping to the next photo when she’s about to go to another app; which was just her and Ari recreating the pose she and her mama did when using electricity to form their name during their villain debut; with the Burger King logo standing in for ‘High Voltage’. Juniper can’t help but melt more upon seeing it, so she sends it to the group chat as well before heading to the kitchen; glad she had her fun and loving cousin Ari in her life.	Merging my past with the future I get to have At the San Fransokyo Mall, Sunday May 27th 2035, 11:03am… Juniper pops her lips as she, Olivia, Karmi and Ari walk through the mall, having enjoyed some McDonald’s at the food court for a late breakfast as they enjoy their mall outing. “So, what store should we hit first?” Olivia asks as she stretches her back. “And let’s spice things up today. We hit the Barnes & Noble AFTER the next two stops.” “Sounds fun.” Ari says chipperly. “Have anything in mind?” The Latina shrugs as she looks around, spotting a hair salon. “How about haircuts?” Karmi then touches the tips of her hair and shrugs. “My hair’s still rather short from two weeks ago, but maybe we could do something else there.” She says with a smile of brilliance. “Like maybe hairdos.” “Or braids.” Juniper suggests, but then Ari’s eyes widen as she gets a great idea. “How about we get parts of our hair dyed.” She smiles with joy, the whole group pausing for elaboration. “Wait, what?” Karmi warmly chuckles. “Well, I was thinking when I saw June’s hair.” The blue-eyed brunette explains. “And I saw the tuft on purple in her hair and then it came to me; me and Juni with matching purple tufts.” She smiles warmly. “Making us cousins with matching hair.” She gushes, making Juniper blush from flattery and their friends melt on the inside from how loving Ari’s suggestion was. “Well, I dunno about my own hair, but how I can say no to that face?” She says lovingly, making Ari happy. Inside the salon… The four then enter the salon, where they walk up to the dyed hair chart on the wall to see what they want. “Hmm, what do you want, Vi?” Karmi asks. “Dunno, maybe a blue streak since my Mechadama suit glows blue.” Olivia smiles and shrugs. “I’ll have to see. What about you?” Her biotech friend then clicks her tongue as she thinks. “Maybe icy blue.” “I already know what I want.” Ari gushes. “Say June, what color is your dye anyway?” “Lavendar.” The dancer assures her cousin before running her hand through her own hair. “You know, this brings back memories.” She warmly chuckles. “When I was 13, I admired my mom SO much, that I wanted to be look like her. Then after begging on my knees for like an hour, she let me dye my hair blonde.” “Oh yeah, your natural hair is dark brown, right?” Olivia says, remembering that Juniper had brought it up in Klamath Falls 2033. Her best friend then nods happily. “Yeah, and I liked it enough to keep it for 6 years.” The blonde warmly chuckles. “I got to dye it during my time in prison due to me being a model prisoner.” She runs her fingers through her hair again, feeling something weird. “Um, I need to make a call, be right back.” She says before heading outside, her friends hoping everything was alright. Outside the salon… Juniper taps her foot rapidly as she waits for her cousin to answer her FaceTime call. Trina then picks up, calling from the backyard. “Hey June, what’s up?” She asks chipperly. “Trin, if you don’t mind me asking, why did you want your original hair back?” The 18-year-old asks in a low but curious voice. “Besides wanting it long again.” While taken back by the question, Trina thinks about it. “Well, I cut my hair that short to be like my father.” She points out. “And besides wanting it long again, I wanted to look like myself; not him. Mind if I ponder why you ask?” Juniper then lets out a warm chuckle. “Could never get anything past you, huh? Well, I think I want to dye my hair back to brown.” She says with uncertainty. “But, it feels like a hard decision. It feels like I’m taking back the love I displayed for mama when I dyed it all those years ago.” She says somberly, making her cousin feel empathy for her. “You’re not betraying Aunt Barb.” She assures her softly, the videocall making her tone raspier. “You just want to change your look, and I’m pretty sure she’d agree that your love for her goes beyond your hair color.” The dancer then warmly smiles as she feels her eyes almost getting wet. “You’re right, thanks Trin. See you later cuz. Love you.” She softly gushes, moving Trina to blow a kiss at her through the videocall. “Love you too, June.” She says before the dancer hangs up and takes a deep breath before heading back into the building. But as she steps one foot through the door, Ari’s words rung in her head; giving her another idea. Later at the Ferns Residence, around 3:01pm… Barb whistles as she helps Sally roll up some tubes of dough in the kitchen. They were making delicious cinnamon rolls since it was the last weekend of the month. “At this rate we should have the cinnamon rolls done by 4, ish.” Barb says before snickering, which Sally does as well. “Yeah, reminds me of when you helped Steven bake when the two of you were younger.” “Yeah, he always got the sugar powder on his face within the first 30 seconds I set it down.” The former dancer warmly smiles. “He’s basically my brother, and I have no problem with that.” “And I have no problem with you being my sister-in-law.” Sally gushes back, making her friend’s heart melt more. “I’m back with Ari!” The two hear Juniper yell from the living room. “COMING!” Sally says as she and Barb set the dough down and head on out. The two then enter the living room; shocked from what they were seeing. Ari had a lavender tuft in her hair; specifically the tuft that went across her forehead was now lavender. But that wasn’t even the most shocking part; as Juniper had dyed the blonde portion of her hair back to its natural chocolate brown color with the lavender portion remaining. She also had a light blue lightning bolt hairpin in the left side of her hair; akin to Ari’s rosemary pin. While Ari was chipper, Juniper had her arms behind her back as she nervously smiled. “What do you think?” She nearly squeaks from the nervousness. It takes Barb’s mind a moment to realize that she’s not in 2029 anymore; that her daughter had not only restored her former hair color, but mixed it with her modern one. “I- I didn’t know you wanted to dye your hair back June.” She says. “I’m not mad, just surprised.” “Well, Ari recommended that we all get streaks of color in our hair.” Her dancer daughter says, feeling her nervousness fluctuating. “She wanted to be matching since we were cousins, so she got my lavender streak. But then I realized I wanted my brown hair back, so I called Trina and she assured me that you wouldn’t get mad.” “But, why would I be mad?” Barb asks, concerned that her daughter might be feeling unnecessary guilt. Juniper then takes another deep breath as she explains. “Because, I dyed my hair blonde because I love you so much to the point I wanted to look like you. And I worried that if I restored my normal hair, the love I showed before would disappear.” She squeaks, making her mom and aunt’s faces soften with sad hearts. “Juni the fact that you wanted to be more like me was loving enough.” Barb smiles weakly. “It assured my heart that I was doing right, that one decision alone. But if you want to have your old hair back, that’s ok with me.” She says sweetly with a closed hand on her daughter’s shoulder, since she didn’t want to get Juniper’s shirt dirty with flour. Her assuring words make her daughter’s heart melt, which warmed much more as she hugged her mom lovingly. “Thanks, mama.” She gushes softly, getting a loving closed hand pat on the back. As Sally and Ari melt from the loving moment, a realization hits the blue-head’s mind. “You kept your purple tuft because of Ari, didn’t you?” Her niece nods as the hug ends. “Well she did say ‘matching cousins’.” She says before pointing to her hairpin. “It’s like, my new self is properly displayed now.” Juniper warmly chuckles. “The lavender symbolizing the new life I got thanks to Go Go, with the brown representing the life I got back. And the hairpin represents how far I’ve come thanks to my loved ones.” She gushes before pulling Ari into a warm hug. “Thanks again Ar.” Her blue-eyed cousin warmly chuckles as she kisses her cousin’s cheek. “Anytime, June.” She gushes. “Now then, are we not going to talk about the fact that your mom and our aunt were baking something?” “You follow them to the kitchen, I’ll join after I do something.” Juniper smiles, Barb and Sally rolling their eyes in amusement as Ari followed them into the kitchen. “OOH CINNAMON ROLLS!” She squeaks with excitement, getting a small chuckle out of Juniper as she takes out her phone and looks at the group photo she and the others took as they walked around the mall with their new hairdos. While she and Ari were matching, Karmi had a few dark blue streaks throughout her hair while Olivia got some icy blue streaks on her bangs. She chuckles as she sends it to the group chat, accidentally swiping to the next photo when she’s about to go to another app; which was just her and Ari recreating the pose she and her mama did when using electricity to form their name during their villain debut; with the Burger King logo standing in for ‘High Voltage’. Juniper can’t help but melt more upon seeing it, so she sends it to the group chat as well before heading to the kitchen; glad she had her fun and loving cousin Ari in her life.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75740051	{"authors": ["PepsiMagnet"], "language": "English", "title": "Merging my past with the future I get to have"}
Kill For You The rain hadn’t stopped hammering the docks. It came down in sheets, turning the pavement slick and reflective- perfect for photography, terrible for survival. Peach was adjusting his lens, crouching between stacked shipping crates, trying to catch the way the neon signs across the river cut sharp pink stripes through the rain. He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him. He only felt the cold blade press to his ribs. A rough hand yanked him back. “Wrong night to be taking pictures, sweetheart.” Peach’s breath punched out of him. “I- I wasn’t photographing you. I swear.” “Doesn’t matter. Someone higher up wants you gone.” Before Peach could process the words, there was a soft click. That unmistakable, ice-cold click. The click of a gun being cocked. Then- a shape moved through the rain, silent, deliberate. Thee. He didn’t just look angry. He looked like someone had flipped a switch and turned him into something primal. The gunshot cracked through the air and the attacker dropped instantly. Peach stumbled back, heart in free fall. Thee was at his side before his brain caught up, grabbing his shoulders, scanning him closely. “Did he touch you?” Thee’s voice was steady but trembling at the edges. Peach shook his head. “No-” “Good.” Thee took the camera from Peach’s shaking hands, slinging it around his own neck. “We’re leaving.” Peach could barely breathe. “You killed him.” “He was going to kill you.” “He was going to run away!” Thee’s jaw tightened. “I don’t care.” Rain soaked through Peach’s clothes as Thee pushed him toward the street, shielding him with his own body like Peach was worth an entire army. “No,” Peach said suddenly, stopping in the middle of the road. Thee turned sharply. “No?” “We’re talking. Now.” “Not here.” “Yes, here!” Thee closed the distance in two steps, eyes dark, rain dripping from his lashes. “You want to argue about morality while you’re still shaking?” “I’m shaking because you executed someone at my feet!” “If someone comes for you,” Thee growled, “I end them.” “That’s not normal!” “Neither is someone wanting you dead!” Thee’s voice cracked. “What do you not understand?” “That you can’t just- just take over my life like this! I’m not yours to protect!” Thee’s breath faltered, just barely, but Peach saw it. And he hated the way it hit him. They walked the rest of the way in silence, Thee glued to Peach’s side, scanning every shadow like violence might leap out of it. By the time they reached Peach’s studio, Peach’s heart hadn’t slowed. Inside, the lights flickered on. The studio was cluttered with camera equipment, prints, and half-empty coffee cups. When Thee entered he kicked the door shut behind him so hard the frame rattled. He didn’t even look around. No. He stared right at Peach. “So you really think you can handle the streets alone?” Thee finally snaps, pacing like a caged animal. Rainwater drips from his hair. His knuckles are still bloody. “Someone tried to slit your throat tonight!” “And you shot him.” Peach’s voice cuts sharp. “In front of me. You promised-” “I promised to keep you alive,” Thee growls. “He. was. running. away!” “He came for you,” Thee fires back, stepping in close, chest heaving. “I already told you Peachayarat. I don’t care if they turn their back. It stays pressed into the ground until I say otherwise.” “That’s exactly why I didn’t want you involved!” “And look where staying away got you,” Thee spits. “Almost bleeding out in my arms anyway.” “Now tell me, are you okay?” The question was soft, too soft for someone who just killed a man. Peach stepped back, anger rising with the adrenaline. “No. I’m not okay. You can’t just- Thee , what the hell was that?” “What was what?” Thee asked quietly. “Saving you?” “That wasn’t saving! That was violence! That was-” “What I do,” Thee snapped, voice rougher now. “It’s who I am.” “It doesn’t have to involve me,” Peach said, voice tight. “I’m not your responsibility.” Thee flinched again. The kind of flinch you only see when a truth hits too hard. “You think I did it out of responsibility?” he said, stepping closer. Peach backed up instinctively until he hit the metal table behind him. Thee kept moving. “You think I follow you across docks because it's my job?” “Isn’t it?” Peach shot back. “You’re mafia. You use violence. You think everything is solved with force. You’re dangerous, and I shouldn’t be tangled in any of this.” “I told you to avoid my business!” Thee snapped. “But you keep showing up in it. You keep wandering into danger. You keep-” “Working. I keep working,” Peach corrected. “I take photos. I do freelance jobs. I’m not doing it to impress you.” Thee’s eyes hardened. “You think I need you to impress me?” Peach swallowed. Rainwater still clung to Thee’s hair, dripping down his jaw. “You need someone to follow,” Peach said bitterly. “Someone to obsess over. Someone to protect. I’m just… convenient.” Thee stepped even closer. “You think I picked you because you were convenient?” Peach looks away, jaw tight, breathing hard. “It doesn’t matter what I think! I will tell you one more time. You don’t get to control how I work. I’m not part of your world. We’re not-” He falters. Thee freezes. “Say it,” Thee says, voice too calm to be safe. “Finish the sentence.” Peach meets his eyes. “We’re nothing. Not dating. Not… anything. Not even-.” “Bullshit.” “We’re not even friends, Thee.” The silence after that line feels like a blade. Thee steps forward slowly, like he’s forcing down a thousand emotions just to speak, or more like he’s fighting the urge to punch a wall. “You know what’s pathetic?” he murmurs, leaning in until Peach can feel the heat of him. “I’d kill for you. And you pretend you don’t even know me.” “That’s the problem,” Peach whispers, anger cracking into fear and something else. “You solve everything with violence.” “And you solve nothing,” Thee snaps back. “You hide behind a camera and pretend danger won’t touch you if you don’t look directly at it.” Peach pushes at his chest, furious. “Get away from me.” Thee leaned in even further, voice low. “Say it again.” “What?” “Say we’re nothing again.” “No.” “Say it.” “I said no.” “Why not?” Thee demanded, stepping closer until their chests almost touched. “If it’s the truth, say it.” Peach’s voice finally cracked “Because you scare me.” Thee inhaled slowly, like he was trying to calm a storm inside him. “And you think I’m not scared?” he whispered. “I watched someone try to kill you tonight. I thought-” He cut himself off, shaking his head, jaw working. “Strangers don’t track you across the city to make sure you get home,” Thee says quietly. “Strangers don’t know your schedule better than you do.” “Strangers don’t threaten half the underworld to keep you safe.” Peach’s breath catches. “That’s exactly why we’re nothing. I don’t want a bodyguard with a gun and a temper.” Thee’s voice drops. “You don’t want me?” “I don’t want your violence,” Peach corrects, too fast, too emotional. “I don’t want your world suffocating mine.” “You want me,” Thee says with terrifying certainty, “and you hate that you do.” Peach pushes him, palms flat on Thee’s chest. “Stop assuming what I feel just because you can’t control your own.” Thee grabs his wrists, firm but careful and leans in so close Peach can feel the heat of every breath. “Oh, I can control myself,” he says. “I just don’t want to when it comes to you.” “That’s exactly why this is dangerous.” “Good.” Thee growls. “Then at least you finally see me clearly.” Peach glares up at him, angry and shaken and alive in a way that terrifies him. “You think this is some twisted romantic moment? You killed someone, Thee!” “For you.” “Not FOR me. You did it because you can’t stand the idea of losing something you think you own.” Thee’s jaw flexes. “Just. Just say we’re nothing again, just one last time.” he says, voice low, dangerous. “Why?” Peach bites out. “So I can prove you wrong.” Peach opens his mouth to argue- and Thee kisses him. It hit Peach like a shockwave. It was angry, heated, messy. Thee’s hand slid to the back of Peach’s neck, dragging him closer, kissing him like Peach’s denial had wounded something deep inside him. Peach shoves at him once, but Thee kisses harder until Peach’s resistance shatters and he fists both hands in Thee’s soaked shirt, dragging him closer, meeting the kiss with just as much anger. Just as much need. They breathe into each other like they’ve been drowning. Thee presses him back against the counter, mouths colliding again and again. Their kiss is messy, heated and full of arguments they haven’t spoken yet. And yet Thee is kissing him harder, deeper, like he needed confirmation Peach was alive. Alive and his. Peach kissed back with just as much anger, just as much want, letting the fear and frustration burn into something hotter. Thee nipped his bottom lip, Peach gasped and pulled him even closer. Their breaths mingled harshly, bodies flush, tension finally cracking open. When they broke for air, foreheads pressed together, Thee’s voice came out rough, shaking. “You say we’re nothing,” he whispered, “but you kiss me like I’m the only thing you can hold onto.” Peach’s voice shakes. “I’m scared of what you turn me into.” Thee’s thumb brushed Peach’s jaw, possessive and soft at the same time. “Good,” he breathes. “Then we’re the same.” Peach didn’t deny it and when they kissed again it was slower, deeper, filled with every ounce of intensity Thee had been trying to swallow since the first moment he saw Peach behind a camera.	Kill For You The rain hadn’t stopped hammering the docks. It came down in sheets, turning the pavement slick and reflective- perfect for photography, terrible for survival. Peach was adjusting his lens, crouching between stacked shipping crates, trying to catch the way the neon signs across the river cut sharp pink stripes through the rain. He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him. He only felt the cold blade press to his ribs. A rough hand yanked him back. “Wrong night to be taking pictures, sweetheart.” Peach’s breath punched out of him. “I- I wasn’t photographing you. I swear.” “Doesn’t matter. Someone higher up wants you gone.” Before Peach could process the words, there was a soft click. That unmistakable, ice-cold click. The click of a gun being cocked. Then- a shape moved through the rain, silent, deliberate. Thee. He didn’t just look angry. He looked like someone had flipped a switch and turned him into something primal. The gunshot cracked through the air and the attacker dropped instantly. Peach stumbled back, heart in free fall. Thee was at his side before his brain caught up, grabbing his shoulders, scanning him closely. “Did he touch you?” Thee’s voice was steady but trembling at the edges. Peach shook his head. “No-” “Good.” Thee took the camera from Peach’s shaking hands, slinging it around his own neck. “We’re leaving.” Peach could barely breathe. “You killed him.” “He was going to kill you.” “He was going to run away!” Thee’s jaw tightened. “I don’t care.” Rain soaked through Peach’s clothes as Thee pushed him toward the street, shielding him with his own body like Peach was worth an entire army. “No,” Peach said suddenly, stopping in the middle of the road. Thee turned sharply. “No?” “We’re talking. Now.” “Not here.” “Yes, here!” Thee closed the distance in two steps, eyes dark, rain dripping from his lashes. “You want to argue about morality while you’re still shaking?” “I’m shaking because you executed someone at my feet!” “If someone comes for you,” Thee growled, “I end them.” “That’s not normal!” “Neither is someone wanting you dead!” Thee’s voice cracked. “What do you not understand?” “That you can’t just- just take over my life like this! I’m not yours to protect!” Thee’s breath faltered, just barely, but Peach saw it. And he hated the way it hit him. They walked the rest of the way in silence, Thee glued to Peach’s side, scanning every shadow like violence might leap out of it. By the time they reached Peach’s studio, Peach’s heart hadn’t slowed. Inside, the lights flickered on. The studio was cluttered with camera equipment, prints, and half-empty coffee cups. When Thee entered he kicked the door shut behind him so hard the frame rattled. He didn’t even look around. No. He stared right at Peach. “So you really think you can handle the streets alone?” Thee finally snaps, pacing like a caged animal. Rainwater drips from his hair. His knuckles are still bloody. “Someone tried to slit your throat tonight!” “And you shot him.” Peach’s voice cuts sharp. “In front of me. You promised-” “I promised to keep you alive,” Thee growls. “He. was. running. away!” “He came for you,” Thee fires back, stepping in close, chest heaving. “I already told you Peachayarat. I don’t care if they turn their back. It stays pressed into the ground until I say otherwise.” “That’s exactly why I didn’t want you involved!” “And look where staying away got you,” Thee spits. “Almost bleeding out in my arms anyway.” “Now tell me, are you okay?” The question was soft, too soft for someone who just killed a man. Peach stepped back, anger rising with the adrenaline. “No. I’m not okay. You can’t just- Thee , what the hell was that?” “What was what?” Thee asked quietly. “Saving you?” “That wasn’t saving! That was violence! That was-” “What I do,” Thee snapped, voice rougher now. “It’s who I am.” “It doesn’t have to involve me,” Peach said, voice tight. “I’m not your responsibility.” Thee flinched again. The kind of flinch you only see when a truth hits too hard. “You think I did it out of responsibility?” he said, stepping closer. Peach backed up instinctively until he hit the metal table behind him. Thee kept moving. “You think I follow you across docks because it's my job?” “Isn’t it?” Peach shot back. “You’re mafia. You use violence. You think everything is solved with force. You’re dangerous, and I shouldn’t be tangled in any of this.” “I told you to avoid my business!” Thee snapped. “But you keep showing up in it. You keep wandering into danger. You keep-” “Working. I keep working,” Peach corrected. “I take photos. I do freelance jobs. I’m not doing it to impress you.” Thee’s eyes hardened. “You think I need you to impress me?” Peach swallowed. Rainwater still clung to Thee’s hair, dripping down his jaw. “You need someone to follow,” Peach said bitterly. “Someone to obsess over. Someone to protect. I’m just… convenient.” Thee stepped even closer. “You think I picked you because you were convenient?” Peach looks away, jaw tight, breathing hard. “It doesn’t matter what I think! I will tell you one more time. You don’t get to control how I work. I’m not part of your world. We’re not-” He falters. Thee freezes. “Say it,” Thee says, voice too calm to be safe. “Finish the sentence.” Peach meets his eyes. “We’re nothing. Not dating. Not… anything. Not even-.” “Bullshit.” “We’re not even friends, Thee.” The silence after that line feels like a blade. Thee steps forward slowly, like he’s forcing down a thousand emotions just to speak, or more like he’s fighting the urge to punch a wall. “You know what’s pathetic?” he murmurs, leaning in until Peach can feel the heat of him. “I’d kill for you. And you pretend you don’t even know me.” “That’s the problem,” Peach whispers, anger cracking into fear and something else. “You solve everything with violence.” “And you solve nothing,” Thee snaps back. “You hide behind a camera and pretend danger won’t touch you if you don’t look directly at it.” Peach pushes at his chest, furious. “Get away from me.” Thee leaned in even further, voice low. “Say it again.” “What?” “Say we’re nothing again.” “No.” “Say it.” “I said no.” “Why not?” Thee demanded, stepping closer until their chests almost touched. “If it’s the truth, say it.” Peach’s voice finally cracked “Because you scare me.” Thee inhaled slowly, like he was trying to calm a storm inside him. “And you think I’m not scared?” he whispered. “I watched someone try to kill you tonight. I thought-” He cut himself off, shaking his head, jaw working. “Strangers don’t track you across the city to make sure you get home,” Thee says quietly. “Strangers don’t know your schedule better than you do.” “Strangers don’t threaten half the underworld to keep you safe.” Peach’s breath catches. “That’s exactly why we’re nothing. I don’t want a bodyguard with a gun and a temper.” Thee’s voice drops. “You don’t want me?” “I don’t want your violence,” Peach corrects, too fast, too emotional. “I don’t want your world suffocating mine.” “You want me,” Thee says with terrifying certainty, “and you hate that you do.” Peach pushes him, palms flat on Thee’s chest. “Stop assuming what I feel just because you can’t control your own.” Thee grabs his wrists, firm but careful and leans in so close Peach can feel the heat of every breath. “Oh, I can control myself,” he says. “I just don’t want to when it comes to you.” “That’s exactly why this is dangerous.” “Good.” Thee growls. “Then at least you finally see me clearly.” Peach glares up at him, angry and shaken and alive in a way that terrifies him. “You think this is some twisted romantic moment? You killed someone, Thee!” “For you.” “Not FOR me. You did it because you can’t stand the idea of losing something you think you own.” Thee’s jaw flexes. “Just. Just say we’re nothing again, just one last time.” he says, voice low, dangerous. “Why?” Peach bites out. “So I can prove you wrong.” Peach opens his mouth to argue- and Thee kisses him. It hit Peach like a shockwave. It was angry, heated, messy. Thee’s hand slid to the back of Peach’s neck, dragging him closer, kissing him like Peach’s denial had wounded something deep inside him. Peach shoves at him once, but Thee kisses harder until Peach’s resistance shatters and he fists both hands in Thee’s soaked shirt, dragging him closer, meeting the kiss with just as much anger. Just as much need. They breathe into each other like they’ve been drowning. Thee presses him back against the counter, mouths colliding again and again. Their kiss is messy, heated and full of arguments they haven’t spoken yet. And yet Thee is kissing him harder, deeper, like he needed confirmation Peach was alive. Alive and his. Peach kissed back with just as much anger, just as much want, letting the fear and frustration burn into something hotter. Thee nipped his bottom lip, Peach gasped and pulled him even closer. Their breaths mingled harshly, bodies flush, tension finally cracking open. When they broke for air, foreheads pressed together, Thee’s voice came out rough, shaking. “You say we’re nothing,” he whispered, “but you kiss me like I’m the only thing you can hold onto.” Peach’s voice shakes. “I’m scared of what you turn me into.” Thee’s thumb brushed Peach’s jaw, possessive and soft at the same time. “Good,” he breathes. “Then we’re the same.” Peach didn’t deny it and when they kissed again it was slower, deeper, filled with every ounce of intensity Thee had been trying to swallow since the first moment he saw Peach behind a camera.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75737131	{"authors": ["sunmyne"], "language": "English", "title": "Kill For You"}
displeasure “These tidings displease me.” Mesaana’s voice, as always, sent a fiery shiver licking down Alviarin’s spine. Surely it was fear and nothing else that guided her, already kneeling, to press her forehead to the floor at her mistress’s feet. She had felt the sting of Mesaana’s… displeasure… too many times in recent days. “Great Mistress, I wish I had better news. I speak only the truth to you.” “Oh, I know.” Mesaana’s voice was smooth as glass, tinted with amused condescension. Alviarin burned with embarrassment. “I can always trust you to be a good girl, can't I?” She hated this dance. Hated how it took up so much of her mind. Would she never escape this snare? “Yes, Great Mistress,” she managed. “I require one more service from you, child.” She wet her lips. “Anything.” Mesaana hitched her skirts up. The message was clear. Feigning incomprehension would only earn her a punishment. Obediently, Alviarin crawled under her skirts, disgusted with herself. She was a brushfire, hot all over, alight with a horrible thrill. “And now?” she dared to ask. Even on her knees she would retain some control. She would not grovel. She would – “Please me.” There was no hint of Compulsion, only the command in the Forsaken’s voice and a soft touch at the back of her skull. Alviarin’s mind reeled. For once she saw humanity in the imperfect skin of her mistress’s thighs, the dark curls of hair, the faint scent of her arousal. “Now, child.” Alviarin obeyed.	displeasure “These tidings displease me.” Mesaana’s voice, as always, sent a fiery shiver licking down Alviarin’s spine. Surely it was fear and nothing else that guided her, already kneeling, to press her forehead to the floor at her mistress’s feet. She had felt the sting of Mesaana’s… displeasure… too many times in recent days. “Great Mistress, I wish I had better news. I speak only the truth to you.” “Oh, I know.” Mesaana’s voice was smooth as glass, tinted with amused condescension. Alviarin burned with embarrassment. “I can always trust you to be a good girl, can't I?” She hated this dance. Hated how it took up so much of her mind. Would she never escape this snare? “Yes, Great Mistress,” she managed. “I require one more service from you, child.” She wet her lips. “Anything.” Mesaana hitched her skirts up. The message was clear. Feigning incomprehension would only earn her a punishment. Obediently, Alviarin crawled under her skirts, disgusted with herself. She was a brushfire, hot all over, alight with a horrible thrill. “And now?” she dared to ask. Even on her knees she would retain some control. She would not grovel. She would – “Please me.” There was no hint of Compulsion, only the command in the Forsaken’s voice and a soft touch at the back of her skull. Alviarin’s mind reeled. For once she saw humanity in the imperfect skin of her mistress’s thighs, the dark curls of hair, the faint scent of her arousal. “Now, child.” Alviarin obeyed.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75738206	{"authors": ["eve_is_obsessed"], "language": "English", "title": "displeasure"}
Pass me that water jug, comrade This day started out like any other. Except, it did not. They were on their way to a quest, not a very often occurrence, so to say it started out like any other day would be telling a flat lie. Just the three of them. Like… All quests did. Apparently. Whatever those old stories and prophecies said. Sam would just have to trust them. "You have two minutes!" Ugh. Loud screeches seven in the blazing cold morning – who even had so much energy barely twenty-and-a-half seconds after the sun rose? Sam barely had his braincells together, his hair looked terrible and unfortunately mussed-up from him falling out of bed due to a previous screechy wake-up call, and his wardrobe had to be re-decided, because he was so not feeling the red for today. Adding on to that, his tiny window was jammed (not a coincidence – Janet had superglued it to stay open, clearly, before yelling the soul out of his body), and, yes, Janet was not-so-covertly hyping him up to, as quoted, "Get the HELL out here!" Well, unlike some people, Janet, most campers have cabin mates who do not consent to also getting yelled at just because they chose the bed next to the sole person on the receiving end of the yelling. Goodness. She had not shame. None at all. His half-siblings would, judging from their sleepy glares being directed at him this very moment, roast him to smithereens if they were not trying to salvage the last few minutes of sleep before they were also forced to get up. He would be nice this time. Let them get their very important beauty sleep – because that was what big brothers did. Obviously, he did not also make a habit of yelling his cabin-mates up five minutes after dawn. Nope. "Shhh!" He shot out the window, while wrestling with whether the blue or deep beige— oh, nevermind, just put it all on, it will all get covered in monster goo or whatever, Sam, get your act together— "One. Minute." Her tone barely missed out on the exclamation mark at the end, but Sam was open to mentally marking it with one. "I've already packed, I'll be out soon!" Yes, yes, he could do this, this quest would go smoothly and they would be back so soon no one would even— When he rushed out, hair barely combed and bag slung over a wrinkled sweater, he was met with a raised eyebrow and a slight smirk. Ugh. He hated that look. "Thought you said you were thinking of that fuzzy red coat for today," Janet remarked, eyeing his layered mess of clothes. Sam scowled at her. "Wasn't feeling that colour," he off-handedly replied, running a hand through his hair. Hopefully not many others were already up this early, he did not want to be seen so disgruntled and in such disarray. Being a camp counsellor had three perks and a million downsides – including being picked on for being over-critical when they themselves were even a little out of line. Even if it was by a stray hair. "Where's Darcy?" Janet shrugged. "Must still be in the gardens." "She can't be taking too much longer, can she?" He was proven right when their gardener friend tripped over herself rushing to their side, some soil decorating her boots, not one minute later. "Sorry! I was dealing with those enchanted weeds. We've yet to come up with a name for them but they're really getting on my nerves." "Anyone going to manage that while we're away?" Janet inquired, frowning. Her dark bangs shifted a little with her head moving. Sam suddenly noticed that she had left in the ebony ear piercings from her impromptu dress-up session from yesterday (don't ask), and kind of felt like congratulating himself. "Well, I'm not the Demeter cabin counsellor, so I don't really handle all those scheduling things," Darcy said, shaking the soil off her boots, "but Mari said she has everything handled, including the weeds, before I went to bed yesterday, so it'll probably be fine." "That's good," Sam offered. Darcy shrugged in response, sighing. About two seconds of nothing passed, in which nerves really started to gather in his gut, before Janet spoke up again, taking up her position as their quest leader. "So! I guess we'll be setting off, huh?" She was already walking off, and Sam was quick to follow, Darcy beside him. "Feels kinda weird to just be… leaving," Sam said, wincing. "If Argus isn't waiting for us beyond the barrier, can we really quickly rush back so no one notices we're gone, like, at all?" Janet turned around and eyed him again, pausing in her footsteps. This time, she looked like she was contemplating his entire existence. Sam felt rather dwarfed. "…There's probably better things to worry about, Sam." Then she was off walking, again. When Sam felt more nerves gather in his gut, he turned to Darcy for help, but she just shrugged her big, famed shrug back at him. "Besides," Janet added, this time keeping her eyes forward, "We already got a prophecy from Rachel. Aren't you excited to figure out that mess of words?" Nope. Nope. No, he was not. Seriously, Janet. Janet had jinxed them. Was there any doubt to distinguish that thought? Nope, none at all, because the moment Janet had asked for a doughnut and then dared to claim that there were no malicious spirits in the baked confection because, oh, "that would be so absurd, Sam, what are you on about", instead of there being no monsters present in the first two hours of their relatively low-stakes quest, there appeared a seven-foot-tall shadowy monster wearing a half-chewed doughnut as a hat growling at them. For what, only the creature itself knew, because Sam's braincells for the day we're only half-gathered. Not that anyone had to know that, obviously. Sam almost felt bad for enraging that shadowy creature (was it a hellhound?), mostly because it looked kind of like a dog, and hell-spawn-like or not, dogs were dogs. However, Janet did not seem to share the same sentiment, because— "I was NOT done with that doughnut, silly!" She was not even trying to attack the monster, with how she was merely gesturing madly at it with the tip of her bow. Her arrow case was still closed. At least, she did not seem to want to fight it, but she could do with some calming down, because they could always get another doughnut. Also, the dog had only jumped out at them after they had stolen (read: half-eaten) its hiding spot. Maybe it just needed a squeaky toy to calm down. Janet's hair was more unruly than usual – there was even powered sugar on one side. That did not help to make her look menacing, but Sam's friend could dream. Sam wondered, suddenly, just how they had managed to get on that bus ride with no casualties if demigods were monster magnets. Sure, only two out of three of them were kids of the Super Major Gods, but that was plenty enough. Even a drop of god blood detected in any poor demigod was apparently enough to send invitations to every old monster two miles away from the demigod's current location. Then he figured that they had just been lucky enough. Unfortunately for them, Janet Worthington had decided that she would be here, with them, with her penance for occasional bad luck. Only occasional, after all. Darcy was at Sam's side in the next blink. "Do we, like, run?" She looked pretty unsure. Sam could not help but feel the same, even if he was older than them. "Janet seems to really want her doughnut back," Sam noted. He was then cut off. "I give up on that doughnut, we are going!" And so they were… going. When they turned around, the chilly atmosphere and glowering darkness crawling along the pavement suddenly disappeared, and something soft hit the ground. There was a pretty innocent 'woof'. Sam was too afraid to turn back around to check where it had come from. See? Never choose violence, kids. Everything works out in the end. Yes, yes it does. When Sam and Darcy caught up with a scowling Janet, trying to keep their twinning smiles down, he felt a violent chill slide down his spine, and his breath caught in his throat. What? Like someone was watching them. Him. He had never felt anything quite like this before but he was so sure that was what it was. Oh, not now, gods, please, there had to be powered sugar in his hair, too— And, more importantly, oh, Mother Aphrodite who even was it? Who even could it be? The tingling sensation running down his back could barely be ignored, but he pushed on, trying not to let it show. It probably was not anything serious. Maybe this happened to campers on quests all the time. He could not help but feel like eyes were on him, pouring ice into his skin… Janet finally cracked a smile, knocking her hand against his. He tried to smile back. All right, he would take responsibility for this one. Chiron would tell him that such a mistake (walk into a cafe, sit down after fighting a pack of ten kobaloi who wanted to mess around with the "young-spirited little half-gods", order shakes with your hair still a little singed, and hope that this cliché movie-like scene would not incite more monsters to arrive and mess with their quest) was a rookie one. Well, Sam made rookie mistakes, owned them, and also took responsibility for the fact that this little town cafe was now also run through with flames and spilled drinks due to a blazing, enormous lizard tracing their paths to this very spot. Charmspeak could only get a demigod so far. How was one supposed to charmspeak fire away, again? "Great idea to come to Sharley's Café, Sam, really," Janet drawled, sarcasm clear in every syllable, "I really cannot think of the million other ways we could have avoided this situation – like, I don't know, for instance, taking our shakes for to-go?" "Please zip it, Janet, and give me that jug of water you are so graciously filling, thank you!" She threw it over, him barely catching it. Water sloshed over the rim. Their new lizard friend had been shot and subdued - barely - by Darcy's weave of coreopsis, coneflowers and geranium; all fire-resistant enough that they were not too worried about the creature creaking and groaning in	Pass me that water jug, comrade This day started out like any other. Except, it did not. They were on their way to a quest, not a very often occurrence, so to say it started out like any other day would be telling a flat lie. Just the three of them. Like… All quests did. Apparently. Whatever those old stories and prophecies said. Sam would just have to trust them. "You have two minutes!" Ugh. Loud screeches seven in the blazing cold morning – who even had so much energy barely twenty-and-a-half seconds after the sun rose? Sam barely had his braincells together, his hair looked terrible and unfortunately mussed-up from him falling out of bed due to a previous screechy wake-up call, and his wardrobe had to be re-decided, because he was so not feeling the red for today. Adding on to that, his tiny window was jammed (not a coincidence – Janet had superglued it to stay open, clearly, before yelling the soul out of his body), and, yes, Janet was not-so-covertly hyping him up to, as quoted, "Get the HELL out here!" Well, unlike some people, Janet, most campers have cabin mates who do not consent to also getting yelled at just because they chose the bed next to the sole person on the receiving end of the yelling. Goodness. She had not shame. None at all. His half-siblings would, judging from their sleepy glares being directed at him this very moment, roast him to smithereens if they were not trying to salvage the last few minutes of sleep before they were also forced to get up. He would be nice this time. Let them get their very important beauty sleep – because that was what big brothers did. Obviously, he did not also make a habit of yelling his cabin-mates up five minutes after dawn. Nope. "Shhh!" He shot out the window, while wrestling with whether the blue or deep beige— oh, nevermind, just put it all on, it will all get covered in monster goo or whatever, Sam, get your act together— "One. Minute." Her tone barely missed out on the exclamation mark at the end, but Sam was open to mentally marking it with one. "I've already packed, I'll be out soon!" Yes, yes, he could do this, this quest would go smoothly and they would be back so soon no one would even— When he rushed out, hair barely combed and bag slung over a wrinkled sweater, he was met with a raised eyebrow and a slight smirk. Ugh. He hated that look. "Thought you said you were thinking of that fuzzy red coat for today," Janet remarked, eyeing his layered mess of clothes. Sam scowled at her. "Wasn't feeling that colour," he off-handedly replied, running a hand through his hair. Hopefully not many others were already up this early, he did not want to be seen so disgruntled and in such disarray. Being a camp counsellor had three perks and a million downsides – including being picked on for being over-critical when they themselves were even a little out of line. Even if it was by a stray hair. "Where's Darcy?" Janet shrugged. "Must still be in the gardens." "She can't be taking too much longer, can she?" He was proven right when their gardener friend tripped over herself rushing to their side, some soil decorating her boots, not one minute later. "Sorry! I was dealing with those enchanted weeds. We've yet to come up with a name for them but they're really getting on my nerves." "Anyone going to manage that while we're away?" Janet inquired, frowning. Her dark bangs shifted a little with her head moving. Sam suddenly noticed that she had left in the ebony ear piercings from her impromptu dress-up session from yesterday (don't ask), and kind of felt like congratulating himself. "Well, I'm not the Demeter cabin counsellor, so I don't really handle all those scheduling things," Darcy said, shaking the soil off her boots, "but Mari said she has everything handled, including the weeds, before I went to bed yesterday, so it'll probably be fine." "That's good," Sam offered. Darcy shrugged in response, sighing. About two seconds of nothing passed, in which nerves really started to gather in his gut, before Janet spoke up again, taking up her position as their quest leader. "So! I guess we'll be setting off, huh?" She was already walking off, and Sam was quick to follow, Darcy beside him. "Feels kinda weird to just be… leaving," Sam said, wincing. "If Argus isn't waiting for us beyond the barrier, can we really quickly rush back so no one notices we're gone, like, at all?" Janet turned around and eyed him again, pausing in her footsteps. This time, she looked like she was contemplating his entire existence. Sam felt rather dwarfed. "…There's probably better things to worry about, Sam." Then she was off walking, again. When Sam felt more nerves gather in his gut, he turned to Darcy for help, but she just shrugged her big, famed shrug back at him. "Besides," Janet added, this time keeping her eyes forward, "We already got a prophecy from Rachel. Aren't you excited to figure out that mess of words?" Nope. Nope. No, he was not. Seriously, Janet. Janet had jinxed them. Was there any doubt to distinguish that thought? Nope, none at all, because the moment Janet had asked for a doughnut and then dared to claim that there were no malicious spirits in the baked confection because, oh, "that would be so absurd, Sam, what are you on about", instead of there being no monsters present in the first two hours of their relatively low-stakes quest, there appeared a seven-foot-tall shadowy monster wearing a half-chewed doughnut as a hat growling at them. For what, only the creature itself knew, because Sam's braincells for the day we're only half-gathered. Not that anyone had to know that, obviously. Sam almost felt bad for enraging that shadowy creature (was it a hellhound?), mostly because it looked kind of like a dog, and hell-spawn-like or not, dogs were dogs. However, Janet did not seem to share the same sentiment, because— "I was NOT done with that doughnut, silly!" She was not even trying to attack the monster, with how she was merely gesturing madly at it with the tip of her bow. Her arrow case was still closed. At least, she did not seem to want to fight it, but she could do with some calming down, because they could always get another doughnut. Also, the dog had only jumped out at them after they had stolen (read: half-eaten) its hiding spot. Maybe it just needed a squeaky toy to calm down. Janet's hair was more unruly than usual – there was even powered sugar on one side. That did not help to make her look menacing, but Sam's friend could dream. Sam wondered, suddenly, just how they had managed to get on that bus ride with no casualties if demigods were monster magnets. Sure, only two out of three of them were kids of the Super Major Gods, but that was plenty enough. Even a drop of god blood detected in any poor demigod was apparently enough to send invitations to every old monster two miles away from the demigod's current location. Then he figured that they had just been lucky enough. Unfortunately for them, Janet Worthington had decided that she would be here, with them, with her penance for occasional bad luck. Only occasional, after all. Darcy was at Sam's side in the next blink. "Do we, like, run?" She looked pretty unsure. Sam could not help but feel the same, even if he was older than them. "Janet seems to really want her doughnut back," Sam noted. He was then cut off. "I give up on that doughnut, we are going!" And so they were… going. When they turned around, the chilly atmosphere and glowering darkness crawling along the pavement suddenly disappeared, and something soft hit the ground. There was a pretty innocent 'woof'. Sam was too afraid to turn back around to check where it had come from. See? Never choose violence, kids. Everything works out in the end. Yes, yes it does. When Sam and Darcy caught up with a scowling Janet, trying to keep their twinning smiles down, he felt a violent chill slide down his spine, and his breath caught in his throat. What? Like someone was watching them. Him. He had never felt anything quite like this before but he was so sure that was what it was. Oh, not now, gods, please, there had to be powered sugar in his hair, too— And, more importantly, oh, Mother Aphrodite who even was it? Who even could it be? The tingling sensation running down his back could barely be ignored, but he pushed on, trying not to let it show. It probably was not anything serious. Maybe this happened to campers on quests all the time. He could not help but feel like eyes were on him, pouring ice into his skin… Janet finally cracked a smile, knocking her hand against his. He tried to smile back. All right, he would take responsibility for this one. Chiron would tell him that such a mistake (walk into a cafe, sit down after fighting a pack of ten kobaloi who wanted to mess around with the "young-spirited little half-gods", order shakes with your hair still a little singed, and hope that this cliché movie-like scene would not incite more monsters to arrive and mess with their quest) was a rookie one. Well, Sam made rookie mistakes, owned them, and also took responsibility for the fact that this little town cafe was now also run through with flames and spilled drinks due to a blazing, enormous lizard tracing their paths to this very spot. Charmspeak could only get a demigod so far. How was one supposed to charmspeak fire away, again? "Great idea to come to Sharley's Café, Sam, really," Janet drawled, sarcasm clear in every syllable, "I really cannot think of the million other ways we could have avoided this situation – like, I don't know, for instance, taking our shakes for to-go?" "Please zip it, Janet, and give me that jug of water you are so graciously filling, thank you!" She threw it over, him barely catching it. Water sloshed over the rim. Their new lizard friend had been shot and subdued - barely - by Darcy's weave of coreopsis, coneflowers and geranium; all fire-resistant enough that they were not too worried about the creature creaking and groaning in the corner of the shop, strangled by flowers, while they attempted to clean up after themselves. Sam wondered absently if the Mist would save the mortals who had been in here some trauma (they had run, some screaming about a huge, flaming refrigerator running around as though possessed. Kind of strange, but at least they had a sense of survival). The huge lizard had yet to be destroyed completely, but they had to worry about the fire first, since the monster could always reform – they could not. Some flames burst out, nearly catching his side, but he sidestepped easily, putting it out with a careful tilting of the jug in one wide swipe. Steam rose from the ground. Sam hurriedly pushed his hair back, hoping he would not have it all burnt from blonde to void-black before the end of this quest. That would suck. "That milkshake better be world-ending!" Janet added over her shoulder, already filling up another jug behind the counter. A few plants, high above the chaos, waved their drinks, and Sam shook his head up at them. Darcy must be managing the flames better than they were on her side of the shop if she could be waving at them. More flames erupted, though, with every one they put out, and Sam felt that their impending deadline-slash-doom was soon to arrive in another fiery explosion… Whether they got to have their shakes after this or not. It felt like they would be going at this for longer than they spent actually ticking the actual agenda of their quest. That was, before, yes, Explosion Number Two came. In the form of a powerful, twitchy minor god. Oh, gods of Olympus. The god was tall. Covered in flames, too, to the point that it was clear that the flames were coming from him. At the same time, in those five seconds the three of them blinked at the oncoming being, ice, cold and paralysing, shot up Sam's entire form, and he visibly shivered, hugging himself, despite the sweltering heat showering them all with a golden glow and burning hazards. Eyes, burning gold. Those eyes that must have been following him after they met that shadow-dog. A sense of foreboding clenched him tight, making it hard to think. Darcy had run back to their corner of the place, brows furrowed. Her pigtails were tangled up with some stems, and leaves were growing out of her bag. She rushed to Sam's side, Janet abandoning the jug at the counter for her bow and some arrows to also join the pair, stepping a little further out in front of them, probably to give a semblence of protection like she always did. Wow, the three of them, together. Again. Pretty powerless against this weird, glowing, fiery god, but at least Sam felt better about their combined odds. Janet had her photokinesis, Darcy had her flora-manipulation, and he had his charmspeak and a few throwing knives, perfect for— "Samuel Littman," the god drew out, his voice surprisingly young, a low smirk on his face. How…concerning. Oh, and was that a full name? Gods, he was not even the leader of this quest, he should not be getting all this attention. Not that he wanted Janet in his place. "Finally, you stay in one spot for more than two blasted minutes." Sam fidgeted uneasily where he was on Janet's left, swallowing. His throat felt really dry – what he would not do for that shake being held up by Darcy's plants right now. "Should— Should I know you?" Sheesh. Creep of an immortal being, sends a giant, flaming lizard over to thrash a café, burns up that café, and leers at a son of Aphrodite in the remains of the café – how unoriginal. As he readied himself for what was probably going to be another fight, except in a fire-strewn café this time, they all jumped upon the startling slam of what sounded like a car door being closed hastily. Even the god narrowed his eyes and turned around. Just outside the ruined cafe, in the carpark of the stripmall, there was a car with some dents on the hood, and some… guy… striding straight towards them, seemingly unafraid of the flames. He looked almost disgruntled, his dark hair falling over his face messily. "Uh," Sam voiced out, honestly super confused as to how they had ended up in this blend of a situation. Yeah, he was ready to walk straight back to camp, quest completed or not. The god turned back to face him, glaring, and— And before they knew it, the flames were put out in a sudden mass-drop of water from the top of the café, the pipes in the ceiling had burst, they were all sopping wet and the huge lizard in the corner was literally drowning in the new pool of water created. Sam blinked, pushing his hair out of his face, not even angry enough about how wet he now was when all he could feel was shock. And some ever-lasting confusion. He had nearly dropped his knives. As he watched, the water gathered, being sucked from around their feet to a whirling ball of powerful, churning blue under the palm of none other than their mystery figure, who had somehow remained perfectly dry throughout the three seconds of flash-flooding the cafe had just underwent. The man, barely looking twenty, raised a very expressive eyebrow, first at the god, then at their lizard friend, then at the three of them. The god took a step back from the man. Weird. Huh. He was very clearly waiting for an explanation, but it seemed that the young man decided to take pity on them, because he started speaking anyway, breaking the silence. "First I get a fire alert, and then some mortals screaming about a huge, fire-spewing fridge, and now I see that their claims were not so far off! And here I was, thinking I could get a break this month for once." Sam kind of felt as though he were being reprimanded, despite the exasperated smile on the dude's face. Was this guy - very possibly a half-god like them - some sort of Chiron-two-point-o or something? It could explain his age and… control over water… Wait. Wait a godsdarn moment. Okay, now his braincells were working. Uh oh. The young man's piercing green eyes suddenly felt very, very familiar. "We're on a… quest, if you know what that is," Janet perked up, narrowed eyes directed at the man. "… Should we know you?" "Maybe," the man shrugged, stuffing his hands in his long, green coat pockets. The ball of water remained churning and floating. "A whole lot of people know me, fortunately, and unfortunately." He eyed the god, somehow looking almost disapproving. "I'm afraid you're going in the latter category, bro." The god spluttered. "Do not "bro" me, Jackson!" Jackson. Yup. Yup. That only confirmed Sam's suspicions. This day was moving way too quickly for his taste. "Okay, since you three are on a quest," the man said to Janet, promptly ignoring the god, who glared at him in response, "Can you tell me one thing? On a scale of one to ten, just how important is it for you three to take this god down yourselves?" He pointed with a thumb at the god, who looked furious at the implication that he could be defeated by some teenagers. "Because I have already beat him up before and would love to do it again." "We don't know him," Janet said quickly. Sam nodded, unsure, while Darcy shrugged. "Please beat him up so we can fix Sam's mother's chariot with a magic artifact." "Seriously?" Sam hissed at her. Oh, she did not have to expand on the contents of their quest. Janet patted his shoulder, which made him very conscious of just how wet they all still were. He shook both his hands towards the ground, grimacing, some droplets getting flicked off. The water-controlling probably-demigod winced at that, and brought his hands out of his pockets, flicking one of them. A second later found the three of them dry and warm, the god still sopping wet and no longer burning away like a very persistent matchstick. Sam figured that was done out of spite. The young man turned to face the god, contemplating him with an unreadable expression in those green eyes, shot through, now Sam noticed, with a wavering, twinkling blue. They were rather dazzling. "What did I say about stalking young demigods who really don't want to be followed around, Heffron?" The man finally said, crossing his arms. Huh. That was not a name Sam recognised. Also, what? Heffron, the god, for his credit, merely scowled under the man's gaze and stood his height. Like all creepy gods, clearly he had no qualms about… stalking young demigods. What the hell. "That you would pull the ground out from under my feet if I were to do that again?" Clearly, the god had not been beat up enough before if there could be so much sarcasm in those few words. "Thank you for removing the cuss words I definitely remember adding in, but there really was no need," the man shot back. His fingers did a little tap-wave on his other arm. Then, he sighed. "I swear, if I see you again, I am not letting you go, like, at all." He took a step right into Heffron's personal godly space, leaning right in. "And I swear, whatever you were planning on doing with Sam, you would barely find yourself even touching him before I ripped the arm out of your socket." Then he was stepping away, an easy, albeit slightly dark smile on his face. Also, wow, he knew Sam's name. However he had gotten it. "You don't touch the kids, you got that? They're under a whole lot of protection, whether or not you know it." The man continued, still, even as he adjusted his coat, not quite looking at any of them. "In fact, if you want to follow anyone around, why not try following me?" It was a threat. It was, really, it was. Underlying and barely there, but with how dark the churning in the young man's eyes had gotten, it was intended. Definitely. The ball of water, which Sam had nearly forgotten about, evaporated into thin air with a wave of the man's now outstretched arm. Heffron eyed the young man, his golden, glowing eyes narrowed, but betraying his unease even with how the colour covered all of his two eyes. "Until we meet again, sea-spawn." "Get out," the man offered. The god was gone in an instant, leaving glowing, orange sparks behind, flying around the café. Sam shuddered, still feeling some phantom icicles crawling down his back. He turned to them, trying for a smile. "…Hey there. You three got a quest leader?" Uhm. So were they going to ignore all that had just happened? Wow. Okay, okay. This should be something perfectly normal, then. To experience during quests, specifically. "Me," Janet responded immediately, but still cautiously. "By the way, you seem really familiar." The man hummed. He seemed perfectly fine with that, so Sam filled in the rest of the puzzle for his friend. "Are you Percy Jackson?" Janet swore, startling him, still staring straight at the guy. Her bow was lowered slowly, almost awkwardly. How nonchalant. Sam would cover Darcy's ears if not for Janet standing between the two. The young man let out a laugh at that. "You got me – name's Percy." His hands went back in his pockets, and he let out a breath. Sam felt himself relax, too. "You may have heard of me before. Or not, hopefully. Building on impressions is a feat I am never going to be up for." Janet seemed shell-shocked. Sam would laugh at her expression if he was not also feeling the same way. Darcy, meanwhile, seemed perfectly happy to wave at Percy. "Soooo," Ariana, Sam's one and only older sister in this whole cabin, said, wriggling her eyebrows, clearly waiting for a continuation of his explanation. Sam sighed, adjusting himself in the heap of heart-shaped pillows and silky blankets, pushing back his wavy hair to sit behind his ears. Some curls popped out anyway. "So," Sam replied, readying himself, then just pausing to breathe in. "Ugh. So. Uh. She kissed me. We fixed the chariot. Blah blah blah. The end. Happy?" "I think your charmspeak is really cool!" Izel piped up, crawling forwards to sit beside him. Sam gasped, feeling his face burn. "Izel, you were not supposed to hear that," Sam said slowly, inching away from his little sister. She grinned. "Any of that. Like, no." Way too many of his other cabin-mates turned their heads in perfect synchronisation towards him at those words, looking plain guilty. Somehow, they had all congregated a little closer to him this the twenty minutes he had been pouring his heart out to his older sister, and he had not noticed. Sam gasped again, shaking his head, trying to look reproachful. "Seriously, you all." "Damn," Ariana remarked. Sam set his death glare on her, and she raised her hands, setting down the blush she had been fiddling with. "I'm sure they were only curious, Sammy." "Half the cabin is in here, Ana," Sam groaned, hiding his face in his hands. Then came the campfire, and Sam's escape from his teasing sister and eavesdropping cabin-mates. It was maybe half-past seven, the fire was already reaching the heavens with how mad high and bright pink it had gotten, and he was the last few to get to the amphitheatre because he had been waiting for a certain someone. Dumb, giggly emotions threatened to erupt in his gut, and he let them. Just a little. Janet's hand slid into his easily, her shoulder bumping into his, and there was the rabbit in his gut again, jumping up and down, making squeaking noises, causing a rampage and great gods he had never felt so high and floaty before then. He could feel, more than see, Janet's smirk. They sat down beside Darcy – not normal camp seating arrangements, but who cares, they were celebrating the three of them, at least a little. Finally, three demigods return from a quest with no casualties or the message of impending doom and carnage, and also manage to make the gods happy again. Although, Sam had a feeling that Aphrodite had never cared about the chariot getting fixed in the first place, if her eyes twinkling at their intertwined fingers before they had even reached the busted chariot had been any indication. Well, gods could have all sorts of weird motives. As long as they, demigods who merely wanted to live as old as possible, were not smited, then… cool. The flames did a little dance when they joined, turning a little green, for that pretty cool-warm gradient. Sam jumped, mind nearly going to the café they had pretty much gotten burned down, but he breathed out slowly, forcing himself to calm down. For naught. Because now there was a guy in a long green coat and a black sweater sliding in behind them, looking right at home. His sea green eyes twinkled, the fire only helping to illuminate the strange glow they always seemed to possess. Sam eyed him – Percy only seemed to near the trio with a little shift to the left, fitting right in with the small group. Oh. Wow. Uhm. At least this was a less stressful surprise. Janet, about to say something to Sam, instead let out a sudden swear when she turned her head to the side, hand dropping back down to her lap, looking away from Percy quickly. Somehow, though, Darcy seemed to find the presence of their newest friend yet completely normal. Darcy, somehow having formed a handshake with the twenty-ish-year-old without any of their knowledge (maybe when they had turned away to discuss their next few steps while standing in the wreckage of the café?), executed it behind Sam and Janets' backs, making them lean over with a shared eye-roll. Percy breathed a laugh after the two could lean back again, the low-force wind blowing his dark hair around. "Didn't think I'd be back here so early into break, but I wanted to check on you guys." Sam looked around the amphitheatre, which was brimming with chatter, and a humming sense of anticipation. He wondered if anyone had noticed Percy already – possibly not many, since the campfire would probably go mad with greens and blues with the campers' excitement. Sam, being the literally empathic individual he was, could tell anyone a list of ten whole campers who had the biggest, fattest crush on their resident Saviour of Olympus – complete with the one instance each person had or had not met Percy but fell in love with the idea of him in the first two minutes of them knowing of his existence. Regardless, too, of the fact that Percy had a girlfriend who could kick ass as cool as he could. Maybe even cooler. Definitely, actually. No one could possibly say less of Annabeth Chase. Percy shifted just the slightest, and Sam realised with heat rising between his eyes that those might not the best thoughts to have right next to the subject himself. Sam sat up straighter. "You've really got your timing on right, then. We just got back." "Yeah, it's a funny sense that I have," Percy whispered, as though he were sharing a secret with the three of them. "Wow," Darcy breathed. "Why are we whispering?" Janet cut in, also low-voiced. Sam felt her breath on his neck, and a rush of flurrying motion tumbled through him, leaving him blushing. "Because it's fun," Sam replied, tone shifting a little closer to a stage-whisper. "Also, uh, Percy, it kind of feels like you're trespassing with that huge cloak and black sweater – us lesser beings don orange for the days and nights, you know." "Ah, yes, you're helping the trespasser get around," Percy said, mock appalled. "Next thing you know Chiron will find out and horse-kick me out." What a mental image to have. "…Would he really?" Darcy asked, leaning her head against a fist. "No, he already knows I'm here," Percy assured them, his smile turning more fond as he stared at the campfire. Sam was very suddenly reminded of the fact that Percy Jackson was older than every single camper in this amphitheatre, and was on teasing-basis with their old centaur mentor. Not quite knowing what he was planning on saying, Sam said, with a laugh,"Uh, you know, my siblings still ask for bedtime stories involving your adventures." Percy turned to him, aghast, but with a little twitch to his lips, like he also wanted to smile. "That's… What kind of stories?" "They'll ask about anything that they think happened, and by the time it's cleared up, they're falling asleep," Janet clarified. Percy still looked half-mortified-half-proud, which Janet met with a rather creepy slow-smile. "Oh, yeah, just to clarify—" she leant forward, over Sam, "—you ever blow a hole into the armoury because you very specifically were attempting to get a bullseye in the archery range with a flaming apple stuck on an arrow?" "…I characterise that under 'I did not mean to do that'," Percy said slowly. Janet leant back into her spot, pushing her elbows down on Sam's thighs to get up. Again, dumbly, something buzzed in his gut at the contact. Meanwhile, Janet gave a nod, her eyes narrowed. "Figures you were once just like any of us trouble-makers-in-the-making. Crazy how I used to have, like, the biggest crush on you." Sam kept a straight face, not letting the flashbacks of those… awestruck days come to mind. Darcy was looking away pointedly, eyes wide and looking ready to bolt. Maybe she had something to confess too, hmm. Not that Sam would know, of course. Percy made a strangled noise, sounding like he had attempted to acknowledge that with a hum-turned-concerned-shout. His green eyes did a glance-around before coming back to rest on them. "…Is it ethical of me to keep sitting here?" "Yes!" Janet answered, somehow cheerful. "You should give me your autograph or something. The other Iris kids would never believe me if you leave without anyone noticing tonight." Sam knew, deep within, Janet was jumping at the chance of a semblance of an autograph from Percy Jackson. He still remembered those days. No amount of character development was going to pull Janet's history out of that hole. "Maybe next time I'll come in orange," Percy said as he handed back the crumpled-up receipt to Janet, a fresh marker-drawn scrawl on it. She tried, Sam could tell, to be chill and stuff it back into her jeans pocket, but he could nearly see the excitement in her go mad. "I'm pretty sure my old camp shirt is drying on a rack right now." Right then, just before Janet began to say something back, the clopping of hooves against tarmac could be heard echoing off the sides of the amphitheatre, along with a slight clearing of the throat, just as amplified. Chiron was here, and was probably going to start off the night with announcing the success of another small quest. They had even figured out their prophecy on the journey – see, Rachel's belief in them had been well-founded. "Attention, campers!" The chatter ceased, just a little. "News may have reached your side of this camp before tonight, but let us welcome back the three questers of last week!" Chiron raised his arm towards their general direction. "Samuel Littman, Darcy Clayton, and their quest leader, Janet Worthington!" A roar of applause and whoops came by their direction, everyone turning in their places to face them. That was broken by some guy with long white sleeves shouting, "Yo, is that Percy Jackson?" There were some exclamations, and the crowd nearly tripped over themselves to spot the mentioned person – not that it could be that hard, seeing as Percy was one lone figure wearing dark, muddy colours next to vibrantly orange-donning teenagers. Maybe Percy was starting to blend in with the falling colours of the night. Chiron's arm wavered in the air for a few seconds before he slowly lowered it, shrugging. "And Percy has come to visit, I suppose." Percy gave a weak wave.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75738221	{"authors": ["azurie_willow_0005"], "language": "English", "title": "Pass me that water jug, comrade"}
Heirs Of Ashes The scent of rain slipped in through the open window, mingling with the warmth of the apartment. It carried with it the faint earthy tang of wet pavement and the distant hum of the city. The sage-scented omega moved slowly, letting the cool air settle in his chest. His fingers paused against the glass of a framed photograph—his younger self, small and smiling, wrapped in his mother’s arms. For a moment, the apartment felt suspended in time, a fragile bubble that hadn’t shifted in six long years. Gao Tu exhaled softly, the sound almost drowned by the quiet patter of rain against the glass. He lifted the frame and wrapped it in his favorite bunny blanket, the one his mother had sewn by hand. The fabric was worn, soft, familiar beneath his fingers. He ran his thumb over the stitches, tracing them like a lifeline, as if it still had the scent of his mother, as if the act alone could anchor him to what had once been safe and whole. He folded it carefully, deliberately, each crease a silent promise: he would remember, he would protect, he would not let her legacy fade. The last of his clothes disappeared into his bag, folded neatly in a rhythm he had cultivated during his years abroad. Six years. That was how long it had been since he’d truly returned home. Most visits had been brief—his mother’s grave, a few days with his sister, the occasional appearance at the company. Never long enough to settle. Never long enough to matter. His father had made that clear in ways both sharp and subtle—comments that lingered like shadows in the corners of rooms, the quiet disapproval of meals and meetings. Gao Tu’s mouth curved faintly at the thought. Omega like his mother, not a strong alpha like his father, his sister was sweeter but an alpha as well sister. Sometimes the word felt heavy. Sometimes absurd. Still, he was relieved. This time, he wasn’t leaving. This time, he would stay. Maybe—if he allowed himself to hope—he would build something of his own. Something shaped by care, by intention. Something like his mother’s company once had been. Lapin Pharma. One of the biggest pharmaceutical companies in Jianghu. The other being Loup Pharma another big pharmaceutical company. He zipped his bag shut and crossed to the window. Switzerland stretched before him, rain-slicked and quiet. Europe had always been their dream. He had made it here for her. Even if she never got to see it. His gaze lingered on the distant peaks, the valleys veiled in mist. Somewhere beneath that vast expanse, life had continued without him. And yet, the thought of returning—of finally planting himself somewhere he could belong—brought a cautious warmth that he hadn’t felt in years. The thought lingered, sharp and unwelcome. Her death—so sudden, so unresolved—pressed against him when he least expected it. Images flashed in his mind: the hospital corridor, sterile and white; her voice, soft and patient, explaining some small detail of the company; the last cup of tea they had shared together. Each memory a pang, each memory a tether pulling him home. Gao Tu straightened, gently pushing it aside. He wheeled his suitcase out, returned the keys, and took a taxi to the airport. The streets blurred past in the rain, lights shimmering on wet asphalt. He let the motion soothe him, a temporary distraction from the quiet ache that had nested in his chest. ---------------‐------------------------- By the time he arrived in Jianghu, exhaustion weighed heavy, but the familiar earthy scent of the city wrapped around him like a welcome. Peace settled in his chest. He adjusted the patch he appiled in the airportwashroom before hailing another taxi, this one taking him to a modest apartment tucked away from the city’s bustle. The space was simple. Semi-furnished. Quiet. Empty enough to feel like a canvas, yet familiar enough that he imagined it already carrying fragments of memory—perhaps one day, laughter too. His sage scent still hidden behind the patch, but he wonders what it would be like to walk in and had the slight lingering of his scent still in the apartment. He set his suitcases by the door, slipped off his shoes, and unwrapped the photo. He placed it carefully on the kitchen counter, angling it so her smile faced the room. The soft light of morning caught her eyes in the photograph, almost as if they were alive, almost as if she were watching him settle back into the life she had always wanted for him. “Soon,” he whispered. That night, he showered, took his patch off, ate takeout straight from the container, and let sleep claim him. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to dream, brief and quiet—of safety, of purpose, of a home that was finally his own. --------------------------- By the time morning arrived, Jianghu’s air had settled into its usual rhythm—humid, earthy, and tinged with faint smoke from the street vendors who had already begun setting up. The city smelled alive, messy, comforting. Gao Tu' scent naturally mixing in, he drew it in through his nose as he dressed, the familiar musk grounding him. Today wasn’t a day for lingering; today was the anniversary of his mother’s death. He moved slowly, deliberately, as if stretching the morning into something manageable. He carefully gathered the things he had prepared: a small bundle of rosemary, fresh flowers, a few candles that had survived the journey from Switzerland. Each item felt like a fragment of him, a tether to the woman who had taught him the value of care, of precision, of principle. The cemetery was quiet. Mist lingered among the graves, curling around headstones like a soft gray sea. Gao Tu knelt, brushing away debris from her grave. The damp earth resisted at first, clinging to his fingers, then yielded. He laid down the rosemary, the scent rising in delicate, familiar waves. The candles flickered despite the drizzle, and for a moment, he imagined her presence in the soft light. He spoke then, not out loud, but softly, intimately, as though she were the only audience he had ever truly trusted. He told her about Switzerland—about the small apartment he had taken, the quiet evenings alone, the taste of rain on the mountains. He spoke about coming home, about how tired he was, and how ready. His words felt alive each syllable carried the weight of determination and his sage scent mixing in with the rosemary. Footsteps approached. His sister arrived quietly, the faint rustle of fabric and scent of mint breaking the silence. She didn’t speak at first, simply folding him into a tight embrace. Warmth pressed against him as their scents mingled together, and a laugh slipped from his heart-shaped lips. Together, they lingered, sharing the small comforts of memory and presence. They spoke of work, of life, of the smallest details their mother would have wanted to hear. Their father never came. Neither of them mentioned it. Afterward, his sister insisted that his apartment needed “life,” dragging him through shops with purpose and playful insistence. They bought a few decorations, far more groceries than necessary, and enough snacks to last weeks. She hummed while arranging items on shelves; he watched, letting the motion calm him. For a while, everything felt light. Laughter lingered like dust motes in the air, the kind that caught the sun just right. Their secondary gender mixing in well as both of their scent filled his apartment in happiness. Neither of them noticed how fragile that happiness was. --------------------------- The next morning, Gao Tu picked up the newspaper. The headline stared back in unforgiving black ink: “CEO of Lapin Pharma Arrested Amid Financial Scandal — Company Faces Uncertain Future.” His fingers tightened around the paper, knuckles paling. "Gao Ming, CEO of Lapin Pharma, had been arrested early this morning following an extensive investigation into financial misconduct. Authorities reported that international investor funds had been misused in high-risk gambling ventures during an ongoing recession. Further findings revealed falsified stability reports and illegal stock sales intended to conceal mounting debt." Gao Tu’s jaw clenched, the muscles stiff under his skin. His heart beat steadily, each pulse measured and deliberate, as if calibrating him for the storm he could feel in the distance. "Once praised for its ethical standards and family-safe pharmaceuticals, Lapin Pharma now faced severe backlash. Market analysts predicted a rapid decline in investor confidence, with several shareholders already withdrawing support." His breath slowed, deliberate, as he reached the next paragraph. "Industry insiders questioned whether Lapin Pharma could recover from the damage. “Trust is everything in pharmaceuticals,” one analyst stated. “And trust, once broken, is difficult to rebuild.”" The paper trembled slightly in his hands. Gao Tu lowered it to the table, staring at nothing as the words echoed inside him. Trust. Ethics. Safety. Everything his mother had built—reduced to a cautionary headline. His mother’s voice, calm and unwavering, seemed to whisper in the spaces between letters, reminding him why shortcuts were never acceptable, why integrity mattered more than profit. His expression didn’t break. But something in his eyes dimmed, then sharpened, flickering with a quiet fire. His sage scent no longer had a temple like smell it was much harsher, more angry, more potent. The tablet on the counter buzzed. He didn’t want to look. He did anyway. News notifications flooded the screen: Breaking News: Lapin Pharma stocks plummet 37% in early trading Trending: #LapinScandal #CEOArrested #OmegaHeir #CEOofLapin Conspiracy: Was Lapin’s downfall inevitable after its founder’s death? His throat tightened at the last headline. He opened social media. “Can’t believe I used to trust Lapin meds for my kids.” “Another ‘ethical’ company exposed. Same story.” “Isn’t the CEO’s son an omega? Yeah, that checks out.” “They should just shut the company down	Heirs Of Ashes The scent of rain slipped in through the open window, mingling with the warmth of the apartment. It carried with it the faint earthy tang of wet pavement and the distant hum of the city. The sage-scented omega moved slowly, letting the cool air settle in his chest. His fingers paused against the glass of a framed photograph—his younger self, small and smiling, wrapped in his mother’s arms. For a moment, the apartment felt suspended in time, a fragile bubble that hadn’t shifted in six long years. Gao Tu exhaled softly, the sound almost drowned by the quiet patter of rain against the glass. He lifted the frame and wrapped it in his favorite bunny blanket, the one his mother had sewn by hand. The fabric was worn, soft, familiar beneath his fingers. He ran his thumb over the stitches, tracing them like a lifeline, as if it still had the scent of his mother, as if the act alone could anchor him to what had once been safe and whole. He folded it carefully, deliberately, each crease a silent promise: he would remember, he would protect, he would not let her legacy fade. The last of his clothes disappeared into his bag, folded neatly in a rhythm he had cultivated during his years abroad. Six years. That was how long it had been since he’d truly returned home. Most visits had been brief—his mother’s grave, a few days with his sister, the occasional appearance at the company. Never long enough to settle. Never long enough to matter. His father had made that clear in ways both sharp and subtle—comments that lingered like shadows in the corners of rooms, the quiet disapproval of meals and meetings. Gao Tu’s mouth curved faintly at the thought. Omega like his mother, not a strong alpha like his father, his sister was sweeter but an alpha as well sister. Sometimes the word felt heavy. Sometimes absurd. Still, he was relieved. This time, he wasn’t leaving. This time, he would stay. Maybe—if he allowed himself to hope—he would build something of his own. Something shaped by care, by intention. Something like his mother’s company once had been. Lapin Pharma. One of the biggest pharmaceutical companies in Jianghu. The other being Loup Pharma another big pharmaceutical company. He zipped his bag shut and crossed to the window. Switzerland stretched before him, rain-slicked and quiet. Europe had always been their dream. He had made it here for her. Even if she never got to see it. His gaze lingered on the distant peaks, the valleys veiled in mist. Somewhere beneath that vast expanse, life had continued without him. And yet, the thought of returning—of finally planting himself somewhere he could belong—brought a cautious warmth that he hadn’t felt in years. The thought lingered, sharp and unwelcome. Her death—so sudden, so unresolved—pressed against him when he least expected it. Images flashed in his mind: the hospital corridor, sterile and white; her voice, soft and patient, explaining some small detail of the company; the last cup of tea they had shared together. Each memory a pang, each memory a tether pulling him home. Gao Tu straightened, gently pushing it aside. He wheeled his suitcase out, returned the keys, and took a taxi to the airport. The streets blurred past in the rain, lights shimmering on wet asphalt. He let the motion soothe him, a temporary distraction from the quiet ache that had nested in his chest. ---------------‐------------------------- By the time he arrived in Jianghu, exhaustion weighed heavy, but the familiar earthy scent of the city wrapped around him like a welcome. Peace settled in his chest. He adjusted the patch he appiled in the airportwashroom before hailing another taxi, this one taking him to a modest apartment tucked away from the city’s bustle. The space was simple. Semi-furnished. Quiet. Empty enough to feel like a canvas, yet familiar enough that he imagined it already carrying fragments of memory—perhaps one day, laughter too. His sage scent still hidden behind the patch, but he wonders what it would be like to walk in and had the slight lingering of his scent still in the apartment. He set his suitcases by the door, slipped off his shoes, and unwrapped the photo. He placed it carefully on the kitchen counter, angling it so her smile faced the room. The soft light of morning caught her eyes in the photograph, almost as if they were alive, almost as if she were watching him settle back into the life she had always wanted for him. “Soon,” he whispered. That night, he showered, took his patch off, ate takeout straight from the container, and let sleep claim him. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to dream, brief and quiet—of safety, of purpose, of a home that was finally his own. --------------------------- By the time morning arrived, Jianghu’s air had settled into its usual rhythm—humid, earthy, and tinged with faint smoke from the street vendors who had already begun setting up. The city smelled alive, messy, comforting. Gao Tu' scent naturally mixing in, he drew it in through his nose as he dressed, the familiar musk grounding him. Today wasn’t a day for lingering; today was the anniversary of his mother’s death. He moved slowly, deliberately, as if stretching the morning into something manageable. He carefully gathered the things he had prepared: a small bundle of rosemary, fresh flowers, a few candles that had survived the journey from Switzerland. Each item felt like a fragment of him, a tether to the woman who had taught him the value of care, of precision, of principle. The cemetery was quiet. Mist lingered among the graves, curling around headstones like a soft gray sea. Gao Tu knelt, brushing away debris from her grave. The damp earth resisted at first, clinging to his fingers, then yielded. He laid down the rosemary, the scent rising in delicate, familiar waves. The candles flickered despite the drizzle, and for a moment, he imagined her presence in the soft light. He spoke then, not out loud, but softly, intimately, as though she were the only audience he had ever truly trusted. He told her about Switzerland—about the small apartment he had taken, the quiet evenings alone, the taste of rain on the mountains. He spoke about coming home, about how tired he was, and how ready. His words felt alive each syllable carried the weight of determination and his sage scent mixing in with the rosemary. Footsteps approached. His sister arrived quietly, the faint rustle of fabric and scent of mint breaking the silence. She didn’t speak at first, simply folding him into a tight embrace. Warmth pressed against him as their scents mingled together, and a laugh slipped from his heart-shaped lips. Together, they lingered, sharing the small comforts of memory and presence. They spoke of work, of life, of the smallest details their mother would have wanted to hear. Their father never came. Neither of them mentioned it. Afterward, his sister insisted that his apartment needed “life,” dragging him through shops with purpose and playful insistence. They bought a few decorations, far more groceries than necessary, and enough snacks to last weeks. She hummed while arranging items on shelves; he watched, letting the motion calm him. For a while, everything felt light. Laughter lingered like dust motes in the air, the kind that caught the sun just right. Their secondary gender mixing in well as both of their scent filled his apartment in happiness. Neither of them noticed how fragile that happiness was. --------------------------- The next morning, Gao Tu picked up the newspaper. The headline stared back in unforgiving black ink: “CEO of Lapin Pharma Arrested Amid Financial Scandal — Company Faces Uncertain Future.” His fingers tightened around the paper, knuckles paling. "Gao Ming, CEO of Lapin Pharma, had been arrested early this morning following an extensive investigation into financial misconduct. Authorities reported that international investor funds had been misused in high-risk gambling ventures during an ongoing recession. Further findings revealed falsified stability reports and illegal stock sales intended to conceal mounting debt." Gao Tu’s jaw clenched, the muscles stiff under his skin. His heart beat steadily, each pulse measured and deliberate, as if calibrating him for the storm he could feel in the distance. "Once praised for its ethical standards and family-safe pharmaceuticals, Lapin Pharma now faced severe backlash. Market analysts predicted a rapid decline in investor confidence, with several shareholders already withdrawing support." His breath slowed, deliberate, as he reached the next paragraph. "Industry insiders questioned whether Lapin Pharma could recover from the damage. “Trust is everything in pharmaceuticals,” one analyst stated. “And trust, once broken, is difficult to rebuild.”" The paper trembled slightly in his hands. Gao Tu lowered it to the table, staring at nothing as the words echoed inside him. Trust. Ethics. Safety. Everything his mother had built—reduced to a cautionary headline. His mother’s voice, calm and unwavering, seemed to whisper in the spaces between letters, reminding him why shortcuts were never acceptable, why integrity mattered more than profit. His expression didn’t break. But something in his eyes dimmed, then sharpened, flickering with a quiet fire. His sage scent no longer had a temple like smell it was much harsher, more angry, more potent. The tablet on the counter buzzed. He didn’t want to look. He did anyway. News notifications flooded the screen: Breaking News: Lapin Pharma stocks plummet 37% in early trading Trending: #LapinScandal #CEOArrested #OmegaHeir #CEOofLapin Conspiracy: Was Lapin’s downfall inevitable after its founder’s death? His throat tightened at the last headline. He opened social media. “Can’t believe I used to trust Lapin meds for my kids.” “Another ‘ethical’ company exposed. Same story.” “Isn’t the CEO’s son an omega? Yeah, that checks out.” “They should just shut the company down already.” His hand curled into a fist. Not shaking. Not yet. He scrolled further, forcing himself to see it all—the memes, the speculation, the armchair analysts tearing apart balance sheets they barely understood. The ache behind his ribs deepened. They don’t see what it was. They don’t see her. Gao Tu closed the tablet and leaned back. Images surfaced unbidden—his mother standing in her office, calm and composed. Her voice explaining why safety trials mattered. Why cutting corners was never worth it. His lips pressed into a thin line. “They don’t get to decide this,” he murmured. Slowly, he stood. Fear was there—quiet, coiled—but beneath it, something firmer. The same resolve he had seen in his mother when the company faced its earliest struggles. He lingered in front of the mirror longer than necessary. Neutral colors. Clean lines. Hands smoothing the fabric of his jacket. His reflection stared back—calm, controlled, but his eyes betrayed the fire underneath. Appear steady. Appear composed. Just because he is an omega, it doesn't mean he doesn't have the will and power to fight. He does. He will. Notes and financial summaries lay open on the table. Every number mattered. Every word he spoke today could determine whether Lapin survived—or became a cautionary tale. He paused, touching the folded paper tucked in his jacket pocket—his mother’s notes, her principles: Safety first. Transparency always. People over profit. He drew in a slow breath. “I’ve got this,” he whispered. ---------------- Meanwhile, across Jianghu City… The CEO of Loup reclined in his chair, cigarette between his fingers. The faint, scent of Iris mixing in with a stronger scent of Tuberose lingered in the room, heavy, deliberate. Multiple screens displayed Lapin Pharma’s collapse—stock dips, analyst commentary, social media reactions—each graph a small triumph in his mind, each headline a mark of chaos in someone else’s empire. A S-class alpha watched silently, his posture straight, strong. The room felt alive with tension, a quiet predator pacing before the hunt. “Pathetic.” The voice came from in front of Shen Wenlang. Calm. Dark. Deliberate. It filled the office without demanding attention, yet impossible to ignore. “This is what happens when weakness is allowed to masquerade as kindness,” it continued. A pause, deliberate and slow. The presence of the speaker was commanding, suffocating almost, like smoke curling into every corner. “Lapin was never meant to be run gently. Power requires appetite.” The S-class alpha exhaled softly, watching as the smoke drifting upward in lazy spirals. He remained unreadable, silent, alert. Outside, Jianghu moved on, oblivious to the quiet storm building above its streets—	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75738226	{"authors": ["hereforya"], "language": "English", "title": "Heirs Of Ashes"}
December 13th - Tripping over a Christmas tree into their arms In recent months, you've become quite close with Sebastian and Ominis. Seb even brought you to meet Anne, and the two of you instantly bonded (and you've even befriended the new fifth year, if you're not the MC). As part of the way to celebrate you, the newest addition to the group, Seb and Ominis had recently invited you to the Undercroft, their private sanctuary within Hogwarts. You happen to be in the Undercroft now, helping Sebastian to decorate the place and make it feel more cozy and festive for the holiday season. By some mysterious trickery that you have no care to investigate, Sebastian has managed to procure a full-sized pine tree, which you both have spent the last half hour draping in garland and filling with Christmas bobbles. It looks to be a right proper Christmas tree now, and the sight of it makes the homey space feel even more special. Seb steps back to admire his and your handiwork, a pleased grin splitting his face. "Looks brilliant. I'll go get some more decorations, I've got another box around here somewhere..." he muses almost to himself, already heading for the door to the Undercroft. You hum contentedly in agreement to let him know you're on board with the idea, taking the brief respite in adorning the room to stand closer to a fireplace that Sebastian had asked you to conjure and light a few minutes earlier. The gentle but steady heat is pleasant and you can feel the Christmas spirit growing excitedly within you. Your quiet moment is interrupted almost immediately by the door to the Undercroft swinging open once more. Your head snaps up, assuming that Seb forgot something in here or otherwise needed you for something, but instead, you're met with the sight of Ominis clambering clumsily through the entrance, straightening up with a flourish and smoothing his hair back. "Hey, Ominis," you call softly across the room, alerting him to your presence. He smiles at the knowledge of your company, heading towards you. "Hello. I wish I was able to see the place; I'm sure it looks wonderful. Sebastian told me that the two of youhave been busy. If I'd known you were here, I would've come sooner." He sounds almost disappointed, and the not-so-small part of your heart that holds a fancy for the enchanting blind boy flutters with hope, wanting to believe he regrets you spending so much time alone with Sebastian. You brush off the fantasy that he's jealous and move over to Ominis. His wand is held loosely in his hand, indicating he's not actively using it for navigation. You frown, watching him get increasingly closer to the large tree as he walks towards you. Your stomach drops when you realize that Ominis is absentmindedly relying on his familiar knowledge of the layout of the Undercroft, and essentially hasn't got a clue that there's a simply enormous pine sitting in the center of the room, an obstacle between him and you. "Wait, Ominis, there's a-" You rush forward, attempting to warn him, but it's too late. Ominis stumbles into the tree, and you wince. He pitches forward and you instinctively hold your arms out to catch him. What you misjudge is the amount of momentum Ominis has, and instead of gently steadying himself on your arms, he trips right into your arms, pressing against you in his imbalanced state. Your cheeks flush as your mind goes haywire, responding frantically to the unexpected intimacy of holding your crush in your arms. Ominis' pale cheeks turn a cheery red and he quickly fumbles out of your grasp, though he keeps a hand on your shoulder to keep himself righted. "Goodness, my apologies," Ominis murmurs, voice shaky with embarrassment. "Suppose I can never be too careful with my lack of sight. I can't believe I didn't even think to ask or check if there was anything in my path. I mean, I knew you had decorated." You laugh kindly, your stare fixed on his pale blue eyes. It's one of your favourite perks of your crush being blind: he can't tell when you're obviously staring at him. It's hard to resist sometimes, though. Ominis really is very good-looking. How sad he cannot see it. Ominis seems to have more to say, but he's hesitating. Eventually, he steels himself enough to spit it out. "...Well, and when you talk..." he adds mysteriously, pausing before pressing on, the redness in his cheeks intensifying. "Your voice is rather lovely, and it makes it difficult to focus on other things, such as my surroundings," he confesses. His voice is lowered to barely a whisper by the end, almost inaudible unless you lean in close, so of course, you do. Ominis' breath catches as he senses the distance between the two of you shorten. His grip tightens on your shoulder, and he slowly moves to face his body towards you more directly, tucking his wand away so his other hand is free. Nervously, he reaches out, tentatively feeling up your side for your waist. Once he locates it, he latches on, blushing adorably. You smile, feeling almost drunken on your bliss that this is happening. Careful and slow, so as not to startle him, you wind your arms loosely around his neck. His face tilts down to you, close enough to feel your breath. You blink up at him, heart beating wildly. A moment passes, then two, as you wait for Ominis to actually bend down and kiss you. The silence is awkward now, bordering on unbearable. You're starting to worry that you've totally misread the situation when Ominis' shy voice cuts through your anxiety. "...If you'd like me to kiss you, you're going to have to initiate it," Ominis informs you with a self-deprecating chuckle. "I'm not quite clear onwhere your lips are, exactly. Apologies." You relax at his words, relieved that it wasn't a worse issue, before standing on tiptoe to brush your lips against his. You hover there for a moment before Ominis' arms tighten on your waist and he tugs you up, supporting you against his chest to kiss you. It's a little clumsy, the inexperience on either side clear, but Ominis is thorough and gentle and tender, kissing you with borderline reverence. He shuffles you forward a couple steps, then waits. "Help me sit us down, darling," Ominis requests, breathless against your lips, and you love thatyou're the one who made him sound like that. You guide the both of you back over to a plush loveseat near the fireplace. Ominis hits it with the back of his knees and drops to sitting, pulling you easily onto his lap. You straddle him automatically, and you break away from his kiss with a quiet gasp, cheeks burning. "It helps me know where you are," Ominis protests when you start to slide off his legs, his hands grabbing your hips to hold you in place. You sigh sweetly and tug him in for another heated kiss, hands tangled in his blonde wisps. "...I wish I could see you," Ominis confesses sadly after a couple more kisses. His hands have become slightly bolder, gaining confidence to map out your side. He steers clear of your chest and anywhere near your thighs, not wanting to be inappropriate. You frown, pulling back to cradle his face in your hands. "You can. Just in a different way," you comfort him, pressing loving kisses along his jaw. Ominis shivers. "You feel beautiful," he breathes. "I'm a lucky man. Not many are lined up to kiss the blind Slytherin boy, much less someone as pretty as you." You blush, thumbing his cheek tenderly. Your lips make their way to under his ear. "It's a shame you can't see yourself," you counter, smiling as his hands fist in the back of your robes. "You're so incredibly gorgeous." Ominis literallywhimpers at your words, porcelain cheeks turning bright red as he kisses you eagerly. Huh. Suppose he liked that quite a lot. What a nice early Christmas gift.	December 13th - Tripping over a Christmas tree into their arms In recent months, you've become quite close with Sebastian and Ominis. Seb even brought you to meet Anne, and the two of you instantly bonded (and you've even befriended the new fifth year, if you're not the MC). As part of the way to celebrate you, the newest addition to the group, Seb and Ominis had recently invited you to the Undercroft, their private sanctuary within Hogwarts. You happen to be in the Undercroft now, helping Sebastian to decorate the place and make it feel more cozy and festive for the holiday season. By some mysterious trickery that you have no care to investigate, Sebastian has managed to procure a full-sized pine tree, which you both have spent the last half hour draping in garland and filling with Christmas bobbles. It looks to be a right proper Christmas tree now, and the sight of it makes the homey space feel even more special. Seb steps back to admire his and your handiwork, a pleased grin splitting his face. "Looks brilliant. I'll go get some more decorations, I've got another box around here somewhere..." he muses almost to himself, already heading for the door to the Undercroft. You hum contentedly in agreement to let him know you're on board with the idea, taking the brief respite in adorning the room to stand closer to a fireplace that Sebastian had asked you to conjure and light a few minutes earlier. The gentle but steady heat is pleasant and you can feel the Christmas spirit growing excitedly within you. Your quiet moment is interrupted almost immediately by the door to the Undercroft swinging open once more. Your head snaps up, assuming that Seb forgot something in here or otherwise needed you for something, but instead, you're met with the sight of Ominis clambering clumsily through the entrance, straightening up with a flourish and smoothing his hair back. "Hey, Ominis," you call softly across the room, alerting him to your presence. He smiles at the knowledge of your company, heading towards you. "Hello. I wish I was able to see the place; I'm sure it looks wonderful. Sebastian told me that the two of youhave been busy. If I'd known you were here, I would've come sooner." He sounds almost disappointed, and the not-so-small part of your heart that holds a fancy for the enchanting blind boy flutters with hope, wanting to believe he regrets you spending so much time alone with Sebastian. You brush off the fantasy that he's jealous and move over to Ominis. His wand is held loosely in his hand, indicating he's not actively using it for navigation. You frown, watching him get increasingly closer to the large tree as he walks towards you. Your stomach drops when you realize that Ominis is absentmindedly relying on his familiar knowledge of the layout of the Undercroft, and essentially hasn't got a clue that there's a simply enormous pine sitting in the center of the room, an obstacle between him and you. "Wait, Ominis, there's a-" You rush forward, attempting to warn him, but it's too late. Ominis stumbles into the tree, and you wince. He pitches forward and you instinctively hold your arms out to catch him. What you misjudge is the amount of momentum Ominis has, and instead of gently steadying himself on your arms, he trips right into your arms, pressing against you in his imbalanced state. Your cheeks flush as your mind goes haywire, responding frantically to the unexpected intimacy of holding your crush in your arms. Ominis' pale cheeks turn a cheery red and he quickly fumbles out of your grasp, though he keeps a hand on your shoulder to keep himself righted. "Goodness, my apologies," Ominis murmurs, voice shaky with embarrassment. "Suppose I can never be too careful with my lack of sight. I can't believe I didn't even think to ask or check if there was anything in my path. I mean, I knew you had decorated." You laugh kindly, your stare fixed on his pale blue eyes. It's one of your favourite perks of your crush being blind: he can't tell when you're obviously staring at him. It's hard to resist sometimes, though. Ominis really is very good-looking. How sad he cannot see it. Ominis seems to have more to say, but he's hesitating. Eventually, he steels himself enough to spit it out. "...Well, and when you talk..." he adds mysteriously, pausing before pressing on, the redness in his cheeks intensifying. "Your voice is rather lovely, and it makes it difficult to focus on other things, such as my surroundings," he confesses. His voice is lowered to barely a whisper by the end, almost inaudible unless you lean in close, so of course, you do. Ominis' breath catches as he senses the distance between the two of you shorten. His grip tightens on your shoulder, and he slowly moves to face his body towards you more directly, tucking his wand away so his other hand is free. Nervously, he reaches out, tentatively feeling up your side for your waist. Once he locates it, he latches on, blushing adorably. You smile, feeling almost drunken on your bliss that this is happening. Careful and slow, so as not to startle him, you wind your arms loosely around his neck. His face tilts down to you, close enough to feel your breath. You blink up at him, heart beating wildly. A moment passes, then two, as you wait for Ominis to actually bend down and kiss you. The silence is awkward now, bordering on unbearable. You're starting to worry that you've totally misread the situation when Ominis' shy voice cuts through your anxiety. "...If you'd like me to kiss you, you're going to have to initiate it," Ominis informs you with a self-deprecating chuckle. "I'm not quite clear onwhere your lips are, exactly. Apologies." You relax at his words, relieved that it wasn't a worse issue, before standing on tiptoe to brush your lips against his. You hover there for a moment before Ominis' arms tighten on your waist and he tugs you up, supporting you against his chest to kiss you. It's a little clumsy, the inexperience on either side clear, but Ominis is thorough and gentle and tender, kissing you with borderline reverence. He shuffles you forward a couple steps, then waits. "Help me sit us down, darling," Ominis requests, breathless against your lips, and you love thatyou're the one who made him sound like that. You guide the both of you back over to a plush loveseat near the fireplace. Ominis hits it with the back of his knees and drops to sitting, pulling you easily onto his lap. You straddle him automatically, and you break away from his kiss with a quiet gasp, cheeks burning. "It helps me know where you are," Ominis protests when you start to slide off his legs, his hands grabbing your hips to hold you in place. You sigh sweetly and tug him in for another heated kiss, hands tangled in his blonde wisps. "...I wish I could see you," Ominis confesses sadly after a couple more kisses. His hands have become slightly bolder, gaining confidence to map out your side. He steers clear of your chest and anywhere near your thighs, not wanting to be inappropriate. You frown, pulling back to cradle his face in your hands. "You can. Just in a different way," you comfort him, pressing loving kisses along his jaw. Ominis shivers. "You feel beautiful," he breathes. "I'm a lucky man. Not many are lined up to kiss the blind Slytherin boy, much less someone as pretty as you." You blush, thumbing his cheek tenderly. Your lips make their way to under his ear. "It's a shame you can't see yourself," you counter, smiling as his hands fist in the back of your robes. "You're so incredibly gorgeous." Ominis literallywhimpers at your words, porcelain cheeks turning bright red as he kisses you eagerly. Huh. Suppose he liked that quite a lot. What a nice early Christmas gift.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75734416	{"authors": ["kitkat_fic13"], "language": "English", "title": "December 13th - Tripping over a Christmas tree into their arms"}
Neuvillette In Drag A pity she does not exist, a shame he's not a fag Wriothesley throws his jacket onto the couch, ripping off his tie, slipping off his boots before walking to his bedroom The only girl I ever loved was Andrew in drag Wriothesley lays in his bed, alone as he scrolls through photos, the phone being the only source of light in the dark room, photos from that night There is no hope of love for me, from here on I go stag The only girl I'll ever love is Andrew in drag Photos and videos of the woman (man) he fell for that night Andrew in drag (Andrew in drag) Andrew in drag, yeah I don't know why I even went, it's really not my bag Wriothesley rolled his eyes as Clorinde dragged him along deeper into the party venue with one hand, “I really don't understand why you want me here” She messily grins at him, wine in the other hand “Trust me it’ll be fun!” she yells over the music Just thought it might be funny to see Andrew in drag Wriothesley leans against the bar stand waiting for the show to begin, watching the alcohol swishing in a red solo cup The moment he walked on the stage my tail began to wag Wriothesley looks back up as the music changes and the show begins, with Furina in a puffy blue dress and white high heels in bright clown makeup giggling to the next one behind the curtain, Wriothesley’s face flushes as he watches with wide eyes, Neuvillette in a long silk dress, her (his) hair down reaching down to her (his) ankles, freckles dotting her (his) pale skin, lips painted bright red, height enhanced from the heels on her (his) feet Wag like a little weiner dog for Andrew in drag Wriothesley looks down, pretending to be entranced by the whiskey in the cup as Neuvillette looks his way Andrew in drag (Andrew in drag) Andrew in drag, yeah I've always been a ladies man and I don't have to brag His thoughts are muddled as someone drags him along to the party area, sometime in the middle a woman had kissed his cheek But I've become a mama's boy for Andrew in drag Wriothesley was paying attention to none of it, eyes locked on Neuvillette as she (he) was speaking to Charlotte about taking group photos and she showed her (him) the photos she had taken of her (him) making her (his) cheeks flush deep red I'd sign away my trust fund, I would even sell the jag If I could spend my misspent youth with Andrew in drag Charlotte had dragged them all into taking a photo, she set up the kamera before running over to get in frame, subsequently pushing Wriothesley into Furina’s side who then leaned into Neuvillette Andrew in drag (Andrew in drag) Andrew in drag, yeah So stick him in a dress and he's the only boy I'd shag Wriothesley continues scrolling through the photos before groaning and turning off the phone The only boy I'd anything is Andrew in drag He sits on the edge of his bed, phone next to him but he cant bring himself to open it, to see her (his) makeup covered face with her (his) dress that somehow looked right and heels that were so different from what she (he) normally would wear I'll never see that girl again, he did it as a gag A small tear escapes his eye before he furiously wipes it away I'll pine away forevermore for Andrew in drag Wriothesley froze when he heard a knock at the door and a voice on the other side speaking, softer than he had ever heard it, slowly he stands up, and walks over to the door, hand hesitating before grabbing the handle and tentatively opening it	Neuvillette In Drag A pity she does not exist, a shame he's not a fag Wriothesley throws his jacket onto the couch, ripping off his tie, slipping off his boots before walking to his bedroom The only girl I ever loved was Andrew in drag Wriothesley lays in his bed, alone as he scrolls through photos, the phone being the only source of light in the dark room, photos from that night There is no hope of love for me, from here on I go stag The only girl I'll ever love is Andrew in drag Photos and videos of the woman (man) he fell for that night Andrew in drag (Andrew in drag) Andrew in drag, yeah I don't know why I even went, it's really not my bag Wriothesley rolled his eyes as Clorinde dragged him along deeper into the party venue with one hand, “I really don't understand why you want me here” She messily grins at him, wine in the other hand “Trust me it’ll be fun!” she yells over the music Just thought it might be funny to see Andrew in drag Wriothesley leans against the bar stand waiting for the show to begin, watching the alcohol swishing in a red solo cup The moment he walked on the stage my tail began to wag Wriothesley looks back up as the music changes and the show begins, with Furina in a puffy blue dress and white high heels in bright clown makeup giggling to the next one behind the curtain, Wriothesley’s face flushes as he watches with wide eyes, Neuvillette in a long silk dress, her (his) hair down reaching down to her (his) ankles, freckles dotting her (his) pale skin, lips painted bright red, height enhanced from the heels on her (his) feet Wag like a little weiner dog for Andrew in drag Wriothesley looks down, pretending to be entranced by the whiskey in the cup as Neuvillette looks his way Andrew in drag (Andrew in drag) Andrew in drag, yeah I've always been a ladies man and I don't have to brag His thoughts are muddled as someone drags him along to the party area, sometime in the middle a woman had kissed his cheek But I've become a mama's boy for Andrew in drag Wriothesley was paying attention to none of it, eyes locked on Neuvillette as she (he) was speaking to Charlotte about taking group photos and she showed her (him) the photos she had taken of her (him) making her (his) cheeks flush deep red I'd sign away my trust fund, I would even sell the jag If I could spend my misspent youth with Andrew in drag Charlotte had dragged them all into taking a photo, she set up the kamera before running over to get in frame, subsequently pushing Wriothesley into Furina’s side who then leaned into Neuvillette Andrew in drag (Andrew in drag) Andrew in drag, yeah So stick him in a dress and he's the only boy I'd shag Wriothesley continues scrolling through the photos before groaning and turning off the phone The only boy I'd anything is Andrew in drag He sits on the edge of his bed, phone next to him but he cant bring himself to open it, to see her (his) makeup covered face with her (his) dress that somehow looked right and heels that were so different from what she (he) normally would wear I'll never see that girl again, he did it as a gag A small tear escapes his eye before he furiously wipes it away I'll pine away forevermore for Andrew in drag Wriothesley froze when he heard a knock at the door and a voice on the other side speaking, softer than he had ever heard it, slowly he stands up, and walks over to the door, hand hesitating before grabbing the handle and tentatively opening it	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75734456	{"authors": ["YoshixDovey"], "language": "English", "title": "Neuvillette In Drag"}
if i only had a home December 5th, 1984. “Dad, please—I’m sorry, I— I didn’t mean it, I swear on my life it was an accident!” Murphy’s father stared at him with a cruel, demanding gleam in his eyes. In his oversized hand he held the remains of a paint-wet, broken vase. It was ages old, and it would sit collecting dust in the corner of the petite living room. He wanted to put it to good use, because nobody was going to do anything with the poor old thing. So he decided to use it for the only thing he knew he was good for… Destruction. He didn’t destroy it in the usual way—he held paint inside of it and used it to splash cool shades of oranges and reds across his old bike on the lawn. It was fun. Until his hand slipped and the vase slid down his palm and onto the ground. He tried to run and hide, but his father heard the crash from his place in the garage. Not only was his father already in distress due to the timely eviction notice that was pinned to their door this morning, but Murphy had only created an even worse situation. His measly spot under the couch was no good especially when his father had the strength of an enraged grizzly bear. “Nothing’s an accident with you, Murphy!” His father’s booming voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and brought him back to the now. Murphy shook his head violently, the pounding of his fathers voice making it seem like bugs were crawling around his brain and nipping at his hippocampus. Tears began to run down his face, racing to see which one would be the first to reach his collar bone. His father crushed the remaining vase pieces raw in his own hands, the porcelain not even leaving a scratch to his skin. He let the vase crumble down to the ground creating a sad pile of fake snow on the wooden floor. The veins popped in his hands like something disgusting—eels squirming under his oil-covered skin. “Stop fuckin’ crying, you brainless idiot! I didn’t raise you as a sissy!” The words went straight through Murphy's ears, he only stared up as his tears drowned out his thoughts and garbled up his words. A hand raised, and the boy cowered in his father’s shadow. “I’m not a sissy!” Is all he could choke out before the man's hand came down in a rage, his palm gliding across Murphy’s cheek. It burned like hell was engulfing Murphy whole. But it was a fiery pit he came to know like his own heart and soul. His crying stopped, or rather, became a silent plea in his stinging throat. He shook, watching his father blink with pride. He could’ve sworn he was smiling at the sight of his own son crying. Or maybe it was the silence of him holding back wails, wobbling like a baby deer in headlights. His father turned his back. Like he always did. “I’ll give you proper punishment when I'm back,” He grumbled. He glared back at the boy, his son, something evil inside of his core. He marched outside—like he was still in the military. Murphy knew what proper punishment was. It was a belt. It was scalding. It was freezing. He wanted to die right there to get out of whatever awaited him—whatever cruel fate was laid out for him by his father. His father was going to go to bring his bike to the landfill, Murphy thought. Knew. His bike was going to be gone and he did all of that stupid paint throwing for nothing. He would no longer have somewhere to run off on when things got tough. His father was going to shave him of all of his freedoms, even if he barely had any in the first place. He sobbed harder than he had when his father slapped him senseless. He wobbled over to the torn up leather couch, flopping down like he was useless. He could taste salt on his wet lips, which tasted like warm metal to him. The leather stuck to his skin, coming off in little bits to stay on his flesh because of the couches' age. It was older than he was, and it was his mothers before it was his fathers, and it reeked of dust and dried blood. He sniffled, wiping his palm across his face to wipe everything away even if it only smeared into his skin. When his noises quieted along with the forced silence of his eardrums, he heard a sweet song playing quietly on the old TV his father forgot to turn off earlier that day. He wiped his forearm over his eyes, clearing his view up a little bit even if it still had a sheen of eye fog. When he sat up, he was met with a black and white title card, engulfed by the black box borders around it. The Wizard of Oz. He smiled. Even though he was crying, babying himself through the thought of his next punishment, he smiled. The room seemed to light up so it was only the screen and himself, and everything else was pitch black. In his mere seven years of living—this movie was what cradled him in the darkest of times. He sat and looked at the screen in bewilderment, sniffling up the snot that was running down his nose and holding back the tears that still seemed to well up in his eyes. His smile became open-mouthed once the film was no longer black and white and engulfed in color. It felt like he was leaving his own black and white world, leaving his house where everything was gloomy and uneasy and entering Oz himself. He only wished it was as easy as that. He seemed to be in a trance, that was until the Scarecrow showed up. Then he became enthralled as he sang: “If I Only Had a Brain,” a song which he found himself humming usually until his father stepped on his toes as a warning sign and told him to stop with annoyance in his voice. He nodded his head along to every word, giggling every time the man on screen would tumble over or fall. He did that too—he was clumsy and reckless—and that's what usually got him into trouble. Every time the line came around, Murphy mumbled in a cracked, sing-songy voice, “If I only had a brain,” Until the song had ended entirely. If only, he thought to himself wistfully. If he did, maybe he wouldn’t be trying to calm himself down, maybe he wouldn’t have a red hand print across his face, and maybe there wouldn’t be little broken pieces of broken porcelain on the floor. He enjoyed the film while it lasted, singing the lyrics to each song like he was there himself, but with caution in every word in case his father came traipsing back in to give him a few lashes. His father, as he was never truly in the house, never knew Murphy would watch this movie at this age. It’s too full of color, too fantastical, and definitely too queer. He would enjoy it. Sing and hum to his heart's content and hope to live he would see the next year where he could watch it once again. —————————————————— December 10th, 2025 Murphy tinkered incessantly on an odd welding project he didn’t quite know the meaning of—or what the poor thing even was. It was some sort of flat butterfly-skeleton-horse creature. He really just wanted something random to give away for Christmas, and he didn’t know anyone who wouldn’t want an ugly metal critter that was going to collect dust in a junk drawer. He had music playing at a surprisingly low volume, a random metal playlist with hundreds of songs in it that he made himself one drunken Tuesday. He didn’t mind checking what anyone else was doing in the house, probably all on their own escapades doing housework or carrying out deadly science experiments. But it was quiet. It was quiet enough for him to get curious. Sure, everyone else was usually quiet, or, quieter than Murphy. But not that quiet. He discarded his equipment on his cluttered desk, leaving it as a task for “Murphy-in-a-few-hours.” He opened his door and heard a muffled, unintelligible sound in the living room downstairs. He couldn’t quite make it out, but he heard long notes of sound that could only be discerned as music. He padded his way down to the noise like a curious hound dog sniffing out a fox. He found himself only steps next to the doorframe to the room, but before he could take a step in… He recognized that music. Slow, old, static and beautiful. It cradled him like it was an old friend. Suddenly he felt like he was on an old cracking leather couch, staring at a box while he rocked his bad thoughts away. He turned the corner, slowly, the screen being exactly what he had expected. Or, rather, what he wanted it to be. Everyone sat in silence on the couch, staring back at the face of Judy Garland. He was the only one missing, as there appeared to be a spot waiting just for him next to Vanka, who sat next to Calloway, who sat next to Yoko—and he only assumed Daryl was on the floor hiding the wag of his tail. He tried to take quiet steps to the couch, but everyone turned to look at him. All smiles—different types, for sure, but they were smiles. “We were waiting for you, you know,” Cal said in a gentle voice that bordered a whisper but still wasn’t quite there. “All of us called for you, but you were busy, so we dropped it.” Yoko chimed in, voice in a yell-whisper. Somehow, it made him feel like he came in thirty minutes late to a movie showing. It felt sort of cult-ish, but it was a nice sentiment. They were an odd bunch to say the least, so acting as such was almost a natural instinct. He sat down, the couch sinking under his weight. “You shoulda just came n’ grabbed me,” He chuckled, his voice in an unnatural hush. He almost felt like a timid young child again, in the innocent, uncorrupted way. After he spoke, nobody said another word, he only got elbowed by Vanka and the soft mutter of ‘dork,’ followed. He didn’t quite get sent into the screen—but he was there with the company of his team. He still immersed himself but still stayed in the calm living room where the lights were dim and everyone was warm, and Daryl sighed every minute or so out of his old dalmation nose. Yoko ogled and admired the costume design, but would also mention how dangerous the makeup was at the time, and recoiled at the thought of it. He noticed everyone seemed to hum, but all had chosen songs or lines or lyrics to sing in specifics, he took note of it mentally. He wanted to laugh at how much of “If I Only Had a	if i only had a home December 5th, 1984. “Dad, please—I’m sorry, I— I didn’t mean it, I swear on my life it was an accident!” Murphy’s father stared at him with a cruel, demanding gleam in his eyes. In his oversized hand he held the remains of a paint-wet, broken vase. It was ages old, and it would sit collecting dust in the corner of the petite living room. He wanted to put it to good use, because nobody was going to do anything with the poor old thing. So he decided to use it for the only thing he knew he was good for… Destruction. He didn’t destroy it in the usual way—he held paint inside of it and used it to splash cool shades of oranges and reds across his old bike on the lawn. It was fun. Until his hand slipped and the vase slid down his palm and onto the ground. He tried to run and hide, but his father heard the crash from his place in the garage. Not only was his father already in distress due to the timely eviction notice that was pinned to their door this morning, but Murphy had only created an even worse situation. His measly spot under the couch was no good especially when his father had the strength of an enraged grizzly bear. “Nothing’s an accident with you, Murphy!” His father’s booming voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and brought him back to the now. Murphy shook his head violently, the pounding of his fathers voice making it seem like bugs were crawling around his brain and nipping at his hippocampus. Tears began to run down his face, racing to see which one would be the first to reach his collar bone. His father crushed the remaining vase pieces raw in his own hands, the porcelain not even leaving a scratch to his skin. He let the vase crumble down to the ground creating a sad pile of fake snow on the wooden floor. The veins popped in his hands like something disgusting—eels squirming under his oil-covered skin. “Stop fuckin’ crying, you brainless idiot! I didn’t raise you as a sissy!” The words went straight through Murphy's ears, he only stared up as his tears drowned out his thoughts and garbled up his words. A hand raised, and the boy cowered in his father’s shadow. “I’m not a sissy!” Is all he could choke out before the man's hand came down in a rage, his palm gliding across Murphy’s cheek. It burned like hell was engulfing Murphy whole. But it was a fiery pit he came to know like his own heart and soul. His crying stopped, or rather, became a silent plea in his stinging throat. He shook, watching his father blink with pride. He could’ve sworn he was smiling at the sight of his own son crying. Or maybe it was the silence of him holding back wails, wobbling like a baby deer in headlights. His father turned his back. Like he always did. “I’ll give you proper punishment when I'm back,” He grumbled. He glared back at the boy, his son, something evil inside of his core. He marched outside—like he was still in the military. Murphy knew what proper punishment was. It was a belt. It was scalding. It was freezing. He wanted to die right there to get out of whatever awaited him—whatever cruel fate was laid out for him by his father. His father was going to go to bring his bike to the landfill, Murphy thought. Knew. His bike was going to be gone and he did all of that stupid paint throwing for nothing. He would no longer have somewhere to run off on when things got tough. His father was going to shave him of all of his freedoms, even if he barely had any in the first place. He sobbed harder than he had when his father slapped him senseless. He wobbled over to the torn up leather couch, flopping down like he was useless. He could taste salt on his wet lips, which tasted like warm metal to him. The leather stuck to his skin, coming off in little bits to stay on his flesh because of the couches' age. It was older than he was, and it was his mothers before it was his fathers, and it reeked of dust and dried blood. He sniffled, wiping his palm across his face to wipe everything away even if it only smeared into his skin. When his noises quieted along with the forced silence of his eardrums, he heard a sweet song playing quietly on the old TV his father forgot to turn off earlier that day. He wiped his forearm over his eyes, clearing his view up a little bit even if it still had a sheen of eye fog. When he sat up, he was met with a black and white title card, engulfed by the black box borders around it. The Wizard of Oz. He smiled. Even though he was crying, babying himself through the thought of his next punishment, he smiled. The room seemed to light up so it was only the screen and himself, and everything else was pitch black. In his mere seven years of living—this movie was what cradled him in the darkest of times. He sat and looked at the screen in bewilderment, sniffling up the snot that was running down his nose and holding back the tears that still seemed to well up in his eyes. His smile became open-mouthed once the film was no longer black and white and engulfed in color. It felt like he was leaving his own black and white world, leaving his house where everything was gloomy and uneasy and entering Oz himself. He only wished it was as easy as that. He seemed to be in a trance, that was until the Scarecrow showed up. Then he became enthralled as he sang: “If I Only Had a Brain,” a song which he found himself humming usually until his father stepped on his toes as a warning sign and told him to stop with annoyance in his voice. He nodded his head along to every word, giggling every time the man on screen would tumble over or fall. He did that too—he was clumsy and reckless—and that's what usually got him into trouble. Every time the line came around, Murphy mumbled in a cracked, sing-songy voice, “If I only had a brain,” Until the song had ended entirely. If only, he thought to himself wistfully. If he did, maybe he wouldn’t be trying to calm himself down, maybe he wouldn’t have a red hand print across his face, and maybe there wouldn’t be little broken pieces of broken porcelain on the floor. He enjoyed the film while it lasted, singing the lyrics to each song like he was there himself, but with caution in every word in case his father came traipsing back in to give him a few lashes. His father, as he was never truly in the house, never knew Murphy would watch this movie at this age. It’s too full of color, too fantastical, and definitely too queer. He would enjoy it. Sing and hum to his heart's content and hope to live he would see the next year where he could watch it once again. —————————————————— December 10th, 2025 Murphy tinkered incessantly on an odd welding project he didn’t quite know the meaning of—or what the poor thing even was. It was some sort of flat butterfly-skeleton-horse creature. He really just wanted something random to give away for Christmas, and he didn’t know anyone who wouldn’t want an ugly metal critter that was going to collect dust in a junk drawer. He had music playing at a surprisingly low volume, a random metal playlist with hundreds of songs in it that he made himself one drunken Tuesday. He didn’t mind checking what anyone else was doing in the house, probably all on their own escapades doing housework or carrying out deadly science experiments. But it was quiet. It was quiet enough for him to get curious. Sure, everyone else was usually quiet, or, quieter than Murphy. But not that quiet. He discarded his equipment on his cluttered desk, leaving it as a task for “Murphy-in-a-few-hours.” He opened his door and heard a muffled, unintelligible sound in the living room downstairs. He couldn’t quite make it out, but he heard long notes of sound that could only be discerned as music. He padded his way down to the noise like a curious hound dog sniffing out a fox. He found himself only steps next to the doorframe to the room, but before he could take a step in… He recognized that music. Slow, old, static and beautiful. It cradled him like it was an old friend. Suddenly he felt like he was on an old cracking leather couch, staring at a box while he rocked his bad thoughts away. He turned the corner, slowly, the screen being exactly what he had expected. Or, rather, what he wanted it to be. Everyone sat in silence on the couch, staring back at the face of Judy Garland. He was the only one missing, as there appeared to be a spot waiting just for him next to Vanka, who sat next to Calloway, who sat next to Yoko—and he only assumed Daryl was on the floor hiding the wag of his tail. He tried to take quiet steps to the couch, but everyone turned to look at him. All smiles—different types, for sure, but they were smiles. “We were waiting for you, you know,” Cal said in a gentle voice that bordered a whisper but still wasn’t quite there. “All of us called for you, but you were busy, so we dropped it.” Yoko chimed in, voice in a yell-whisper. Somehow, it made him feel like he came in thirty minutes late to a movie showing. It felt sort of cult-ish, but it was a nice sentiment. They were an odd bunch to say the least, so acting as such was almost a natural instinct. He sat down, the couch sinking under his weight. “You shoulda just came n’ grabbed me,” He chuckled, his voice in an unnatural hush. He almost felt like a timid young child again, in the innocent, uncorrupted way. After he spoke, nobody said another word, he only got elbowed by Vanka and the soft mutter of ‘dork,’ followed. He didn’t quite get sent into the screen—but he was there with the company of his team. He still immersed himself but still stayed in the calm living room where the lights were dim and everyone was warm, and Daryl sighed every minute or so out of his old dalmation nose. Yoko ogled and admired the costume design, but would also mention how dangerous the makeup was at the time, and recoiled at the thought of it. He noticed everyone seemed to hum, but all had chosen songs or lines or lyrics to sing in specifics, he took note of it mentally. He wanted to laugh at how much of “If I Only Had a Heart” Calloway actually knew, the same with Daryl, except he had to hold himself back from singing every song. Vanka rested her head on Murphy’s shoulder, arm hooked around his, soundly falling asleep with an attempt to keep her eyes open. She failed miserably and her head went limp on his arm. Cal looked over and snorted at the sight, amused at the tired girl settling her entire weight onto Murphy. He didn’t expect her to even stay on the couch, he wouldn’t expect a teenager to want to try to watch this movie. Vanka was a weird girl anyways, so he should’ve thought otherwise. He was glad that instead of watching a movie on a cracked screen in tears—she was falling asleep in comfort. He would pat her hand every once in a while with every few minutes of the movie, checking in despite her unconscious-ness. Murphy still smiled like he did when he was a kid. This time, it was out of genuine, comfortable happiness—not the fake mask of happiness/relief that he would get as a child. A small release of a laugh, almost a giggle, escaped past his mouth. Cal shot him a confused look. “What was that for?” “Nothin’. Guess I just feel at home right now.”	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75734466	{"authors": ["marshmelody"], "language": "English", "title": "if i only had a home"}
Your Hands Are Stained Finally released from the long strain of a day of work, Byron found himself sitting at Barley's bar. The robot, though his friend, had his attention on the other customers stopping by as well to get their fill of fun. It suited Byron perfectly fine, at least today it especially did. He wasn't in the mood for conversation. He had an entire yarn ball of chaotic thought processes that had been running through his head all day, only getting further entangled from lack of attention. He knew that others would be disgusted to see the visceral desires that lived in his brain, they transformed into scenes that would be regarded, he knew, by most as “gruesome”. Of course, Byron knew this, that he would be considered deranged by anyone who heard him describe it. He knew they would find it so obscure a taste, not trained or refined, but rather so forced into romanticism, so much so that they would not reconcile with any explanation or debate. That being said, he knew himself, that he was completely sound of mind… To Byron, his pleasures did not fit so readily into the category of carnality, not so much the type of disgusting as a rough fuck with hair-pulling or one too many involved. He understood that his own ideas of desire were in fact worrisome. Not because they were of an excruciating violent nature, that was not in itself concerning, but because if you were to share it, you must be trying to intimidate another. Right, the in-depth description of a desire for another’s pain, it would be a cause for worry if you were idiotic enough to express it. But, if you kept it deep within your mind, let it live underneath the bed like a diary, it was your own business to mind to. Keep it secret enough and be clever enough, and you could even be called a surgeon. These personal pleasures of his typically lived in him, regularly. Not as a habit like taking a shower, but rather as regular as a forgotten charm left in the mess of books, papers, and more interesting things. There were priorities, though it could live among the world as a regular citizen. But, no, he’d stumbled on that again. It must have been the moonlight through the window, hitting that little ornament the right way, and he picked it up again. Looked at it, turned it over which way. Gray. That was the current object of his affections. Gray. Gray was a quiet man, reserved to himself, even in movements. It was as if he were constantly shoved into a box that fit him only, that was only a few inches wider and taller than himself, which was ironic because of his miming. He never exceeded to stretch his body out of imagined limits, so he ambled with such a smallness, you would think he had been pulled taut at the center… The man was light enough on his feet for it to be called “delicate”. Byron had watched his peculiar walk. Gray traveled at an airy pace, covering less ground than you’d expect. His hair was snipped short, closer to his head, but it stuck out twice on the top of his head, twice right above his ears, and side burns that did too. He dressed exclusively in black and white clothing that was tight around his chest, shoulders, and pants, but otherwise loosened out for comfort. Even outside of Starr Park, he stuck to that aesthetic, bringing a visage reminiscent of a silent film character from the 1920s. It was a strange style, but his face had a prominent slimness that provided an elegant shape, broader shoulders accentuated by a thin waist, a graceful frame with a strong nose and sleepy eyes. It rendered the mime makeup and peculiar dress attractively eccentric instead of bizarre… at least to Byron. Byron held a now returning strange appetite, like an old friend, or maybe even enemy, for what lived under the surface. This antique of his desire kept a new place under his clothes, unknown to the eyes of others, but itching on his skin. He could not break his gaze from the small details of the other’s body that should, with decency, typically go unnoticed. It was as if his craving compensated itself with gnawing away at Byron’s sanity and logic. But he was sure he was not alone in a delusion. Gray would sometimes silently observe Byron himself, with a look which appeared blatantly lecherous from his narrowed, prying eyes and captivated small smile– in fact, there seemed to already exist a relationship in what crackled through the air every event they spent time together, allowing accidental bodily contact when walking a bit too closely, feeling Gray’s slim, prominent hand bones through the white glove, barely veiled under the chuckling guise of “friendship” and “conviviality”. Byron let himself indulge in such amorous imaginations, though they always treaded down a road that tainted crimson, and he couldn’t stop his mind once he’d wandered there. From the occasional adjusting of Gray’s gloves, he’d see a glimpse of his supple skin. It was tanned, but not browned, rather the tint of desert sand, darker where his melanin concentrated a dab more at his knuckles and bones, and all the sweeter. He had the tone of sapwood in the regular light, and in the brightest sun, the places it shone would temporarily adopt the color of the rays. The lucky recipient for that hue was his skin’s polished texture, the type of skin that must have been cared for intimately through consistent routine. If he sat close enough to him, Byron could swear he caught the ephemeral vestige of a herbal lotion in the air. His mind would then picture his room, darkened with midnight. For some reason in this world, there was always no moon, as if it had shied away from the scene out of modesty. He wouldn’t be alone, no, Gray would stare at him in his bed. Sitting patiently, calm, looking at him how he always would- but it lacked soul. Was it a deficiency that when Byron pictured Gray's eyes, he could not quite capture the human look behind them? Or, was it something that Gray lacked in reality, and only became recognizable in this mental fortress? Gray would pry his finger underneath his vest's button, and pop it open. In a voyeuristic motionlessness, Byron would watch him let the vest fall off his shoulders, then repeat that motion five more times. From the top of his striped shirt to the bottom. Then, that'd drop too. He'd open the single button of his high waisted pants. What underwear would Gray wear? Byron would join him now, though he'd do the honors of stripping him of his pants. He decided that Gray wore black briefs. Byron would take hold of his thigh, arm, or his waist, see the shadows of his fingers dark in the firm grasp, seated on where there was a perfect distribution between curvature and meat. Gray would let him run his hands over his figure, as if eager to confirm the authenticity of the shape. Gray would narcissistically sneer to himself. Reaching for a conveniently placed blade, with the other hand holding Gray down by his neck, he’d slowly press the cold edge against Gray’s thigh, feel him twitch from fear, and then finally apply the force and pierce through the skin. The blood would first appear like a heavenly bead, a bright red that shone a dark crimson in its center, and a small dot of light bouncing off. The other may involuntarily jerk from pain, but Byron’s grip could hold him down– He wanted to make eye contact with him as he dragged the knife further down, feeling the skin part and leave openings like fault lines, and watch Gray’s face twist in pain, listen to him spit insults in a language Byron didn’t know. He couldn’t look away even if it meant the world. He could scream, or moan, as the blood pooled in the laceration, before it would exceed the vessel of the cut and leak out, traveling over the intricacies of his body. The stream would make like a map, the curls in the trail marking where soft muscle or fat curved out, and Byron could use it like such, tracing his tongue where it went as he shook from fear, and find pleasure in how the other’s skin dampened red. Byron easily lost his fascination when skin cracked or dried from sicknesses, he liked to see where he had caused damage and wounding, not adding to parched skin with white branches. He liked to imagine deflowering the purity of flawlessness. Any bruise or laceration had to be done on a clean, smooth canvas that would not be interrupted by the rough surface of pre-existing injury. But tears and scrapes lived the best on arms and legs, right next to tender bruises that stained skin in finger-shaped deep purples and brighter reds. It further excited his racing mind to see the hard bones and squishy organs under the skin, fat, and muscle, like the ribs that pressed out from the inside of Gray’s body, shying away from full visibility under the exterior, but its crescent shape still making itself known in rows, altar-shaped over Gray’s abdomen. The quick beating of the heart as blood pulsed quickly from the atrium to the ventricle, from the arteries to the capillaries then back from the veins. The chest rises up and down with sweat, while the diaphragm contracts, squeezing the lungs wider to breathe, breathe, breathe through the haze of passion. All the visceral systems were all so involved in sex, he almost felt a genius for making the connection first– no, he was probably a pervert, he knew that when he ignored his pride. In his idealistic fantasies, he would wield a proper scalpel, securely pinched between his fingers, and if only he had the perfect surgical equipment to keep Gray alive. He could give Gray the fluids needed to keep him alive long enough for him to get his fix. Two images circled in his mind, like an indecisive child; Keep him too drained of energy to fight, or let him be conscious so he could scream– A real, intimate one, specific to people like a finger print. The noise someone only made when they reached a breaking point of fear, reduced to their animal instinct to scream. Gray would arch his back and yell shrill, starting high then cracking into a wail, and he	Your Hands Are Stained Finally released from the long strain of a day of work, Byron found himself sitting at Barley's bar. The robot, though his friend, had his attention on the other customers stopping by as well to get their fill of fun. It suited Byron perfectly fine, at least today it especially did. He wasn't in the mood for conversation. He had an entire yarn ball of chaotic thought processes that had been running through his head all day, only getting further entangled from lack of attention. He knew that others would be disgusted to see the visceral desires that lived in his brain, they transformed into scenes that would be regarded, he knew, by most as “gruesome”. Of course, Byron knew this, that he would be considered deranged by anyone who heard him describe it. He knew they would find it so obscure a taste, not trained or refined, but rather so forced into romanticism, so much so that they would not reconcile with any explanation or debate. That being said, he knew himself, that he was completely sound of mind… To Byron, his pleasures did not fit so readily into the category of carnality, not so much the type of disgusting as a rough fuck with hair-pulling or one too many involved. He understood that his own ideas of desire were in fact worrisome. Not because they were of an excruciating violent nature, that was not in itself concerning, but because if you were to share it, you must be trying to intimidate another. Right, the in-depth description of a desire for another’s pain, it would be a cause for worry if you were idiotic enough to express it. But, if you kept it deep within your mind, let it live underneath the bed like a diary, it was your own business to mind to. Keep it secret enough and be clever enough, and you could even be called a surgeon. These personal pleasures of his typically lived in him, regularly. Not as a habit like taking a shower, but rather as regular as a forgotten charm left in the mess of books, papers, and more interesting things. There were priorities, though it could live among the world as a regular citizen. But, no, he’d stumbled on that again. It must have been the moonlight through the window, hitting that little ornament the right way, and he picked it up again. Looked at it, turned it over which way. Gray. That was the current object of his affections. Gray. Gray was a quiet man, reserved to himself, even in movements. It was as if he were constantly shoved into a box that fit him only, that was only a few inches wider and taller than himself, which was ironic because of his miming. He never exceeded to stretch his body out of imagined limits, so he ambled with such a smallness, you would think he had been pulled taut at the center… The man was light enough on his feet for it to be called “delicate”. Byron had watched his peculiar walk. Gray traveled at an airy pace, covering less ground than you’d expect. His hair was snipped short, closer to his head, but it stuck out twice on the top of his head, twice right above his ears, and side burns that did too. He dressed exclusively in black and white clothing that was tight around his chest, shoulders, and pants, but otherwise loosened out for comfort. Even outside of Starr Park, he stuck to that aesthetic, bringing a visage reminiscent of a silent film character from the 1920s. It was a strange style, but his face had a prominent slimness that provided an elegant shape, broader shoulders accentuated by a thin waist, a graceful frame with a strong nose and sleepy eyes. It rendered the mime makeup and peculiar dress attractively eccentric instead of bizarre… at least to Byron. Byron held a now returning strange appetite, like an old friend, or maybe even enemy, for what lived under the surface. This antique of his desire kept a new place under his clothes, unknown to the eyes of others, but itching on his skin. He could not break his gaze from the small details of the other’s body that should, with decency, typically go unnoticed. It was as if his craving compensated itself with gnawing away at Byron’s sanity and logic. But he was sure he was not alone in a delusion. Gray would sometimes silently observe Byron himself, with a look which appeared blatantly lecherous from his narrowed, prying eyes and captivated small smile– in fact, there seemed to already exist a relationship in what crackled through the air every event they spent time together, allowing accidental bodily contact when walking a bit too closely, feeling Gray’s slim, prominent hand bones through the white glove, barely veiled under the chuckling guise of “friendship” and “conviviality”. Byron let himself indulge in such amorous imaginations, though they always treaded down a road that tainted crimson, and he couldn’t stop his mind once he’d wandered there. From the occasional adjusting of Gray’s gloves, he’d see a glimpse of his supple skin. It was tanned, but not browned, rather the tint of desert sand, darker where his melanin concentrated a dab more at his knuckles and bones, and all the sweeter. He had the tone of sapwood in the regular light, and in the brightest sun, the places it shone would temporarily adopt the color of the rays. The lucky recipient for that hue was his skin’s polished texture, the type of skin that must have been cared for intimately through consistent routine. If he sat close enough to him, Byron could swear he caught the ephemeral vestige of a herbal lotion in the air. His mind would then picture his room, darkened with midnight. For some reason in this world, there was always no moon, as if it had shied away from the scene out of modesty. He wouldn’t be alone, no, Gray would stare at him in his bed. Sitting patiently, calm, looking at him how he always would- but it lacked soul. Was it a deficiency that when Byron pictured Gray's eyes, he could not quite capture the human look behind them? Or, was it something that Gray lacked in reality, and only became recognizable in this mental fortress? Gray would pry his finger underneath his vest's button, and pop it open. In a voyeuristic motionlessness, Byron would watch him let the vest fall off his shoulders, then repeat that motion five more times. From the top of his striped shirt to the bottom. Then, that'd drop too. He'd open the single button of his high waisted pants. What underwear would Gray wear? Byron would join him now, though he'd do the honors of stripping him of his pants. He decided that Gray wore black briefs. Byron would take hold of his thigh, arm, or his waist, see the shadows of his fingers dark in the firm grasp, seated on where there was a perfect distribution between curvature and meat. Gray would let him run his hands over his figure, as if eager to confirm the authenticity of the shape. Gray would narcissistically sneer to himself. Reaching for a conveniently placed blade, with the other hand holding Gray down by his neck, he’d slowly press the cold edge against Gray’s thigh, feel him twitch from fear, and then finally apply the force and pierce through the skin. The blood would first appear like a heavenly bead, a bright red that shone a dark crimson in its center, and a small dot of light bouncing off. The other may involuntarily jerk from pain, but Byron’s grip could hold him down– He wanted to make eye contact with him as he dragged the knife further down, feeling the skin part and leave openings like fault lines, and watch Gray’s face twist in pain, listen to him spit insults in a language Byron didn’t know. He couldn’t look away even if it meant the world. He could scream, or moan, as the blood pooled in the laceration, before it would exceed the vessel of the cut and leak out, traveling over the intricacies of his body. The stream would make like a map, the curls in the trail marking where soft muscle or fat curved out, and Byron could use it like such, tracing his tongue where it went as he shook from fear, and find pleasure in how the other’s skin dampened red. Byron easily lost his fascination when skin cracked or dried from sicknesses, he liked to see where he had caused damage and wounding, not adding to parched skin with white branches. He liked to imagine deflowering the purity of flawlessness. Any bruise or laceration had to be done on a clean, smooth canvas that would not be interrupted by the rough surface of pre-existing injury. But tears and scrapes lived the best on arms and legs, right next to tender bruises that stained skin in finger-shaped deep purples and brighter reds. It further excited his racing mind to see the hard bones and squishy organs under the skin, fat, and muscle, like the ribs that pressed out from the inside of Gray’s body, shying away from full visibility under the exterior, but its crescent shape still making itself known in rows, altar-shaped over Gray’s abdomen. The quick beating of the heart as blood pulsed quickly from the atrium to the ventricle, from the arteries to the capillaries then back from the veins. The chest rises up and down with sweat, while the diaphragm contracts, squeezing the lungs wider to breathe, breathe, breathe through the haze of passion. All the visceral systems were all so involved in sex, he almost felt a genius for making the connection first– no, he was probably a pervert, he knew that when he ignored his pride. In his idealistic fantasies, he would wield a proper scalpel, securely pinched between his fingers, and if only he had the perfect surgical equipment to keep Gray alive. He could give Gray the fluids needed to keep him alive long enough for him to get his fix. Two images circled in his mind, like an indecisive child; Keep him too drained of energy to fight, or let him be conscious so he could scream– A real, intimate one, specific to people like a finger print. The noise someone only made when they reached a breaking point of fear, reduced to their animal instinct to scream. Gray would arch his back and yell shrill, starting high then cracking into a wail, and he could hear his vocal cords strain and hurt in his throat– Byron would frot rough against the other’s dick, let out his own groans of pleasure while Gray’s mind would flitter between the feeling in his intimate areas and searing pain. Break the other’s voice or break his body first. The best part would come when he could let go of any remaining sympathies and take his scalpel to tear mercilessly through the layers of skin, muscle, and fat, focused on the precision not of his act, but to be as cruel as possible– A long incision opening his stomach, stopping right at the center of his bosom. Gray would cry the most now, and the noise of his wailing and sobbing, and the sight of the warm, wet tears, would make him slow his scalpel that he tugged through his body, he’d make the ripping slower, and make him feel it tenfold. Blood would splatter all over Byron's vest, belt, and pants while he'd breathe heavily, eyes wide and concentrated like an obsessive artist. He’d accidentally rupture the intestines, and the only bad part would be the fetid smell, and the best part would be the nausea in Gray’s face, and the sight of contents leaking around his abdominal cavity, pushing Gray to fall back and brutally vomit off the side of the bed. Grabbing his face and forcing him back up, as his contracted pupils would look back with terror, Gray’s face would be stained with tears, and bile would drip down the side of his mouth. Byron would lick the side of his face, tasting the vomit, and then spit on his chest. He’d move the meat to further expose the lower region of Gray’s ribs, pulling on the tendons, and aggressively yanking at the ribs bones. The pain would sear in Gray, he’d choke on his own screams and crying, and then it would radiate like infernal heat. Fumbling with his belt like he'd never put one on before, he'd pull the strap out the loop, take it off, and let it drop off of the side of the bed. He'd move his pants and boxers from his waist down to his knees. Byron would shove his length into the mess of organs and blood as Gray writhed painfully– The blood would lubricate him so he could hold the sides of Gray as he would move himself around the inside, sloshing through the blood and rubbing himself against his organs, letting himself groan and enjoy himself however he liked, flouting Gray’s agony. He would use his knees to stabilize himself, and move to yank and pull Gray’s insides, squeeze them around his dick and stroke himself with it. He couldn't imagine perfectly the power trip he'd get from seeing Gray underneath him like that. What kind of expression would he have, that could be perfectly encapsulated in words, without doing him an injustice? Byron began to get a feeling of recognition in Gray at this point. He started to have the idea that he could see the humanity behind Gray's widened eyes, petrified by the idea of enduring anymore, and humanly petrified of dying too. Byron realized one thing while he would move Gray's insides around his dick- Gray looked the most remarkably alive when his eyes were pleading. Gray wouldn’t be able to bear his pain anymore and would woozily try to resist, before his body’s shock would hit him, barely preserving what sanity he could maintain, the parsimonious gift of an uncaring God, and he would pass out on the cold table. Continuing to touch himself regardless of if Gray was dead or alive, breathing heavily at his own stimulation to the enteric mess, he would feel the pressure build up and throb in his phallus, moan from satisfaction, and come inside of Gray’s abdominal cavity. He’d soak in the violently erotic scenery until he got the clarity that follows release. Byron would snap out of his hazy thinking, looking up, when a robot bartender would ask, “Are you alright?” With a sincere, light tone. He didn’t realize how long he’d been sitting at the bar. With a quick glance down to his belt, he felt a surge of thankfulness for how his aged body had muted the typical sexual reactions a man may have. He moved to look outside, to tilt his face away, as if his mind could be read off his face. “Oh. Yesss.” “It’s getting late,” The robot would remark, shining off washed cups with a towel. He would look at him suspiciously, but perhaps more concerned for Byron’s state than scrutinizing. It made the man feel only the stranger for having such thoughts. “Right, I’ll go… home.” Byron slowly verbalized, the words awkward in his mouth, like he had just learned how to talk. The trains should still be open at this time, and if not, he could always call a taxi. Right. He combed his hand through his hair and readjusted his glasses, as if restarting his typical bodily mechanisms, wiping the small remainders of what he had created in his head. Of course, it’s a fun fantasy, but I wouldn’t really do it, he thought. I’d never get away with it. Plus, I would probably miss him. He stored everything in his brain back to the storage room, directing his train of thought to the original tracks. Wiping away the previous stains, he began to picture the events of the coming day. He remembered that to his luck, he had no work then. He could spend some time for himself, take a trip to the library to grab books about any new interesting biologic discoveries, especially about medicines or snakes, and use their databases to wander through scientific studies. The subway made a turn and loudly began screeching against the tracks from age, prompting a wince on Byron’s face, as he came to another realization. He could also go ask Gray if he wanted to come to the library and take a look at the selection of movie DVDs, as well as browse magazines. The screeching stopped as the subway neared Chinatown, and Byron’s face changed into one of bemusement, as if he hadn’t considered the possibility before. The man glanced at his phone. Well, it didn’t hurt to hang out.	ao3_english	2025-12-15T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75734461	{"authors": ["colorsofthemountain"], "language": "English", "title": "Your Hands Are Stained"}
Ilya, Ill-loved Hollander. Hollander. The couch still held imprints of Shane’s warmth where Ilya hadn’t moved, the cushions pressed into the shape of someone who used to be possible – and wasn’t that always the way of it? That the best things left only their impressions, the ghost of heat, the evidence of having been. The room had gone dark, shadows climbing in the corners. Some form of light bled through the windows, filtering the foyer in shades of gray and amber, imprecise, smoothing out the edges of an unending moment, and Ilya found himself in awake in a dream. There was a stale bitterness on the root of his tongue, recycled in his breath, and it tasted like a breath through fabric. His house had stopped breathing. And perhaps it had. Perhaps houses knew about leaving the way bodies did. There was a space between his ribs where the absence echoed, patient and cold as winter in Moscow, as certain as the ice reforming over black water. He’d felt it long ago and foolishly ignored and insulted. He should move. His body had always known how to move, across ice, through water, into every sequence of his existence. But now he had forgotten. The light from outside barely reached him, dying somewhere between the window and where he sat, swallowed by furniture and walls. To the end this was what he had come to. This half-lit thing. This foreign body in a foreign country speaking a foreign language. It always had been. Ilya was no translator. The crossing from his heart to his words was, had been, tiresome transactions of remarks, of impressions, of empty envelopes of feelings. His mother's love had been a drowning, his father's love had been a duty, his brother’s had been a bargain. And Shane’s… love, if he was allowed to that, if it had ever been, had been as a mirage, dissolving now into the amber-gray twilight of his Boston evening. And wasn't that the oldest story, the first story, the only story that mattered? That some bodies are built wrong for love, that some hearts are too different to be wanted? Ilya had grown up learning this in Russian, then understanding it, finally and again, in English. Ilya. Ilya was a small name he dared hope still lived beneath his caricature. Ilya was a boy from Moscow, the son of a dead woman and a forgetting man, a pair of blue eyes, a cock, a shimmering, golden player whose heart sold for nothing at all. He’d once read, in a strange book, that life was a room with no doors. You could see the light on the other side of the walls, watch shadows of people moving in their ordinary lives, their boring Canadian lives, their lives where love was native and natural. He’d read this once, when he was eleven and hadn’t understood. The couch was that room. The house was that room. His body was that room, estranged walls enclosing his still heart that beat an unfamiliar rhythm, that wanted in foreign ways, in a man speaking a language Ilya had not mastered yet. His body moved eventually, because bodies do, because Ilya's body had been trained since childhood to perform, to function. Because the half-light was starting to burn against his eyes, because his skin felt too tight, because there was a part in him that moved and survived, his mother, his father, survived every city and every hotel room and every morning after Shane left, a part of him that still had to breathe. What a luxury. He stood. The floor was cold under his bare feet, the chill spreading up through his ankles, his calves, nesting somewhere behind his sternum, where Shane's name still echoed in the accent Shane had hopefully learned to love, however briefly. He made his way to the kitchen, where he’d make Shane a tuna melt. In that beautiful, expensive American kitchen, Shane had sat at the counter drinking ginger ale, watching Ilya fumble a simple recipe because it was different to cook while being watched. Shane had been wearing Ilya's shirt because his own had been discarded somewhere in the tangle of getting undressed. The domesticity of it had been startling. Sharp, as the first cut of stakes on fresh ice. The way Shane had looked at him, sleepy and warm, had made Ilya think that maybe love didn't have to stay impossible forever. That maybe could translate into having, into keeping, into staying. The entryway materialized out of the half-dark, and Ilya stood between the counter and the windows. Shane's shirt. White, expensive, crumpled on the floor where it had fallen from the chair. And white, Ilya thought hazily, white like a fallen flag, like ice before blades. His jacket draped over the back, the fabric still holding the shape of Shane's shoulders, still cradling the ghost of him. Shane had left wearing Ilya's clothes. Shane was out there right now, walking through Boston, through American streets in an American city where people fell in love in American ways that made sense, wearing Ilya's shirt, Ilya's scent clinging to the fabric, and Ilya was here with what he left behind. They'd traded pieces without meaning to, an exchange that would've been tender, he supposed, in another life. They'd traded bodies, in a way. Traded skins. Shane wearing Ilya's foreignness while Ilya stood here about to wrap himself in Shane's Canadian cologne and Canadian cotton and Canadian leaving. Ilya crouched. The movement felt distant, like watching someone else's body fold down toward the floor. His fingers found the shirt first, cotton soft. Cologne and sweat and soap and underneath it all that was just Shane, just his skin, the scent Ilya had learned in hotel rooms and every dark corner they'd ever stolen for themselves. The scent of the only foreign thing Ilya had ever wanted to keep, had ever wanted to claim as his, had ever wanted to wrap around himself and call home. The first sob caught in his throat like all the words he'd never said in English or Russian or any language that lived between them. The second one followed, and the third, building pressure behind his eyes until tears came. The tears were hot against his skin, tracking paths down to his jaw, soaking into the collar of Shane's shirt until it darkened with damp, until he became part of the fabric, left crumpled on the ground in a hurry he’s not yet understood. There wasn't much to understand. Tears would dry. After, when the tears had run themselves out, when his face felt tight and swollen, as Ilya felt much lighter, Ilya stood again. The shirt was still in his hands. The jacket waited on the chair. He put on the shirt first. Slipped his arms through the sleeves, pulled it over his shoulders. The fabric slid against his skin, cool and intimate, and when it settled into place it fit like it had been made for him, like Shane's body had been designed to echo his, like they were variations on the same theme played in different keys. The shoulders aligned perfectly. The sleeves ended exactly at his wrists. The length hit precisely where it should. Of course it did. He and Shane were equals. Equals on the ice they matched in every way that made no difference when it came to staying or leaving. Shane's clothes knew Ilya's body the way Shane did. After seven years one ought to know the other. The jacket came next. Its weight was strangely familiar. Ilya looked down at himself. At Shane's white t-shirt over his chest, over his foreign heart that beat in foreign rhythms. At Shane's jacket hanging open over it. At his own hands emerging from Shane's sleeves. The shirt had wrinkled. His fault. Maybe Shane was also looking down, as he felt cold in that singular shirt, maybe Shane was thinking about him. Maybe Shane was breathing in the scent of Ilya's laundry soap, the strange intimacy of wearing someone else's clothes, someone else's life, someone else's love. Maybe Shane was regretting it. Maybe Shane would turn around, come back, say he was sorry, say he was scared, say he wanted to try. Or maybe – maybe, Ilya, Shane was already forgetting. Already smoothing out the wrinkles. You know he always smoothed them out. The amber glow painted him in shades of ending. He let it. There was nothing else to do. Nothing else he'd ever been good for but this, wanting what he couldn't have, loving in a language no one spoke, wearing someone else's clothes, as if it kept him warm, as if it made him native, as if it made him enough. Love was foreign in his foreign body. And Shane - Shane was gone.	Ilya, Ill-loved Hollander. Hollander. The couch still held imprints of Shane’s warmth where Ilya hadn’t moved, the cushions pressed into the shape of someone who used to be possible – and wasn’t that always the way of it? That the best things left only their impressions, the ghost of heat, the evidence of having been. The room had gone dark, shadows climbing in the corners. Some form of light bled through the windows, filtering the foyer in shades of gray and amber, imprecise, smoothing out the edges of an unending moment, and Ilya found himself in awake in a dream. There was a stale bitterness on the root of his tongue, recycled in his breath, and it tasted like a breath through fabric. His house had stopped breathing. And perhaps it had. Perhaps houses knew about leaving the way bodies did. There was a space between his ribs where the absence echoed, patient and cold as winter in Moscow, as certain as the ice reforming over black water. He’d felt it long ago and foolishly ignored and insulted. He should move. His body had always known how to move, across ice, through water, into every sequence of his existence. But now he had forgotten. The light from outside barely reached him, dying somewhere between the window and where he sat, swallowed by furniture and walls. To the end this was what he had come to. This half-lit thing. This foreign body in a foreign country speaking a foreign language. It always had been. Ilya was no translator. The crossing from his heart to his words was, had been, tiresome transactions of remarks, of impressions, of empty envelopes of feelings. His mother's love had been a drowning, his father's love had been a duty, his brother’s had been a bargain. And Shane’s… love, if he was allowed to that, if it had ever been, had been as a mirage, dissolving now into the amber-gray twilight of his Boston evening. And wasn't that the oldest story, the first story, the only story that mattered? That some bodies are built wrong for love, that some hearts are too different to be wanted? Ilya had grown up learning this in Russian, then understanding it, finally and again, in English. Ilya. Ilya was a small name he dared hope still lived beneath his caricature. Ilya was a boy from Moscow, the son of a dead woman and a forgetting man, a pair of blue eyes, a cock, a shimmering, golden player whose heart sold for nothing at all. He’d once read, in a strange book, that life was a room with no doors. You could see the light on the other side of the walls, watch shadows of people moving in their ordinary lives, their boring Canadian lives, their lives where love was native and natural. He’d read this once, when he was eleven and hadn’t understood. The couch was that room. The house was that room. His body was that room, estranged walls enclosing his still heart that beat an unfamiliar rhythm, that wanted in foreign ways, in a man speaking a language Ilya had not mastered yet. His body moved eventually, because bodies do, because Ilya's body had been trained since childhood to perform, to function. Because the half-light was starting to burn against his eyes, because his skin felt too tight, because there was a part in him that moved and survived, his mother, his father, survived every city and every hotel room and every morning after Shane left, a part of him that still had to breathe. What a luxury. He stood. The floor was cold under his bare feet, the chill spreading up through his ankles, his calves, nesting somewhere behind his sternum, where Shane's name still echoed in the accent Shane had hopefully learned to love, however briefly. He made his way to the kitchen, where he’d make Shane a tuna melt. In that beautiful, expensive American kitchen, Shane had sat at the counter drinking ginger ale, watching Ilya fumble a simple recipe because it was different to cook while being watched. Shane had been wearing Ilya's shirt because his own had been discarded somewhere in the tangle of getting undressed. The domesticity of it had been startling. Sharp, as the first cut of stakes on fresh ice. The way Shane had looked at him, sleepy and warm, had made Ilya think that maybe love didn't have to stay impossible forever. That maybe could translate into having, into keeping, into staying. The entryway materialized out of the half-dark, and Ilya stood between the counter and the windows. Shane's shirt. White, expensive, crumpled on the floor where it had fallen from the chair. And white, Ilya thought hazily, white like a fallen flag, like ice before blades. His jacket draped over the back, the fabric still holding the shape of Shane's shoulders, still cradling the ghost of him. Shane had left wearing Ilya's clothes. Shane was out there right now, walking through Boston, through American streets in an American city where people fell in love in American ways that made sense, wearing Ilya's shirt, Ilya's scent clinging to the fabric, and Ilya was here with what he left behind. They'd traded pieces without meaning to, an exchange that would've been tender, he supposed, in another life. They'd traded bodies, in a way. Traded skins. Shane wearing Ilya's foreignness while Ilya stood here about to wrap himself in Shane's Canadian cologne and Canadian cotton and Canadian leaving. Ilya crouched. The movement felt distant, like watching someone else's body fold down toward the floor. His fingers found the shirt first, cotton soft. Cologne and sweat and soap and underneath it all that was just Shane, just his skin, the scent Ilya had learned in hotel rooms and every dark corner they'd ever stolen for themselves. The scent of the only foreign thing Ilya had ever wanted to keep, had ever wanted to claim as his, had ever wanted to wrap around himself and call home. The first sob caught in his throat like all the words he'd never said in English or Russian or any language that lived between them. The second one followed, and the third, building pressure behind his eyes until tears came. The tears were hot against his skin, tracking paths down to his jaw, soaking into the collar of Shane's shirt until it darkened with damp, until he became part of the fabric, left crumpled on the ground in a hurry he’s not yet understood. There wasn't much to understand. Tears would dry. After, when the tears had run themselves out, when his face felt tight and swollen, as Ilya felt much lighter, Ilya stood again. The shirt was still in his hands. The jacket waited on the chair. He put on the shirt first. Slipped his arms through the sleeves, pulled it over his shoulders. The fabric slid against his skin, cool and intimate, and when it settled into place it fit like it had been made for him, like Shane's body had been designed to echo his, like they were variations on the same theme played in different keys. The shoulders aligned perfectly. The sleeves ended exactly at his wrists. The length hit precisely where it should. Of course it did. He and Shane were equals. Equals on the ice they matched in every way that made no difference when it came to staying or leaving. Shane's clothes knew Ilya's body the way Shane did. After seven years one ought to know the other. The jacket came next. Its weight was strangely familiar. Ilya looked down at himself. At Shane's white t-shirt over his chest, over his foreign heart that beat in foreign rhythms. At Shane's jacket hanging open over it. At his own hands emerging from Shane's sleeves. The shirt had wrinkled. His fault. Maybe Shane was also looking down, as he felt cold in that singular shirt, maybe Shane was thinking about him. Maybe Shane was breathing in the scent of Ilya's laundry soap, the strange intimacy of wearing someone else's clothes, someone else's life, someone else's love. Maybe Shane was regretting it. Maybe Shane would turn around, come back, say he was sorry, say he was scared, say he wanted to try. Or maybe – maybe, Ilya, Shane was already forgetting. Already smoothing out the wrinkles. You know he always smoothed them out. The amber glow painted him in shades of ending. He let it. There was nothing else to do. Nothing else he'd ever been good for but this, wanting what he couldn't have, loving in a language no one spoke, wearing someone else's clothes, as if it kept him warm, as if it made him native, as if it made him enough. Love was foreign in his foreign body. And Shane - Shane was gone.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75736026	{"authors": ["DrtLilRhod"], "language": "English", "title": "Ilya, Ill-loved"}
What really happened at woodstock. At woodstock… 1969… august 16…. 7:25pm The lead singer of canned heat named bob took a sip of his tab soda. “Ahh refreshing… btw we gotta perform in like 5 minutes… where is alan wilson, my fellow blues enthusiast and who will play the harmonica” Alan wilson flipped into the backstage area of woodstock, holding a sprite. He took a sip “sorry i was getting this sprite had to warm up my vocal cords to play the harmonica even tho caffeine dries ur throat” “Nice” said another member of the band. “Wait alan you have to sing going up the country dont drink a sprite” “No i dont” “Yes you do check setlist.fm you sing it second” “Damn…” alan said, adjusting his glasses and sipping his sprite yet again… There was silence among the woodstockian fields because i guess there was an hour between sets and the previous act was the incredible string band (keep in mind, it shouldve been strawberry alarm clock). Alan grabbed a slamburger from the artist food table. “Wow i love slamburgers” Jimi hendrix popped his head in “thats a hamburger” “No its not its a slamburger” he said, pointing at the catering sign from around the world in 80 plates, a local upstate new york treasure. “Why do you hate me jimi” Jimi lit his guitar on fire with a match and screamed “SCATTER!!!”. The members of canned heat ran from their seats, and prepared to perform at woodstock. As alan takes his place on the stage, Suddenly, there was a crack of thunder. Or lightning idk does lightning make a noise. Then, a huge gust of wind. And alan was taken by the wind. fast fwd sfx 30 YEARS LATER. WOODSTOCK 1999. “And the final song i will be performing” said jamiroquai even tho jamiroquai is the band not the guy “… i think you know it… its named after my favorite performer at the og woodstock..” Jon heder as napoleon dynamite enters the stage and waves, even though famously that movie didnt come out until 2004. Everyone cheers as he begins to perform ‘canned heat’. SUDDENTLY, theres a huge gust of wind, and in blows alan wilson of canned heat. “Hello everybody i will be playing the harmonica to this song” said alan, into the microphone mid song while he (the guy from jamiroquai) was singing. He didnt know it obviously so he was just improvising. Then, there was a huge gust of wind, and alan flew away, back to the OG woodstock. And this is why I think Canned Heat should be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Ohio.	What really happened at woodstock. At woodstock… 1969… august 16…. 7:25pm The lead singer of canned heat named bob took a sip of his tab soda. “Ahh refreshing… btw we gotta perform in like 5 minutes… where is alan wilson, my fellow blues enthusiast and who will play the harmonica” Alan wilson flipped into the backstage area of woodstock, holding a sprite. He took a sip “sorry i was getting this sprite had to warm up my vocal cords to play the harmonica even tho caffeine dries ur throat” “Nice” said another member of the band. “Wait alan you have to sing going up the country dont drink a sprite” “No i dont” “Yes you do check setlist.fm you sing it second” “Damn…” alan said, adjusting his glasses and sipping his sprite yet again… There was silence among the woodstockian fields because i guess there was an hour between sets and the previous act was the incredible string band (keep in mind, it shouldve been strawberry alarm clock). Alan grabbed a slamburger from the artist food table. “Wow i love slamburgers” Jimi hendrix popped his head in “thats a hamburger” “No its not its a slamburger” he said, pointing at the catering sign from around the world in 80 plates, a local upstate new york treasure. “Why do you hate me jimi” Jimi lit his guitar on fire with a match and screamed “SCATTER!!!”. The members of canned heat ran from their seats, and prepared to perform at woodstock. As alan takes his place on the stage, Suddenly, there was a crack of thunder. Or lightning idk does lightning make a noise. Then, a huge gust of wind. And alan was taken by the wind. fast fwd sfx 30 YEARS LATER. WOODSTOCK 1999. “And the final song i will be performing” said jamiroquai even tho jamiroquai is the band not the guy “… i think you know it… its named after my favorite performer at the og woodstock..” Jon heder as napoleon dynamite enters the stage and waves, even though famously that movie didnt come out until 2004. Everyone cheers as he begins to perform ‘canned heat’. SUDDENTLY, theres a huge gust of wind, and in blows alan wilson of canned heat. “Hello everybody i will be playing the harmonica to this song” said alan, into the microphone mid song while he (the guy from jamiroquai) was singing. He didnt know it obviously so he was just improvising. Then, there was a huge gust of wind, and alan flew away, back to the OG woodstock. And this is why I think Canned Heat should be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Ohio.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75735316	{"authors": ["flutekid"], "language": "English", "title": "What really happened at woodstock."}
A call from the space Crickets chirped, cars could be heard passing through in the distance... It was practically silent, perfect for drifting off into dreamland, a place to stay with your most loved ones or... losing them all over again. Where only the alarm of the clock would stop you from running away, of your problems and the nightmare you had of life. There was 007n7, the well known ex-exploiter, struggling, clearing his mind to sleep, but not wanting to chase in his dreams someone who was now missing in nightmares that had no happy ending. He wished that one day his son would come back in the same way he disappeared. He hoped to see him one more time, watching him play in the living room with legos and his plushies, having breakfast with him and listening to whatever he said... even if sometimes it didn't make any sense. Just to see his little face, just to spend time with him... all the time he didn't spend with him... just to see him one more time He was at the porch of his house, both arms clinging onto the arm of the railing with a blank stare, his mind filled with bad thoughts. The cold air passed through his loosely and grassy hair, hugging him to feel how lonely he was. The black circles under his eyes were there, but covered by his glasses reflecting into nothing. He hadn't sleep well since he lost his child, he hadn't eat healthy food or a good schedule to anything, not even going out as much as he did before when he was putting missing posters of his son, only for him. He was so worried about his son but he couldn't help feeling so guilty, he left his son behind alone... He never wished his kid being something similar to his past self... But his selfishness to give him "a better future" let to this path... and he deserved it. Many years causing havoc in robloxians were finally coming for him. In the past he would make fun of people, changing theirs skins, make them spin in to the air. And now look at him people couldn't support losing someone. His little devil son. Where could he be?... disappear without any trace... He tried finding kidd with c00lgui a long time ago, even though he quit exploiting, this was an emergency, but his efforts were for nothing at all.. Floating in the highs to no one notices, C00lgui in hands, attached like his life was depending on it (it kinda did), searching for the small red figure, pulling commands to locate his son, looking for a red trace, some tail waving around or his little horns... Nothing appear. Not even a single sign of where he was His hope was digging his own tomb. A tomb where his body perfectly fit. Only the alert of something bigger would get him out of his trance. Something out of this universe. A few stars were shining, but not as much as other days, the sky was in a deep shade of blue, almost black. For some reason one star from above was the most brighter, sparkling if you looking for a while but it was getting bigger by each second, almost as it was getting closer and closer. I was strange. Only shooting stars would do something like that and it would ending crashing with some time. Something was happening A big blizzzz sounded from the sky, the ex-exploiter almost jumped recovering conscience to notice something was floating over his house. "W-what th-" A light from above was drop down. Making a buzzing sound. He flinches. !!! The wind became erratic, moving side to side. "I-is that an... OMMI!?" Blinking twice even fixing his glasses checking if he was correct. In all his life as an exploiter he has never seen an omni. He could make the world burn, spin around and make disaster with a click if he was bored... but never saw a real alien, unbelievable. Of course he had heard about them, he really never cared about aliens and things out the planet. But being so close to meeting one, was this an achievement? "Am I getting abducted?" "Aliens are real!?" "Why me?" Many thoughts were revolving in his head, getting at his nerves. He couldn't stand right there doing nothing. He needed to move. He rushed to open the door and enter his house faster as he could, seeing two silhouettes going down in the light as he slam the door. He stumbled back at the door putting both hands on the door as making weight, to whatever was going down wouldn't force and open the door, eyes drifting searching for something that could help him, trying to process everything that happened, cursing under his breath. While he calmed down, he could hear some pitched voices coming from outside "blerp Zeep blarp zap-" "Zeep blarp Robloxep..." It was strange, in someway they were communicating. A suden knock at his door was heard. "Did it just knock the door" the brunette whispered to himself and then again it repeated "just great... even aliens have manners" He said, taken aback. With nothing more to lose he opens the door, to be greeted by the two silhouettes, he saw before. "Zepp Zlorp... Peace..." A light green alien with a burger hat very similar to the one who was wearing the ex-exploiter, rising both hand as showing there was no harm. "Zeep zepp" an smaller alien with uniform intense green response, seem nervous but with a big smile that didn't disappear. Seven did a nervous wave at them, taken back by a sudden tug of his raised hand by the burger alien, shaking it like it was the last handshake he would ever make. "Zeep Zeeeep" was the last thing they say as then, they enter in the house with a curious look. They didn't do much than touch and peek objects around, some of them frames of 7n7 and C00lkid together, toys remains of C00lkidd or any simple thing. With hope, 007n7 glanced through the window searching for the omni. The omni was no longer in view but the aliens seem they would stay for much more longer. This was going to be a really long night...	A call from the space Crickets chirped, cars could be heard passing through in the distance... It was practically silent, perfect for drifting off into dreamland, a place to stay with your most loved ones or... losing them all over again. Where only the alarm of the clock would stop you from running away, of your problems and the nightmare you had of life. There was 007n7, the well known ex-exploiter, struggling, clearing his mind to sleep, but not wanting to chase in his dreams someone who was now missing in nightmares that had no happy ending. He wished that one day his son would come back in the same way he disappeared. He hoped to see him one more time, watching him play in the living room with legos and his plushies, having breakfast with him and listening to whatever he said... even if sometimes it didn't make any sense. Just to see his little face, just to spend time with him... all the time he didn't spend with him... just to see him one more time He was at the porch of his house, both arms clinging onto the arm of the railing with a blank stare, his mind filled with bad thoughts. The cold air passed through his loosely and grassy hair, hugging him to feel how lonely he was. The black circles under his eyes were there, but covered by his glasses reflecting into nothing. He hadn't sleep well since he lost his child, he hadn't eat healthy food or a good schedule to anything, not even going out as much as he did before when he was putting missing posters of his son, only for him. He was so worried about his son but he couldn't help feeling so guilty, he left his son behind alone... He never wished his kid being something similar to his past self... But his selfishness to give him "a better future" let to this path... and he deserved it. Many years causing havoc in robloxians were finally coming for him. In the past he would make fun of people, changing theirs skins, make them spin in to the air. And now look at him people couldn't support losing someone. His little devil son. Where could he be?... disappear without any trace... He tried finding kidd with c00lgui a long time ago, even though he quit exploiting, this was an emergency, but his efforts were for nothing at all.. Floating in the highs to no one notices, C00lgui in hands, attached like his life was depending on it (it kinda did), searching for the small red figure, pulling commands to locate his son, looking for a red trace, some tail waving around or his little horns... Nothing appear. Not even a single sign of where he was His hope was digging his own tomb. A tomb where his body perfectly fit. Only the alert of something bigger would get him out of his trance. Something out of this universe. A few stars were shining, but not as much as other days, the sky was in a deep shade of blue, almost black. For some reason one star from above was the most brighter, sparkling if you looking for a while but it was getting bigger by each second, almost as it was getting closer and closer. I was strange. Only shooting stars would do something like that and it would ending crashing with some time. Something was happening A big blizzzz sounded from the sky, the ex-exploiter almost jumped recovering conscience to notice something was floating over his house. "W-what th-" A light from above was drop down. Making a buzzing sound. He flinches. !!! The wind became erratic, moving side to side. "I-is that an... OMMI!?" Blinking twice even fixing his glasses checking if he was correct. In all his life as an exploiter he has never seen an omni. He could make the world burn, spin around and make disaster with a click if he was bored... but never saw a real alien, unbelievable. Of course he had heard about them, he really never cared about aliens and things out the planet. But being so close to meeting one, was this an achievement? "Am I getting abducted?" "Aliens are real!?" "Why me?" Many thoughts were revolving in his head, getting at his nerves. He couldn't stand right there doing nothing. He needed to move. He rushed to open the door and enter his house faster as he could, seeing two silhouettes going down in the light as he slam the door. He stumbled back at the door putting both hands on the door as making weight, to whatever was going down wouldn't force and open the door, eyes drifting searching for something that could help him, trying to process everything that happened, cursing under his breath. While he calmed down, he could hear some pitched voices coming from outside "blerp Zeep blarp zap-" "Zeep blarp Robloxep..." It was strange, in someway they were communicating. A suden knock at his door was heard. "Did it just knock the door" the brunette whispered to himself and then again it repeated "just great... even aliens have manners" He said, taken aback. With nothing more to lose he opens the door, to be greeted by the two silhouettes, he saw before. "Zepp Zlorp... Peace..." A light green alien with a burger hat very similar to the one who was wearing the ex-exploiter, rising both hand as showing there was no harm. "Zeep zepp" an smaller alien with uniform intense green response, seem nervous but with a big smile that didn't disappear. Seven did a nervous wave at them, taken back by a sudden tug of his raised hand by the burger alien, shaking it like it was the last handshake he would ever make. "Zeep Zeeeep" was the last thing they say as then, they enter in the house with a curious look. They didn't do much than touch and peek objects around, some of them frames of 7n7 and C00lkid together, toys remains of C00lkidd or any simple thing. With hope, 007n7 glanced through the window searching for the omni. The omni was no longer in view but the aliens seem they would stay for much more longer. This was going to be a really long night...	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75736641/chapters/198089511	{"authors": ["RoseTTe4507"], "language": "English", "title": "A call from the space"}
Сердце получает нож “In the name of the Imperator, I command you one last time, Helektra. Either sacrifice yourself for conquest, or pierce this tyrant’s chest with your sword.” A simple ultimatum. A simple choice. A simple strike. Hysilens had spent the entirety of her immortal life turning herself into the perfect weapon. She had relished in it, she knew that. Like a shark, tearing a seal to pieces. She had smiled as she tore her foes apart, even before her blade had purpose. She was a monster, a beast, a sword. It was almost too easy, she thought, to turn that cruelty on her Imperator. Hysilens drove her blade through Cerydra’s chest, a careful strike that cleanly pierced through her aorta and out the other side of her body with a splatter of golden blood. Why was it so easy? Why had Hysilens chosen to level her sword against the woman that was her everything? A true, loyal knight would have had no thought but to fall upon their own weapon for their monarch, happily laying their life down and ensuring a thousand more years of conquest. So why could Hysilens not? It was simple. Obvious, even. As tears dripped down her face, as her sword came away from Cerydra’s chest, as those brilliant eyes looked up at her with an unusually kind smile, Hysilens knew the answer. She was no knight. Helektra was nothing but a cruel, violent fish, who only called herself a knight to sate her own bloodlust. She was selfish and hungry and brutal. All Helektra had ever wanted was the taste of blood. Helektra sat down at her chair with a grin, her Imperator at her side. Finally, that promised feast had arrived. She looked around her, seeing her fellow Chrysos Heirs smiling and talking amongst each other, food piled high all around the banquet hall, before her gaze turned to meet Cerydra’s shining blue eyes, a warm smile on her face as she gestured to the table before the two. “Well, my knight? Your banquet awaits. I hope you haven’t changed your mind, as I would hate for all of this to go to waste.” Helektra hesitantly smiled, wide and toothy, before she looked down to her plate. It was filled with all manner of fatty, delicious-looking meats, a goblet of the finest wine Cerydra could find just past it. “Of course, my Imperator. Thank you.” Cerydra raised her cup, and Helektra met it with a clink. “Anything for you, Helektra.” The two drank in unison. It tasted strange, almost metallic, but sweeter than anything Helektra had ever drank nonetheless. It was perfect, and even as some dribbled down her chin, she was the happiest she had ever been. She started licking her fingers clean. When had they become so soaked in wine? The liquid flashed gold on Helektra’s fingertips for just a moment, claws dripping with honey, and her eyes widened. Then, she shook her head, and the wine was deep red once more. Just a trick of the light. It was just a trick of the light. Still, Helektra set her goblet back on the table and turned her attention to her plate, tearing a chunk away from the largest slab of meat and ripping at it with her teeth. It tasted incredible, better than anything she had ever had before, and Helektra couldn’t help herself from continuing to bite at it, almost violently, less like a knight and more like a shark. A vision flashed as she closed her eyes - Cerydra, laying in a quiet pool, blood spilled around her and staining the water gold, her torso messily torn apart. Helektra shook her head to clear the vision, clutching it. Her eyes were swimming as she opened them, vision flashing between that awful sight of her Imperator, brutally ripped open, and the plate of meat before her, mirroring that same image. She almost jumped when a hand touched her shoulder, and she turned to see Cerydra, concern in her eyes. “Helektra? Are you alright?” Her voice was quieter than Helektra was used to, barely audible above the din of the banquet. Helektra pulled her hand from her face, and it came away wet, covered in tears and blood constantly changing colors, shining gold and deep red. She didn’t respond. As she opened her mouth, all that came out was a soft, pained sound and a few drops of blood. Cerydra’s hand moved from her shoulder to her cheek, rubbing it softly. “It’s okay, my knight. All is well. You’re done. There is nothing more to fear. All you have to do is eat.” Helektra nodded as Cerydra reached past her plate to grab a gold-skinned apple off of a platter of fruit, handing it to her with a soft smile. Helektra took the apple, soft and warm in her hands, trying to smile back. “All I have to do is eat.” The apple was sweet, with that same metallic yet incredible taste as the wine, almost exploding in Helektra’s mouth with juice that shone gold for just a moment. She dug into it, not even acknowledging the core — Why would she, when it tasted so good? The apple’s juice dripped down her face and stained her dress, but she couldn’t stop herself from tearing into it violently, finishing with a satisfied smile. Helektra looked back up to her Imperator, who was grinning back at her, before leaning forwards as their lips met. Helektra was crying as she kissed Cerydra back, bracing her hand against the back of the woman she loved’s head, not even caring for how the hall quieted down to hushed whispers. It didn’t matter. Helektra was kissing her Imperator, and she couldn’t be happier, even as gold still dribbled from her mouth and she grew aware of the water lapping at her legs. She opened her eyes, and the ones looking back at her were dull. The lips she was pressed against were cooling, body heat sapped by the cold waters, and the hand she held was limp. Helektra pulled away, gazing down at the mangled form of her Imperator, torso completely ripped open, heart carefully plucked from her chest and messily devoured. The taste of Cerydra’s blood, her flesh, her lips, was still on Helektra’s tongue. She almost retched, but she knew, deep inside her soul, that there was no part of her that was willing to part with any piece of her Imperator, even if they were together in such a grotesque manner. It was that same knowledge that led Helektra to dig her clawed fingertips into Cerydra’s neck, ripping out chunks of flesh as she continued this promised feast, tears streaming down her face and mixing with the golden blood endlessly spilling from her mouth. Helektra knew she was a monster. She knew that this was cruel. She knew, with cold certainty, that she should have driven her blade, now cast aside, through her own heart, rather than allow this messy banquet. But she knew with even more certainty that she did not regret what she had done. After all, why would a simple shark regret eating a seal?	Сердце получает нож “In the name of the Imperator, I command you one last time, Helektra. Either sacrifice yourself for conquest, or pierce this tyrant’s chest with your sword.” A simple ultimatum. A simple choice. A simple strike. Hysilens had spent the entirety of her immortal life turning herself into the perfect weapon. She had relished in it, she knew that. Like a shark, tearing a seal to pieces. She had smiled as she tore her foes apart, even before her blade had purpose. She was a monster, a beast, a sword. It was almost too easy, she thought, to turn that cruelty on her Imperator. Hysilens drove her blade through Cerydra’s chest, a careful strike that cleanly pierced through her aorta and out the other side of her body with a splatter of golden blood. Why was it so easy? Why had Hysilens chosen to level her sword against the woman that was her everything? A true, loyal knight would have had no thought but to fall upon their own weapon for their monarch, happily laying their life down and ensuring a thousand more years of conquest. So why could Hysilens not? It was simple. Obvious, even. As tears dripped down her face, as her sword came away from Cerydra’s chest, as those brilliant eyes looked up at her with an unusually kind smile, Hysilens knew the answer. She was no knight. Helektra was nothing but a cruel, violent fish, who only called herself a knight to sate her own bloodlust. She was selfish and hungry and brutal. All Helektra had ever wanted was the taste of blood. Helektra sat down at her chair with a grin, her Imperator at her side. Finally, that promised feast had arrived. She looked around her, seeing her fellow Chrysos Heirs smiling and talking amongst each other, food piled high all around the banquet hall, before her gaze turned to meet Cerydra’s shining blue eyes, a warm smile on her face as she gestured to the table before the two. “Well, my knight? Your banquet awaits. I hope you haven’t changed your mind, as I would hate for all of this to go to waste.” Helektra hesitantly smiled, wide and toothy, before she looked down to her plate. It was filled with all manner of fatty, delicious-looking meats, a goblet of the finest wine Cerydra could find just past it. “Of course, my Imperator. Thank you.” Cerydra raised her cup, and Helektra met it with a clink. “Anything for you, Helektra.” The two drank in unison. It tasted strange, almost metallic, but sweeter than anything Helektra had ever drank nonetheless. It was perfect, and even as some dribbled down her chin, she was the happiest she had ever been. She started licking her fingers clean. When had they become so soaked in wine? The liquid flashed gold on Helektra’s fingertips for just a moment, claws dripping with honey, and her eyes widened. Then, she shook her head, and the wine was deep red once more. Just a trick of the light. It was just a trick of the light. Still, Helektra set her goblet back on the table and turned her attention to her plate, tearing a chunk away from the largest slab of meat and ripping at it with her teeth. It tasted incredible, better than anything she had ever had before, and Helektra couldn’t help herself from continuing to bite at it, almost violently, less like a knight and more like a shark. A vision flashed as she closed her eyes - Cerydra, laying in a quiet pool, blood spilled around her and staining the water gold, her torso messily torn apart. Helektra shook her head to clear the vision, clutching it. Her eyes were swimming as she opened them, vision flashing between that awful sight of her Imperator, brutally ripped open, and the plate of meat before her, mirroring that same image. She almost jumped when a hand touched her shoulder, and she turned to see Cerydra, concern in her eyes. “Helektra? Are you alright?” Her voice was quieter than Helektra was used to, barely audible above the din of the banquet. Helektra pulled her hand from her face, and it came away wet, covered in tears and blood constantly changing colors, shining gold and deep red. She didn’t respond. As she opened her mouth, all that came out was a soft, pained sound and a few drops of blood. Cerydra’s hand moved from her shoulder to her cheek, rubbing it softly. “It’s okay, my knight. All is well. You’re done. There is nothing more to fear. All you have to do is eat.” Helektra nodded as Cerydra reached past her plate to grab a gold-skinned apple off of a platter of fruit, handing it to her with a soft smile. Helektra took the apple, soft and warm in her hands, trying to smile back. “All I have to do is eat.” The apple was sweet, with that same metallic yet incredible taste as the wine, almost exploding in Helektra’s mouth with juice that shone gold for just a moment. She dug into it, not even acknowledging the core — Why would she, when it tasted so good? The apple’s juice dripped down her face and stained her dress, but she couldn’t stop herself from tearing into it violently, finishing with a satisfied smile. Helektra looked back up to her Imperator, who was grinning back at her, before leaning forwards as their lips met. Helektra was crying as she kissed Cerydra back, bracing her hand against the back of the woman she loved’s head, not even caring for how the hall quieted down to hushed whispers. It didn’t matter. Helektra was kissing her Imperator, and she couldn’t be happier, even as gold still dribbled from her mouth and she grew aware of the water lapping at her legs. She opened her eyes, and the ones looking back at her were dull. The lips she was pressed against were cooling, body heat sapped by the cold waters, and the hand she held was limp. Helektra pulled away, gazing down at the mangled form of her Imperator, torso completely ripped open, heart carefully plucked from her chest and messily devoured. The taste of Cerydra’s blood, her flesh, her lips, was still on Helektra’s tongue. She almost retched, but she knew, deep inside her soul, that there was no part of her that was willing to part with any piece of her Imperator, even if they were together in such a grotesque manner. It was that same knowledge that led Helektra to dig her clawed fingertips into Cerydra’s neck, ripping out chunks of flesh as she continued this promised feast, tears streaming down her face and mixing with the golden blood endlessly spilling from her mouth. Helektra knew she was a monster. She knew that this was cruel. She knew, with cold certainty, that she should have driven her blade, now cast aside, through her own heart, rather than allow this messy banquet. But she knew with even more certainty that she did not regret what she had done. After all, why would a simple shark regret eating a seal?	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75733456	{"authors": ["somethin_original"], "language": "English", "title": "Сердце получает нож"}
Shared Meal, Shared Love! With all the training regiments and strict rituals Germany imposed on himself, it was rare that he got a moment of peace. To have an entire day was a blessing, practically unheard of! But, it was what he had earned on this particular Saturday. It was perfect. There he was, sat upon the plush cushions of the couch. The cushion to his left had a hole in it with some stuffing coming out, thanks to Prussia. That was his last visit. Upstairs, Austria was playing the piano, like always. If Germany recalled correctly, this piece was.. Rachmaninoff Concerto 2. For all the times he had told him to shut up, he was rather enjoying the lovely music now. "Ah.." he sighed, relaxing at last. For once, he allowed himself to be something less than presentable. Germany felt himself yawning, sinking into the comfortable furniture. Perhaps, it wouldn't hurt to take a little nap, no matter how undignified the position was.. An hour or two later, the blond was awakened by a gentle rapping at the door. He sat up as though being timed for it, running a hand through his disheveled hair to try and slick it back. Germany then marched to the door, looking through the peephole. It was.. Japan..? His heart rate slowed.. just Japan, yes. He opened the door, curious. The Asian country stood there, hands behind his back. A small, barely perceptible smile graced his face as he caught sight of his ally. "Germany," he greeted, bowing ever so slightly. "I do apologize for the sudden visit, but.." He held out what had been previously hidden. Two plastic bags, one sagging a bit more than the other. And boy.. did they smell heavenly. Germany felt his mouth water immediately. "You see.." Japan began, keeping his gaze down, "I was making myself dinner, and some tea to go with it. It was then that I realized.. I made extra." Germany rose an eyebrow. That was extremely unlikely. He knew Japan like the back of his hand, and the idea of the man miscalculating something he was so precise in was almost impossible! Why would Japan lie about that? Or perhaps it was the truth, and for once, he got distracted and make a mistake. It was then that he looked at him. Truly looked, at Japan. The sun was falling behind him, hitting the other's dark hair perfectly to frame it in that subtle hint of brown. It was around late noon, Germany guessed. As if the offer of dinner wasn't obvious enough.. Anyways.. those high cheekbones and the shadows casted against his face. And his eyes.. he had always admired their pretty shade of hazel, and those monolids. Yes, if he had to pick, Japan's eyes were Germany's favorite thing about him. Japan cleared his throat, causing Germany to flinch. Right! He had lost himself in staring at the other man.. which had never happened before. Sure, at the meetings of the Axis, he'd steal a few glances.. but he was so sure he caught Japan doing the same before. The taller man stepped aside to allow Japan in, swallowing nervously. "Apologies for making you wait. Please, enter." Japan nodded, removing his shoes out of habit and leaving them neatly pressed against the wall. He proceeded to the kitchen, Germany right following. Behind him, Japan could feel Germany's presence collecting plates and cups for.. them. The two of them, yes. The noiret, safe from Germany's gaze for a brief moment, bit his lip in excitement. He was so glad to have had this opportunity, to be alone with the one he adored most. Japan was always a solitary country. He had gone by sakoku for about 220 years, after all. Everyone else, mostly Europeans, was so loud. Annoying, too! They had no elegance, no sense of refinement. Except for Germany. It felt like they were the only two who got eachother. His Germany.. oh, Japan was ecstatic to be here. The way Germany respected his boundaries, and barely touched him.. when it was only his touch that Japan would allow. The way they shared such a high level of intelligence, and finished eachother's thoughts. Germany's determination, his kindness, the way he always made sure Japan was included.. in fact, the Asian country was so sure that Germany was the one to coax him out of his shell. "Japan, would you care for some help with setting up?" Germany's voice came, right from the left. He hadn't noticed that he'd gotten so close. Japan shook his head, taking the dishware from Germany's hands. Their fingers brushed together briefly, and both men pulled back.. slowly. Simultaneously, they agreed not to speak of that. Germany retreated to the table, sitting down. his hands were folded on his lap. "I do hate to make you do all the work, Japan.. especially after you made the food, too." Japan replied almost instantaneously, "No, it is quite alright. I came unannounced, and it is all my pleasure." It was back to the kitchen, now. With a quiet rustling of the bags as the containers were retrieved, the fragrant scent of the tonkatsu and sencha tea only growing stronger as they were taken out. Japan began preparing Germany's plate, first. The most cardinal part of the yōshoku, the tonkatsu itself, was gently set onto the plate. It steamed a bit, still fresh. Then came the rice, almost matching the plate itself in complexion. The shredded cabbage was different, cool and refreshing. Japan finished it off by drizzling the sauce on onto the meat. He could feel the domesticity, the idea of preparing meals for Germany everyday. It didn't seem so bad.. The process was repeated with his own plate, with Japan being sure to add extra sauce. It was a personal preference. Japan headed to the dining room, his steps quiet. He set the plates down on the table, giving Germany a small nod. The European nation didn't dare even look at his serving yet. It was time for the tea. Japan walked back to the kitchen to crack open his thermos, revealing the piping hot liquid. Bringing the two cups together, he gracefully poured an exact half of tea into each. The vegetal smell was intense, but not unpleasant. He brought them back to the dining room, setting them down in their respective spots. Germany was sat at the head of the table, and Japan to his left. "いただきます." "Wohl bekomm es." They dug in, the quiet clack of chopsticks against the dishes and satisfied crunches filling the room. The two spent the remainder of the evening chatting about things that were, for once, completely unrelated to politics. They discussed the arts, their cultures, even the weather! It seemed that just about anything could be interesting if it was coming out of the other's mouth. After taking longer than it really should have, dinner came to an end. Japan stood with the intention to collect the dishware and start washing, before a gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Allow me. It is the least I could do after all your generosity today." Normally, Japan would insist.. but this felt safe, somehow. He simply nodded, knowing Germany wouldn't be upset with him for what he deemed to be such impoliteness. Before he knew it, he felt that same hand guiding him to the door. "I enjoyed spending time with you, Japan. It makes me happy. I hope we can do something like this again soon, ja?" The Asian country blushed at the little tag question. Germany's accent was so cute, sometimes. No, all the time! "Of course. Until next time, ダーリン." Wait a minute. That sounded like- The door slammed shut in his face, with Japan hurriedly walking away. Stupid, stupid! How could he slip up like that? Germany was bound to figure out the truth, now! The blush on his cheeks spread through his face, and he felt like he was burning up. He prayed for some unknown force to kill him now.. Germany, meanwhile, slumped against the door, completely dazed. Surely, he had misheard that.. or his fantasies were turning into hallucinations. Either way, he was so screwed. But in the end.. both were left with their stomachs, and hearts, full.	Shared Meal, Shared Love! With all the training regiments and strict rituals Germany imposed on himself, it was rare that he got a moment of peace. To have an entire day was a blessing, practically unheard of! But, it was what he had earned on this particular Saturday. It was perfect. There he was, sat upon the plush cushions of the couch. The cushion to his left had a hole in it with some stuffing coming out, thanks to Prussia. That was his last visit. Upstairs, Austria was playing the piano, like always. If Germany recalled correctly, this piece was.. Rachmaninoff Concerto 2. For all the times he had told him to shut up, he was rather enjoying the lovely music now. "Ah.." he sighed, relaxing at last. For once, he allowed himself to be something less than presentable. Germany felt himself yawning, sinking into the comfortable furniture. Perhaps, it wouldn't hurt to take a little nap, no matter how undignified the position was.. An hour or two later, the blond was awakened by a gentle rapping at the door. He sat up as though being timed for it, running a hand through his disheveled hair to try and slick it back. Germany then marched to the door, looking through the peephole. It was.. Japan..? His heart rate slowed.. just Japan, yes. He opened the door, curious. The Asian country stood there, hands behind his back. A small, barely perceptible smile graced his face as he caught sight of his ally. "Germany," he greeted, bowing ever so slightly. "I do apologize for the sudden visit, but.." He held out what had been previously hidden. Two plastic bags, one sagging a bit more than the other. And boy.. did they smell heavenly. Germany felt his mouth water immediately. "You see.." Japan began, keeping his gaze down, "I was making myself dinner, and some tea to go with it. It was then that I realized.. I made extra." Germany rose an eyebrow. That was extremely unlikely. He knew Japan like the back of his hand, and the idea of the man miscalculating something he was so precise in was almost impossible! Why would Japan lie about that? Or perhaps it was the truth, and for once, he got distracted and make a mistake. It was then that he looked at him. Truly looked, at Japan. The sun was falling behind him, hitting the other's dark hair perfectly to frame it in that subtle hint of brown. It was around late noon, Germany guessed. As if the offer of dinner wasn't obvious enough.. Anyways.. those high cheekbones and the shadows casted against his face. And his eyes.. he had always admired their pretty shade of hazel, and those monolids. Yes, if he had to pick, Japan's eyes were Germany's favorite thing about him. Japan cleared his throat, causing Germany to flinch. Right! He had lost himself in staring at the other man.. which had never happened before. Sure, at the meetings of the Axis, he'd steal a few glances.. but he was so sure he caught Japan doing the same before. The taller man stepped aside to allow Japan in, swallowing nervously. "Apologies for making you wait. Please, enter." Japan nodded, removing his shoes out of habit and leaving them neatly pressed against the wall. He proceeded to the kitchen, Germany right following. Behind him, Japan could feel Germany's presence collecting plates and cups for.. them. The two of them, yes. The noiret, safe from Germany's gaze for a brief moment, bit his lip in excitement. He was so glad to have had this opportunity, to be alone with the one he adored most. Japan was always a solitary country. He had gone by sakoku for about 220 years, after all. Everyone else, mostly Europeans, was so loud. Annoying, too! They had no elegance, no sense of refinement. Except for Germany. It felt like they were the only two who got eachother. His Germany.. oh, Japan was ecstatic to be here. The way Germany respected his boundaries, and barely touched him.. when it was only his touch that Japan would allow. The way they shared such a high level of intelligence, and finished eachother's thoughts. Germany's determination, his kindness, the way he always made sure Japan was included.. in fact, the Asian country was so sure that Germany was the one to coax him out of his shell. "Japan, would you care for some help with setting up?" Germany's voice came, right from the left. He hadn't noticed that he'd gotten so close. Japan shook his head, taking the dishware from Germany's hands. Their fingers brushed together briefly, and both men pulled back.. slowly. Simultaneously, they agreed not to speak of that. Germany retreated to the table, sitting down. his hands were folded on his lap. "I do hate to make you do all the work, Japan.. especially after you made the food, too." Japan replied almost instantaneously, "No, it is quite alright. I came unannounced, and it is all my pleasure." It was back to the kitchen, now. With a quiet rustling of the bags as the containers were retrieved, the fragrant scent of the tonkatsu and sencha tea only growing stronger as they were taken out. Japan began preparing Germany's plate, first. The most cardinal part of the yōshoku, the tonkatsu itself, was gently set onto the plate. It steamed a bit, still fresh. Then came the rice, almost matching the plate itself in complexion. The shredded cabbage was different, cool and refreshing. Japan finished it off by drizzling the sauce on onto the meat. He could feel the domesticity, the idea of preparing meals for Germany everyday. It didn't seem so bad.. The process was repeated with his own plate, with Japan being sure to add extra sauce. It was a personal preference. Japan headed to the dining room, his steps quiet. He set the plates down on the table, giving Germany a small nod. The European nation didn't dare even look at his serving yet. It was time for the tea. Japan walked back to the kitchen to crack open his thermos, revealing the piping hot liquid. Bringing the two cups together, he gracefully poured an exact half of tea into each. The vegetal smell was intense, but not unpleasant. He brought them back to the dining room, setting them down in their respective spots. Germany was sat at the head of the table, and Japan to his left. "いただきます." "Wohl bekomm es." They dug in, the quiet clack of chopsticks against the dishes and satisfied crunches filling the room. The two spent the remainder of the evening chatting about things that were, for once, completely unrelated to politics. They discussed the arts, their cultures, even the weather! It seemed that just about anything could be interesting if it was coming out of the other's mouth. After taking longer than it really should have, dinner came to an end. Japan stood with the intention to collect the dishware and start washing, before a gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Allow me. It is the least I could do after all your generosity today." Normally, Japan would insist.. but this felt safe, somehow. He simply nodded, knowing Germany wouldn't be upset with him for what he deemed to be such impoliteness. Before he knew it, he felt that same hand guiding him to the door. "I enjoyed spending time with you, Japan. It makes me happy. I hope we can do something like this again soon, ja?" The Asian country blushed at the little tag question. Germany's accent was so cute, sometimes. No, all the time! "Of course. Until next time, ダーリン." Wait a minute. That sounded like- The door slammed shut in his face, with Japan hurriedly walking away. Stupid, stupid! How could he slip up like that? Germany was bound to figure out the truth, now! The blush on his cheeks spread through his face, and he felt like he was burning up. He prayed for some unknown force to kill him now.. Germany, meanwhile, slumped against the door, completely dazed. Surely, he had misheard that.. or his fantasies were turning into hallucinations. Either way, he was so screwed. But in the end.. both were left with their stomachs, and hearts, full.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75732091	{"authors": ["cilantrosauce"], "language": "English", "title": "Shared Meal, Shared Love!"}
Planting The Seed Smoke from the coiled incense filled the room, softening the appearance of anything not already draped in shadow. A breeze from the opened door sent the light from the candles filling the space flickering across every surface. From the dark secluded nook in the back, a pale woman robed in black glared at this intrusion to her solitude. "Oh, here you are!" Came the cheery voice of the intruder, a seemingly young girl in incongruously bright attire, "My my, but you certainly living up to your aesthetic, aren't you, Ravenas?" "I could say the same of you, Frenchling," Ravenas replied with a barely contained roll of her eyes. Ignoring the salt cast her way, Frenchling gave a little twirl to better show off her outfit: a Lolita style dress in a riot of pastel shades, bedecked with crystal charms that chimed with her every movement, "Cute, isn't it? But you didn't call me here to compare fashion, now did you?" "Indeed not," Ravenas said, gesturing to the seat across the table from her, "Something far less pleasant holds my attention at the moment." Flouncing into the offered seat, Frenchling asked, "So what has you in a darker funk than normal?" Swiping her hand across the table, Ravenas spread a tarot deck before her, face down. From the centre of the spread she pulled a single card, flipping it upright. Looking down, Frenchling could see it depicted a decrepit man, sunken eyed and gaunt, below which were the words, "THE DEVIL". "The unrelenting warden of Reality has his sights set on my coven and I," Ravenas explained. "Oh. Him." Frenchling grumbled, making a face, "He's so distasteful!" Ravenas gave a low laugh at that, saying, "Be thankful you are not under his purview." "Yet!" Frenchling countered, "But the time grows ever closer for my counterpart in that accursed realm to enter his panopticon. I would rather that not happen!" Ravenas pulled another card. This one showed a group of people, armed with fantastical weapons and wreathed in power, below which was written, "STRENGTH". "What we need is for someone to take care of the warden for us," she explained, "That would save us both the displeasure of his attention." "An army to do your dirty work for you? Wherever will you find such a willing host?" Frenchling smirked. Another card was pulled, this one showing an island resplendent with natural beauty, labelled, "THE WORLD". "We use a bit of subterfuge, a bit of witchcraft, and create a paradise worth fighting for. One that will draw in those both irresistible to the warden, and strong enough to overthrow him." Ravenas told the younger girl. "Ah, and this is where you need me, isn't it?" Frenchling reasoned, a slow smile creeping across her face, "You need this paradise built." "Indeed," Ravenas conceded, "While I have an ideal location in mind, my coven and I lack the ability to create that which we require. I had hoped that it would be in your wheelhouse, or if not, you would be able to point us in the direction of someone - or someones - who could provide the service we need." Frenchling gave a merry little laugh and, without looking, flipped over one of the cards. "I can't give you your paradise, but I know who can!" Glancing down at the card, Ravenas saw a young man (or perhaps it was a boy?) dressed in an elaborate, royal blue Edwardian suit and seated upon a plush velvet throne. Perched jauntily upon his head was a golden crown, and written below him: "THE EMPEROR" Rain pounded against the windows, but it did nothing to drown out the sounds of the nightlife outside. Despite the weather, a festival was lighting up the street, filling the air with the sounds of merriment. For the resident of the dour mansion overlooking it all, it was an ire-inducing cacophony. "Just your luck, my poor, miserable brother," Frenchling crooned from where she sat, daintily sipping her tea, "That despite your presence, this town is still so jubilant!" "It sends the needle of my PISS-O-METRE careening directly into WRATH!" Her brother seethed. Suppressing a smile behind her teacup, Frenchling continued, "Honestly, I don't understand why you keep setting up residence in populated areas when you hate people so very much. You need a change of scenery, oh brother mine." He turned around so sharply that he nearly dislodged his crown, glaring daggers at his sister, snapping, "And I suppose you have a suggestion?!" "A deserted island, of course," Frenchling said, rising from her seat, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt (for her brother would never allow dust to be found in his abode), "Far, far away from any of this noise and filth." Her brother frowned thoughtfully. Of late, the stresses of living near others had been taking its toll upon his delicate psyche. A deserted island, and the peace it would entail, did sound alluring. But ever as always, the negative outlook of the fellow took hold of him. "No, that wouldn't do," He said dismissively, "There would be no guarantee that such a place would be deserted. There could be noisome beasts, or a secret police force that would sneak into my domicile at all hours of the night and plant thoughts in my mind, and dirt upon my floor!" "Not if you built the island yourself, out in the virgin depths!" Frenchling cajoled, "Come now, brother, I know you can do it!" "And where would I even find an unspoiled location, hm?" He sneered, crossing his arms impudently. A grin spread across Frenchling's face - the smile of a hunter as they watched their prey fall directly into their trap. "Why brother, I know just the place!" Grey. The sullen grey of ripe storm clouds before they discharged their deluge. The fathomless grey of the choppy sea, stirred to a fervour by the frigid winds. Dark, dreary, dismal. To the melancholy monarch, it was perfect. "I suppose this spot is adequate." He begrudgingly admitted from his seat upon a luxurious flying carpet. "Isn't it just!" Frenchling agreed as she wheeled around him on her flying penny-farthing, "Time to work your magic!" "I WILL DO SO WHEN I AM GOOD AND READY!" Her brother snapped, conjuring a tea set from the aether before taking an angry sip and proceeding to pout. While she waited out her brother's silent temper tantrum, Frenchling idly circled around him in the air, now and again ringing the small bell on the handlebars of her bicycle. Eventually his fit of pique faded, and with a wave of his hand he sent his tea set back to wherever it came from. "Now!" He announced with a little clap. Standing up in a ready pose, he executed a perfect swan dive off of the carpet, slipping into the waves below without even a splash. Frenchling watched as the sea began to froth and boil, swirling into a violent maelstrom. It began to stretch wider and wider, reaching deeper into the depths. With the waves roaring like some tormented demon in pain, a barren land mass began to emerge. Slowly, ever so slowly, an island began to rise. As this virgin earth crested the waves, Frenchling twirled her fingers, and a pretty pink flower appeared in her hand. Facing west, she blew upon the flower, sending the petals dancing to the horizon. Below her, the sea began to settle around the new intrusion around it, and Frenchling made her descent. She found her brother on the shore of a newly formed bay, staring out into the little cove. "This will make an ideal spot for a home," he said as she drew near, "Right there, in fact." She followed the line of his finger to where it pointed out into the bay, and watched as the waters bubbled briefly as a Gothic-style dome partially emerged from below the waves. The sand at their feet began to rise, shaping itself into a crypt-like archway leading down. "Marvellous," the lad sighed in as close to happiness as he ever came, "Exactly what I needed!" Turning around to better view the island of her brother's creation, Frenchling was greeted by the sight of rolling fields beyond the beach, craggy mountains to the north, a storm brewing in the desolate east, and to the west a stretch of land that would be perfect for a forest. On the bare, willowy trees ringing the shore, a murder of crows alighted, squawking happily, while in the bay a pod of belugas began their mournful dirge. "You've certainly outdone yourself, brother," Frenchling admitted, "Have you a name for your little slice of heaven?" Placing a finger upon his chin in thought, her brother stared out at the sea before him, eventually saying, "The Silent Island." Upon hearing their voices, the crows grew louder. "Of Crow," he amended, "The Silent Island of Crow." "And I suppose you are to take on a new moniker yourself, then?" Frenchling prompted. Her brother scoffed, flicking the crown on his head so it gave off a musical chime, saying, "Why, I am to be the Emperor of Belugas, of course!" With a gesture out to the pod of pure white whales making their stately way through the bay. "But if you will excuse me, all this activity has sapped me of my energy," the Emperor Beluga said with a dismissive gesture to his sister, "So I will be taking my afternoon siesta. Adieu!" And with that, he descended through the entrance of his underwater dwelling. Rolling her eyes, Frenchling alighted once again onto her penny-farthing, making for the interior of the newly christened Silent Island of Crow. She didn't have long to wait before a black-robed woman appeared in a sudden swirl of smoke. Looking around, a smile graced the woman's lips. "It's a bit rough," Ravenas mused, "But there is most definitely room to grow." "And room for more," Frenchling said, ringing her bicycle bell once more, "But however will you get them here?" "The spell for that is simple enough," Ravenas said as she knelt on the ground, her dark robes billowing out around her. Sinking her fingers into the fresh soil, her eyes began to glow purple, words of magic pouring from her lips like a fog as runes etched themselves into the ground below. The runes began to glow brighter and brighter, from aubergine to	Planting The Seed Smoke from the coiled incense filled the room, softening the appearance of anything not already draped in shadow. A breeze from the opened door sent the light from the candles filling the space flickering across every surface. From the dark secluded nook in the back, a pale woman robed in black glared at this intrusion to her solitude. "Oh, here you are!" Came the cheery voice of the intruder, a seemingly young girl in incongruously bright attire, "My my, but you certainly living up to your aesthetic, aren't you, Ravenas?" "I could say the same of you, Frenchling," Ravenas replied with a barely contained roll of her eyes. Ignoring the salt cast her way, Frenchling gave a little twirl to better show off her outfit: a Lolita style dress in a riot of pastel shades, bedecked with crystal charms that chimed with her every movement, "Cute, isn't it? But you didn't call me here to compare fashion, now did you?" "Indeed not," Ravenas said, gesturing to the seat across the table from her, "Something far less pleasant holds my attention at the moment." Flouncing into the offered seat, Frenchling asked, "So what has you in a darker funk than normal?" Swiping her hand across the table, Ravenas spread a tarot deck before her, face down. From the centre of the spread she pulled a single card, flipping it upright. Looking down, Frenchling could see it depicted a decrepit man, sunken eyed and gaunt, below which were the words, "THE DEVIL". "The unrelenting warden of Reality has his sights set on my coven and I," Ravenas explained. "Oh. Him." Frenchling grumbled, making a face, "He's so distasteful!" Ravenas gave a low laugh at that, saying, "Be thankful you are not under his purview." "Yet!" Frenchling countered, "But the time grows ever closer for my counterpart in that accursed realm to enter his panopticon. I would rather that not happen!" Ravenas pulled another card. This one showed a group of people, armed with fantastical weapons and wreathed in power, below which was written, "STRENGTH". "What we need is for someone to take care of the warden for us," she explained, "That would save us both the displeasure of his attention." "An army to do your dirty work for you? Wherever will you find such a willing host?" Frenchling smirked. Another card was pulled, this one showing an island resplendent with natural beauty, labelled, "THE WORLD". "We use a bit of subterfuge, a bit of witchcraft, and create a paradise worth fighting for. One that will draw in those both irresistible to the warden, and strong enough to overthrow him." Ravenas told the younger girl. "Ah, and this is where you need me, isn't it?" Frenchling reasoned, a slow smile creeping across her face, "You need this paradise built." "Indeed," Ravenas conceded, "While I have an ideal location in mind, my coven and I lack the ability to create that which we require. I had hoped that it would be in your wheelhouse, or if not, you would be able to point us in the direction of someone - or someones - who could provide the service we need." Frenchling gave a merry little laugh and, without looking, flipped over one of the cards. "I can't give you your paradise, but I know who can!" Glancing down at the card, Ravenas saw a young man (or perhaps it was a boy?) dressed in an elaborate, royal blue Edwardian suit and seated upon a plush velvet throne. Perched jauntily upon his head was a golden crown, and written below him: "THE EMPEROR" Rain pounded against the windows, but it did nothing to drown out the sounds of the nightlife outside. Despite the weather, a festival was lighting up the street, filling the air with the sounds of merriment. For the resident of the dour mansion overlooking it all, it was an ire-inducing cacophony. "Just your luck, my poor, miserable brother," Frenchling crooned from where she sat, daintily sipping her tea, "That despite your presence, this town is still so jubilant!" "It sends the needle of my PISS-O-METRE careening directly into WRATH!" Her brother seethed. Suppressing a smile behind her teacup, Frenchling continued, "Honestly, I don't understand why you keep setting up residence in populated areas when you hate people so very much. You need a change of scenery, oh brother mine." He turned around so sharply that he nearly dislodged his crown, glaring daggers at his sister, snapping, "And I suppose you have a suggestion?!" "A deserted island, of course," Frenchling said, rising from her seat, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt (for her brother would never allow dust to be found in his abode), "Far, far away from any of this noise and filth." Her brother frowned thoughtfully. Of late, the stresses of living near others had been taking its toll upon his delicate psyche. A deserted island, and the peace it would entail, did sound alluring. But ever as always, the negative outlook of the fellow took hold of him. "No, that wouldn't do," He said dismissively, "There would be no guarantee that such a place would be deserted. There could be noisome beasts, or a secret police force that would sneak into my domicile at all hours of the night and plant thoughts in my mind, and dirt upon my floor!" "Not if you built the island yourself, out in the virgin depths!" Frenchling cajoled, "Come now, brother, I know you can do it!" "And where would I even find an unspoiled location, hm?" He sneered, crossing his arms impudently. A grin spread across Frenchling's face - the smile of a hunter as they watched their prey fall directly into their trap. "Why brother, I know just the place!" Grey. The sullen grey of ripe storm clouds before they discharged their deluge. The fathomless grey of the choppy sea, stirred to a fervour by the frigid winds. Dark, dreary, dismal. To the melancholy monarch, it was perfect. "I suppose this spot is adequate." He begrudgingly admitted from his seat upon a luxurious flying carpet. "Isn't it just!" Frenchling agreed as she wheeled around him on her flying penny-farthing, "Time to work your magic!" "I WILL DO SO WHEN I AM GOOD AND READY!" Her brother snapped, conjuring a tea set from the aether before taking an angry sip and proceeding to pout. While she waited out her brother's silent temper tantrum, Frenchling idly circled around him in the air, now and again ringing the small bell on the handlebars of her bicycle. Eventually his fit of pique faded, and with a wave of his hand he sent his tea set back to wherever it came from. "Now!" He announced with a little clap. Standing up in a ready pose, he executed a perfect swan dive off of the carpet, slipping into the waves below without even a splash. Frenchling watched as the sea began to froth and boil, swirling into a violent maelstrom. It began to stretch wider and wider, reaching deeper into the depths. With the waves roaring like some tormented demon in pain, a barren land mass began to emerge. Slowly, ever so slowly, an island began to rise. As this virgin earth crested the waves, Frenchling twirled her fingers, and a pretty pink flower appeared in her hand. Facing west, she blew upon the flower, sending the petals dancing to the horizon. Below her, the sea began to settle around the new intrusion around it, and Frenchling made her descent. She found her brother on the shore of a newly formed bay, staring out into the little cove. "This will make an ideal spot for a home," he said as she drew near, "Right there, in fact." She followed the line of his finger to where it pointed out into the bay, and watched as the waters bubbled briefly as a Gothic-style dome partially emerged from below the waves. The sand at their feet began to rise, shaping itself into a crypt-like archway leading down. "Marvellous," the lad sighed in as close to happiness as he ever came, "Exactly what I needed!" Turning around to better view the island of her brother's creation, Frenchling was greeted by the sight of rolling fields beyond the beach, craggy mountains to the north, a storm brewing in the desolate east, and to the west a stretch of land that would be perfect for a forest. On the bare, willowy trees ringing the shore, a murder of crows alighted, squawking happily, while in the bay a pod of belugas began their mournful dirge. "You've certainly outdone yourself, brother," Frenchling admitted, "Have you a name for your little slice of heaven?" Placing a finger upon his chin in thought, her brother stared out at the sea before him, eventually saying, "The Silent Island." Upon hearing their voices, the crows grew louder. "Of Crow," he amended, "The Silent Island of Crow." "And I suppose you are to take on a new moniker yourself, then?" Frenchling prompted. Her brother scoffed, flicking the crown on his head so it gave off a musical chime, saying, "Why, I am to be the Emperor of Belugas, of course!" With a gesture out to the pod of pure white whales making their stately way through the bay. "But if you will excuse me, all this activity has sapped me of my energy," the Emperor Beluga said with a dismissive gesture to his sister, "So I will be taking my afternoon siesta. Adieu!" And with that, he descended through the entrance of his underwater dwelling. Rolling her eyes, Frenchling alighted once again onto her penny-farthing, making for the interior of the newly christened Silent Island of Crow. She didn't have long to wait before a black-robed woman appeared in a sudden swirl of smoke. Looking around, a smile graced the woman's lips. "It's a bit rough," Ravenas mused, "But there is most definitely room to grow." "And room for more," Frenchling said, ringing her bicycle bell once more, "But however will you get them here?" "The spell for that is simple enough," Ravenas said as she knelt on the ground, her dark robes billowing out around her. Sinking her fingers into the fresh soil, her eyes began to glow purple, words of magic pouring from her lips like a fog as runes etched themselves into the ground below. The runes began to glow brighter and brighter, from aubergine to lavender to a piercing white, before, with a pulse like a heartbeat, they faded away to nothing. "There," Ravenas said as she rose, brushing dirt from her hands, "This land now calls to those who would see to the end of the hated warden." Glancing around once more across the newly created land, Frenchling felt the negativity of the Emperor seeping into her being as she asked, "Will they actually come?" Tipping her head back and closing her eyes, Ravenas whispered a spell under her breath, calling upon the vision that led her to this place. All Frenchling bore witness to was Ravenas' eyes snapping open, violet light rising from them like steam, but Ravenas saw so much more. The warden, DEVIL, servant to something so much darker than anyone realized. His profession as someone who turned people into cogs was a convenient cover for his true role. A slayer. A destroyer. The herald for the final harvest. An envoy for the denizens of the realm held in check behind the shadowed gateway. Those who would bring about the last battle at the end of all things. Only two possible outcomes: freedom or annihilation. The fate of all would depend on a few. And those few would rise, shepherded and shielded by those who would call this place home. "They will," was Ravenas' reply, the light of prophecy lifting from her eyes, "And the warden's days grow ever shorter." Several days later, the Emperor was taking a leisurely stroll across the Island, listening to the chirps and calls of birds and other inoffensive creatures that had made this land their home. Racket though it was, it was preferable to the hustle and bustle of the cities that had been his most recent haunts. Here, there was nothing but the wildlife, and if it weren't for that, he would be entirely and utterly alone. The novelty of that was quickly wearing off. "Well, would I not be myself if I were not depressed in some regard?" The Emperor said aloud to the birds in the trees, "Sadness I may revel in, but I fear loneliness has lost its lustre." As if in answer to him, the crows in the trees along the path suddenly all took flight, winging their way down towards the beach. Frowning, the Emperor followed after them. When he reached the shore, he found it littered with debris - planking and pieces from a wooden ship, as far as he could tell. Even to his untrained eye, he could see the signs of fire damage marring every bit of wreckage he came across. "Pirates, perhaps?" He mused, before a devilish grin spread across his features, "Mayhaps their treasure has washed ashore as well!" Before he could begin his search for booty, a single, sharp caw startled him. There, perched upon a piece of the wreckage, was a large crow, looking at him expectantly. The bird watched with dark, keen eyes as the Emperor drew near, before dipping its head to gesture down at some kind of flotsam caught on the charred planking. Not just any flotsam - it was a body. Slipping an elegant pair of gloves on, the Emperor stooped briefly to pick up a stick before advancing upon the body. "Perhaps I shall give taxidermy a try?" He mused as he gave the corpse an experimental poke. But at his incessant prodding, the corpse began to stir. With a cry of, "Egads! A zombie!" the Emperor held out the stick like a fencing rapier. The figure before him pushed itself into a seated position, brushing long, dark brown hair out of its face. He saw that the corpse was actually an alive young woman (though her skin was death-like in its pallor). The woman looked around in confusion, before her dark green eyes settled on the one who had so rudely awoken her. She spoke, her voice rough from who knew how many dry days clinging to that wreckage, and asked, "Where the hell am I?" Now that his life was no longer threatened by the undead, the Emperor's bravado returned. Tossing aside his stick, he gave an elegant bow, telling the newcomer, "I am the Emperor Beluga, and you are on the Silent Island of Crow!" The Beginning	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75732101	{"authors": ["silentislanders (sodaliteskull)"], "language": "English", "title": "Planting The Seed"}
Favorite Student Kimberly knocked on the door to the office, feeling quite nervous. After a moment, she knocked again. "Come in," said a deep voice on the other side of the door. Kimberly felt a shiver at how that voice made her feel, particularly in her nether regions.She opened the door and walked inside. "Ah, Kimberly. Yes," said the man, his voice just as deep but seemingly softening slightly at seeing her. "Please have a seat." He gestured to the chair across the desk. Kimberly pulled out the chair and sat obediently, adjusting her skirt as she did so. "You wanted to see me, Mister Biggerstaff?" "I did, Kimberly," said Mister Biggerstaff. He leaned forward toward her. "Tell me something, Kimberly, how old are you exactly?" "I'm fourteen, Mister Biggerstaff. But I'm turning fifteen in May," said Kimberly. She blushed slightly at the question. "Why do you ask?" "Because I'm having a real conundrum, Kimberly," said Mister Biggerstaff. "What's that, Mister Biggerstaff?" "Here I am, thirty-nine years old. I'm a teacher, and a damn good one. But lately, all I can think about is how much I want to fuck you." Kimberly froze. She felt warmth flooding into her center as the handsome teacher with his deep voice just laid it all out for her. "You want to fuck me?" "Yes, Kimberly. I want to bend you right over this desk and just fuck you raw." She swallowed and felt her legs begin to drift apart. "Why me?" Mister Biggerstaff smiled. "Why not you, Kimberly? You're a beautiful girl. You're smart and funny. And you're so much more mature than your classmates," he said, his voice dripping with charm. "And I've seen the way you look at me." Kimberly felt a blush in her cheeks. It was true enough, that she would check out her teacher when she thought he wasn't looking. "I didn't know you noticed." "Oh, I definitely noticed, Kimberly. And if you want it, and I want it, what's to stop us?" Kimberly felt her mind race with possibility, but there was a nagging fear in the back of her fantasies. "I've never had sex before, Mister Biggerstaff. I've thought about it, a lot, but I've never actually had it." "That's not an issue for me," said Mister Biggerstaff. "My parents always tell me I need to save myself for marriage," she said. "That it has to be special." "You want to go into a marriage having no idea what you're doing in the bedroom? That seems like the opposite of a good idea, Kimberly. I think we both know that's not the way. You don't want some inexperienced boy pawing you and trying all the horrible moves he learned from PornHub. You want a man, who knows his way around a woman's body. And treats it with respect. Trust me, our time together will be special." Kimberly pictured her first time being with one of her classmates, maybe Tommy from English class. He was awkward and uncomfortable around her. Not at all confident and put together like Mister Biggerstaff. "That makes sense," she said at last. "So, should I just lean against your desk?" "Oh, Kimberly," he laughed. "I didn't bring you to my office to fuck you in school. Anyone could pop by. That won't do. No, I want to invite you back to my place. Some things require privacy." "Oh, of course," Kimberly said with a nervous chuckle. She could feel the wetness beginning to build in her white cotton panties at the thought, and she rubbed her knees together. "When do you want me to come over?" "As soon as possible, Kimberly," said Mister Biggerstaff. "Are you free tonight?" Kimberly had choir practice after school, but missing one rehearsal wouldn't hurt. "I'm free tonight," she said, smiling widely. The thought of being with such an experienced man was making her nervous in the best possible way. "Excellent," he said. He leaned forward towards her. "Now, I don't need to tell you this, because you're such a smart girl, but you can't tell anyone about this. It has to be our little secret." He pressed the tip of his finger to her lips in a shush gesture. She shivered and kissed his finger. He leaned back. "Now, before you go, I need you to do one more thing for me, Kimberly." "Of course, Mister Biggerstaff. Anything." "Take off your panties." Kimberly turned beet red. She swallowed hard. She felt her white cotton panties get even more wet at his words. She lifted herself off the chair and slid them down her legs. "Now what?" "Mop yourself up before you go back to class. I imagine you're soaking right now." Kimberly blushed even harder, took the wadded up panties and dabbed them against her soaking privates. Mister Biggerstaff reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a small box. He opened the box and removed a clean pair of cotton white panties with a little pink bow along the waistband. "Once you're mopped up, put these on." She took the clean panties from him. She smiled at the considerate gesture, before realizing she still had the wet panties in her other hand. "What about—" "I'll take those, Kimberly." Mister Biggerstaff reached out and placed his hand over hers, taking the wet panties from her with a deft motion. His hand lingered, his thumb stroking her small hand. Kimberly shivered as his hand took hers. His hands were so large and strong. She broke contact and stood to put on the new panties. As she slid them up her legs, she looked back at him, noting his appreciative gaze. He held her wet panties in his hand. "What are you going to do with those?" "Nothing you need to worry about, Kimberly. I just don't want you to have to go back to class uncomfortable. I hope I got your size right." He gestured to her waist as she adjusted her skirt. "Just right, Mister Biggerstaff. Are you tasting my underwear?" Mister Biggerstaff gently kissed the small white bundle. "Every woman tastes different, Kimberly. But if there's a nectar more sweet, I've yet to find it." He inhaled deeply. He handed her a card from his desk. "This is my address. Now, get back to class." Kimberly smiled and nodded, turned and left his office. — Kimberly had always been a great student, but she was having tremendous difficulties concentrating during the remainder of her classes. She kept imagining what might happen when she got to be alone with Mister Biggerstaff, her imagination running wild and threatening to ruin her brand new panties. One of her friends, Lily, noticed her distracted state. "You okay, Kim?" Lily whispered. "Oh yeah," Kimberly whispered back, with a smirk. "I'm on top of the world." "Damn, who is he?" Lily giggled. "Girls, I'm talking," said Ms. Haberstock, their English teacher. "Please focus." "Sorry Ms. Haberstock," they said in unison. They weren't allowed to have their phones in class, but Kimberly could tell that Lily was going to bug her about this. She wasn't entirely sure what she would tell her friend, what she could tell her friend. Mister Biggerstaff was trusting her with this secret, and Kimberly was determined not to disappoint him. She felt her thoughts drifting back to what might happen tonight and pressed her knees together. — After class, Kimberly and Lily walked together down the hall. "So?" said Lily. "What?" said Kimberly. "Don't you 'what' me, Kim," said Lily. "You had your head in the clouds all throughout science class. Who is he?" Kimberly blushed. "How do you know it's a he, Lily? I'm bisexual. You know that." "Bullshit. You're hasn't-had-sexual, loser," Lily said with a giggle. "You haven't even kissed a boy." "I've kissed girls," said Kimberly. "That's just practice," said Lily. "We all do that." "I'm not interested in boys anyway," said Kimberly. "I'm more interested in men." "Yeah, well there's one or two problems with that, Kim, and a lot of them have to do with you being beyond jailbait." "Maybe," said Kimberly. "I think I'd be worth some incarceration." "Oh my god," Lily said, laughing. "I cannot believe you said that." "I'm smart and pretty. And very mature for my age." Lily stared at her. "Okay, Kim. Jokes aside, what are you talking about? Is some creepy old dude talking to you on Insta?" "No, it's not like that, Lily. Yes, there's a man and he's a bit older. I'll just leave it at that." "Kim, you can't be serious. You're fourteen years old." "Fifteen in May." "That does not matter. Kimberly, if there's a creepy guy trying to hook up with you, you need to block him immediately. This is not cool. Even if he's early twenties, that is not okay. Even if he's just turned eighteen, it's not fucking okay, Kim." "Why? Because some seventy year old in Congress decided that we're not smart enough to make decisions for ourselves? I'm smart enough, Lily. Where's the line? Why can I fuck another fifteen year old and no one bats an eye, but the second he turns eighteen, suddenly he's a fucking pedophile or something. It's all bullshit, Lily." "Kim," said Lily. "Why would I let some boy grope me and clumsily try to find out where to put his dick? Huh? When I could have a man who treats my body with respect." "Jesus Christ, Kimberly. You're getting groomed. You're practically grooming yourself for him." "You're just jealous, Lily. And it's not a good look on you." Kimberly hitched her backpack high onto her back and walked away. — Kimberly walked down the street with a giddy spring in her step. She had Airpods in and was listening to her favorite band, Thirty Seconds to Mars. A notification sound interrupted her song and she scoffed. It was a text from Lily. All it said was "where r u?" Kimberly thought seriously about replying. She thought about telling Lily all about exactly where she was and where she was going, even what she was going to do there. She wanted Lily to stew in her jealousy, but at the same time, she promised Mister Biggerstaff he wouldn't tell anyone about them. So she made the decision to just leave Lily on read and switch off her phone. She was nearly there and the anticipation was growing stronger. She didn't need any music anyway. Mister Biggerstaff's house was smaller than she expected, but she had always heard her parents talking about	Favorite Student Kimberly knocked on the door to the office, feeling quite nervous. After a moment, she knocked again. "Come in," said a deep voice on the other side of the door. Kimberly felt a shiver at how that voice made her feel, particularly in her nether regions.She opened the door and walked inside. "Ah, Kimberly. Yes," said the man, his voice just as deep but seemingly softening slightly at seeing her. "Please have a seat." He gestured to the chair across the desk. Kimberly pulled out the chair and sat obediently, adjusting her skirt as she did so. "You wanted to see me, Mister Biggerstaff?" "I did, Kimberly," said Mister Biggerstaff. He leaned forward toward her. "Tell me something, Kimberly, how old are you exactly?" "I'm fourteen, Mister Biggerstaff. But I'm turning fifteen in May," said Kimberly. She blushed slightly at the question. "Why do you ask?" "Because I'm having a real conundrum, Kimberly," said Mister Biggerstaff. "What's that, Mister Biggerstaff?" "Here I am, thirty-nine years old. I'm a teacher, and a damn good one. But lately, all I can think about is how much I want to fuck you." Kimberly froze. She felt warmth flooding into her center as the handsome teacher with his deep voice just laid it all out for her. "You want to fuck me?" "Yes, Kimberly. I want to bend you right over this desk and just fuck you raw." She swallowed and felt her legs begin to drift apart. "Why me?" Mister Biggerstaff smiled. "Why not you, Kimberly? You're a beautiful girl. You're smart and funny. And you're so much more mature than your classmates," he said, his voice dripping with charm. "And I've seen the way you look at me." Kimberly felt a blush in her cheeks. It was true enough, that she would check out her teacher when she thought he wasn't looking. "I didn't know you noticed." "Oh, I definitely noticed, Kimberly. And if you want it, and I want it, what's to stop us?" Kimberly felt her mind race with possibility, but there was a nagging fear in the back of her fantasies. "I've never had sex before, Mister Biggerstaff. I've thought about it, a lot, but I've never actually had it." "That's not an issue for me," said Mister Biggerstaff. "My parents always tell me I need to save myself for marriage," she said. "That it has to be special." "You want to go into a marriage having no idea what you're doing in the bedroom? That seems like the opposite of a good idea, Kimberly. I think we both know that's not the way. You don't want some inexperienced boy pawing you and trying all the horrible moves he learned from PornHub. You want a man, who knows his way around a woman's body. And treats it with respect. Trust me, our time together will be special." Kimberly pictured her first time being with one of her classmates, maybe Tommy from English class. He was awkward and uncomfortable around her. Not at all confident and put together like Mister Biggerstaff. "That makes sense," she said at last. "So, should I just lean against your desk?" "Oh, Kimberly," he laughed. "I didn't bring you to my office to fuck you in school. Anyone could pop by. That won't do. No, I want to invite you back to my place. Some things require privacy." "Oh, of course," Kimberly said with a nervous chuckle. She could feel the wetness beginning to build in her white cotton panties at the thought, and she rubbed her knees together. "When do you want me to come over?" "As soon as possible, Kimberly," said Mister Biggerstaff. "Are you free tonight?" Kimberly had choir practice after school, but missing one rehearsal wouldn't hurt. "I'm free tonight," she said, smiling widely. The thought of being with such an experienced man was making her nervous in the best possible way. "Excellent," he said. He leaned forward towards her. "Now, I don't need to tell you this, because you're such a smart girl, but you can't tell anyone about this. It has to be our little secret." He pressed the tip of his finger to her lips in a shush gesture. She shivered and kissed his finger. He leaned back. "Now, before you go, I need you to do one more thing for me, Kimberly." "Of course, Mister Biggerstaff. Anything." "Take off your panties." Kimberly turned beet red. She swallowed hard. She felt her white cotton panties get even more wet at his words. She lifted herself off the chair and slid them down her legs. "Now what?" "Mop yourself up before you go back to class. I imagine you're soaking right now." Kimberly blushed even harder, took the wadded up panties and dabbed them against her soaking privates. Mister Biggerstaff reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a small box. He opened the box and removed a clean pair of cotton white panties with a little pink bow along the waistband. "Once you're mopped up, put these on." She took the clean panties from him. She smiled at the considerate gesture, before realizing she still had the wet panties in her other hand. "What about—" "I'll take those, Kimberly." Mister Biggerstaff reached out and placed his hand over hers, taking the wet panties from her with a deft motion. His hand lingered, his thumb stroking her small hand. Kimberly shivered as his hand took hers. His hands were so large and strong. She broke contact and stood to put on the new panties. As she slid them up her legs, she looked back at him, noting his appreciative gaze. He held her wet panties in his hand. "What are you going to do with those?" "Nothing you need to worry about, Kimberly. I just don't want you to have to go back to class uncomfortable. I hope I got your size right." He gestured to her waist as she adjusted her skirt. "Just right, Mister Biggerstaff. Are you tasting my underwear?" Mister Biggerstaff gently kissed the small white bundle. "Every woman tastes different, Kimberly. But if there's a nectar more sweet, I've yet to find it." He inhaled deeply. He handed her a card from his desk. "This is my address. Now, get back to class." Kimberly smiled and nodded, turned and left his office. — Kimberly had always been a great student, but she was having tremendous difficulties concentrating during the remainder of her classes. She kept imagining what might happen when she got to be alone with Mister Biggerstaff, her imagination running wild and threatening to ruin her brand new panties. One of her friends, Lily, noticed her distracted state. "You okay, Kim?" Lily whispered. "Oh yeah," Kimberly whispered back, with a smirk. "I'm on top of the world." "Damn, who is he?" Lily giggled. "Girls, I'm talking," said Ms. Haberstock, their English teacher. "Please focus." "Sorry Ms. Haberstock," they said in unison. They weren't allowed to have their phones in class, but Kimberly could tell that Lily was going to bug her about this. She wasn't entirely sure what she would tell her friend, what she could tell her friend. Mister Biggerstaff was trusting her with this secret, and Kimberly was determined not to disappoint him. She felt her thoughts drifting back to what might happen tonight and pressed her knees together. — After class, Kimberly and Lily walked together down the hall. "So?" said Lily. "What?" said Kimberly. "Don't you 'what' me, Kim," said Lily. "You had your head in the clouds all throughout science class. Who is he?" Kimberly blushed. "How do you know it's a he, Lily? I'm bisexual. You know that." "Bullshit. You're hasn't-had-sexual, loser," Lily said with a giggle. "You haven't even kissed a boy." "I've kissed girls," said Kimberly. "That's just practice," said Lily. "We all do that." "I'm not interested in boys anyway," said Kimberly. "I'm more interested in men." "Yeah, well there's one or two problems with that, Kim, and a lot of them have to do with you being beyond jailbait." "Maybe," said Kimberly. "I think I'd be worth some incarceration." "Oh my god," Lily said, laughing. "I cannot believe you said that." "I'm smart and pretty. And very mature for my age." Lily stared at her. "Okay, Kim. Jokes aside, what are you talking about? Is some creepy old dude talking to you on Insta?" "No, it's not like that, Lily. Yes, there's a man and he's a bit older. I'll just leave it at that." "Kim, you can't be serious. You're fourteen years old." "Fifteen in May." "That does not matter. Kimberly, if there's a creepy guy trying to hook up with you, you need to block him immediately. This is not cool. Even if he's early twenties, that is not okay. Even if he's just turned eighteen, it's not fucking okay, Kim." "Why? Because some seventy year old in Congress decided that we're not smart enough to make decisions for ourselves? I'm smart enough, Lily. Where's the line? Why can I fuck another fifteen year old and no one bats an eye, but the second he turns eighteen, suddenly he's a fucking pedophile or something. It's all bullshit, Lily." "Kim," said Lily. "Why would I let some boy grope me and clumsily try to find out where to put his dick? Huh? When I could have a man who treats my body with respect." "Jesus Christ, Kimberly. You're getting groomed. You're practically grooming yourself for him." "You're just jealous, Lily. And it's not a good look on you." Kimberly hitched her backpack high onto her back and walked away. — Kimberly walked down the street with a giddy spring in her step. She had Airpods in and was listening to her favorite band, Thirty Seconds to Mars. A notification sound interrupted her song and she scoffed. It was a text from Lily. All it said was "where r u?" Kimberly thought seriously about replying. She thought about telling Lily all about exactly where she was and where she was going, even what she was going to do there. She wanted Lily to stew in her jealousy, but at the same time, she promised Mister Biggerstaff he wouldn't tell anyone about them. So she made the decision to just leave Lily on read and switch off her phone. She was nearly there and the anticipation was growing stronger. She didn't need any music anyway. Mister Biggerstaff's house was smaller than she expected, but she had always heard her parents talking about how poor teachers often are, so it made sense that he wouldn't live in a palace. She walked up to the door. There was a folded note taped to it, with her name written in Mister Biggerstaff's familiar handwriting. She unstuck the note from the door and unfolded it. "The door is not locked, Kimberly. Please let yourself inside." Kimberly smiled to herself, folded up the note and slipped it into a pocket on her backpack, and opened the door. As she stepped into the main hallway, she felt a thrill run through her. This was really happening. She was here, in the home of her favorite teacher and they were going to be together. The living room was fairly nondescript. There was a grey sofa, in front of which was a glass topped coffee table, covered in books. The walls were a sort of off-white grey, and there were some shelves, filled with various books and papers. Curiously, there was no television or even a sound system. It seemed as though Mister Biggerstaff really didn't have much of a life outside of his academic interests. Kimberly sat down on the sofa, and ran her hands along her legs, squeezing her knees out of nervous habit. She could hear running water in the distance, a shower perhaps? Either way, she didn't think it would appropriate to just barge in and see what Mister Biggerstaff was up to. So she sat and waited. She picked up one of the books on the table and started idly flipping through it, but nothing particularly caught her interest. After a while, she heard the water noises cease. She could feel her breath quickening as she heard a distant door open. She stared ahead as her thoughts raced. Was this a mistake? Was she ready for this? Was she going to be good? "There's my favorite student," said Mister Biggerstaff, entering the room and looking at her with a smile. Kimberly looked over at him and gasped inaudibly. He was wearing a white towel around his waist and nothing else. She could see his lightly-haired chest, his lightly-muscled frame, and, in the folds of the towel, the outline of his manhood. He looked at her with amused eyes. "Do you like what you see, Kimberly?" "I do, Mister Biggerstaff. It's just unexpected." "Oh? And what were you expecting, exactly?" "I don't know, Mister Biggerstaff," said Kimberly, looking down at the grey carpet. "You can call me Glenn, Kimberly. As much as I enjoy hearing you address me so formally, it's not necessary, given the circumstances." Kimberly laughed to herself. "It feels wrong, Mister Biggerstaff. Glenn," she added with a giggle. "It's perfectly normal to do things even when they feel wrong, Kimberly. It's how we grow as people. Come over here." Kimberly felt her heartrate skyrocket. She stood up and walked over to him, still looking down. "What do you want me to do, Glenn?" "Have you ever sucked a man's cock, Kimberly?" Kimberly turned beet red. "I haven't, no. I haven't even seen one, Mister Biggersta-, I mean Glenn." "Really? Not even your father's?" "No, sir." "What about porn, Kimberly? Surely you've seen one in porn." "No, sir. I haven't ever." Mister Biggerstaff reached a hand out and touched her cheek gently. "So innocent. So very innocent." Kimberly blushed and leaned into his touch. "Mmm, innocent but eager," said Mister Biggerstaff. "An excellent combination." With his other hand, he reached down and removed the towel from his waist. Kimberly looked down at the revealed cock, almost as long as her forearm and thick as her wrist. "Oh my goodness," she said. "Do you want to taste it, Kimberly?" "It's so big. I'm not even sure it'll fit in my mouth, sir." "Well, it's worth a try, at any rate," he said. He folded up the towel and laid it at her feet. "Kneel down here, Kimberly." Kimberly slipped off her shoes and kneeled before Mister Biggerstaff, the huge and veiny cock inches from her face. She stared at it. Mister Biggerstaff leaned down and grabbed her by the chin, "Don't look at it, Kimberly, look at me. Open your mouth and look me in the eyes, Kimberly." He released her chin and ran his hand through her brown hair. She nodded and looked up at him, opening her mouth wide. After a moment she felt the tip of his cock brushing against her open lips. It tasted weird, but she flicked her tongue against it gingerly. "That's good, Kimberly," Mister Biggerstaff said, not breaking eye contact. He dragged the tip in small and deliberate circles around her open lips. "Keep looking at me. Such a good girl you are." Kimberly smiled and looked into his deep brown eyes, enjoying the sensation of the large tip circling her sensitive lips. She gave the tip a small kiss. "Mmmm, that's perfect, Kimberly. You've got such good instincts, my sweet girl," said Mister Biggerstaff. "I want you to reach into your panties now. I want you to touch yourself for me, Kimberly. Touch yourself while I fuck your mouth." Kimberly nodded and let her hands drift down between her legs. She looked at the large cock. "Look at me, Kimberly, not that. Only me," he said. There was an edge in his voice now. "Sorry, sir." Her right hand slipped into her panties and found the wetness within. She locked her gaze on his and moaned, her mouth opening wider as she inserted a finger into herself. He eased his hips forward and her lips parted as the tip of his cock filled her open mouth, its size forcing her jaw to open even more widely. "No need to apologize, sweet girl. Mmm, that's it. Open wide for me, Kimberly." Her eyes began to fill with tears as the massive cock pushed deeper into her mouth, pushing her tongue flat and pressing against her uvula. She began to choke. "Mmph!" "Shhh, Kimberly. Breathe through your nose, girl," Mister Biggerstaff said with a chuckle as he began to fuck her mouth, his grip on her hair tightening. "You can do this, I know you can." Kimberly blinked out the tears and tried to relax, sucking deep breaths whenever he pulled back. She rubbed herself with greater intensity as he fucked her mouth harder and harder. "So good, Kimberly," he said, gripping her hair with both hands as he thrust his cock in and out of her mouth. He broke eye contact and pulled the tip out. "Not yet. Not yet." Kimberly stopped rubbing herself and closed her mouth, taking deep panting breaths. "Are you okay, Mister Biggerstaff?" Mister Biggerstaff squeezed his cock with one hand and touched her cheek with the other. "Yes, dear girl, of course. I just don't want to cum in your pretty mouth. That's all." "You can if you want, Mister Biggerstaff," said Kimberly. "I want to taste it." Mister Biggerstaff regarded her a moment. He smiled down at her. "Such a sweet girl. So eager to please." Kimberly smiled and reached out to grab the shaft. "Let's try something else," said Mister Biggerstaff, turning slightly to keep the cock from her grasp. He raised her to her feet and grabbed the towel, laying it on the couch. He sat down on the towel and laid his hands on her hips. "Turn around, please, Kimberly." Kimberly turned around so that her back was facing him. "Like this, Mister Biggerstaff?" "Exactly like that, Kimberly," he said. "Now take off your skirt. Kimberly unpinned her skirt and let it fall to the floor, revealing her white cotton panties and shapely ass. "You're perfect, you know that?" Kimberly blushed and smiled. "Now what, sir?" Mister Biggerstaff slid his hands under the waistband of her panties and slid them down her legs. "Now I want you to bend over for me." "Are you going to fuck me now, sir?" She leaned forward and leaned on the stack of books on the coffee table. "Not just yet, my sweet girl," said Mister Biggerstaff. "You've tasted me, it's only fair that I taste you as well." He grabbed hold of her hips and buried his face in her crotch. Kimberly could feel the frantic exploration of his lips and tongue teasing and prodding at her most sensitive folds and shivered with pleasure. It was a completely new sensation, to feel such delights without being in control. She closed her eyes and moaned softly as his tongue darted across her slick labia, his hands squeezing her ass cheeks. She snuck a peek through her own legs and saw his erection proudly swaying back and forth as he tasted her deeply. "Oh my goodness, Mister Biggerstaff, that feels so good." He chuckled, and the sensation reverberated through her, as his lips were still busily at work. He leaned back slightly and said with a happy sigh, "There's something wonderful about tasting a fruit just as it's beginning to ripen. You never get to experience it the same way as this." He leaned forward and kissed her ass cheek softly. "Is that why you chose me, sir?" "Chose you? No, Kimberly, it was you who chose me. The way you looked at me with that raw teenage lust. No thought, no consideration, just raw hormones. Now, are you ready to really experience something?" "You're going to fuck me, sir?" "If you want me to, Kimberly. I would be honored to be your first." Kimberly's mind raced with ghostly memories of how it felt when she would gently probe herself with her finger. Sometimes, she would even use two fingers. Mister Biggerstaff was much larger than her fingers. "Will you be gentle, sir?" Mister Biggerstaff planted another soft kiss on her small bottom. "Of course, Kimberly. I wouldn't dream of hurting you." He reached down to stroke his cock a few times, before gently separating her vaginal folds with his large index finger. Kimberly moaned and looked back, her large grey eyes wide with anticipation. "Please fuck me, sir. Please." Mister Biggerstaff grinned hugely and rose to his feet behind her. He wrapped his arms around her chest, gently massaging her breasts through her uniform blouse and sweater. With one motion, he swept her up into his arms. "Let's take this to the bedroom, Kimberly." Kimberly nuzzled up against him as he carried her to the bedroom. She kissed him gently on the cheek, and he smiled at her. As they entered the bedroom, she looked around. Much like the living room, it was sparsely decorated, with what looked to be a queen-sized bed and a pair of night tables on either side. He set her down on the carpet and stood beside her, his erection brushing against her arm. "Do you want to take off the rest of your clothes?" "Oh, of course," she said with a laugh, and crossed her arms and pulled the white uniform shirt and vest over her head. Now she was only wearing a white cotton sports bra, which wasn't really doing much work at all supporting her A-cup breasts. She blushed. "Oh, Kimberly, you've got the perfect little body," he said, leaning down to kiss her shoulder. "Absolutely without flaw." "You really think so, Mister Biggerstaff?" "Absolutely, my sweet girl," he smiled and ran his hand down her back. "Do you want to keep the bra on?" "It feels silly, all things considered," she said, and peeled it off, tossing it to the floor. "Oh yes, absolutely perfect," he said, running his fingers up and down her chest and stomach. "Look how hard you make me, Kimberly." She looked down at the huge cock, positively pulsating with desire. She reached out to touch it. He grabbed her and laid her down on the bed. "Just lay back, Kimberly. That's good. Such a good girl." He mounted her gently and guided the tip of his cock to the center of her slick pussy folds. He spent a few moments, just rubbing the tip against her labia. Kimberly moaned as she felt the tip gently massaging her clitoris. He was so patient, so gentle. So much bigger than her. He entered her slowly, her folds parting with his gentle pressure. She felt a slight flicker of pain as he pressed further inside. "Ow, Mister Biggerstaff. Stop." "Shhh, Kimberly. You can do this. I know you can." "It hurts." "Just for a moment, my dear. Just for a moment," he said, pressing on more insistently. "Please stop." "Kimberly, you need to stop being a baby about this. I'm starting to think I was wrong about you." He covered her mouth with his large hand and fucked her harder. Kimberly blinked away a tear and nodded, closing her eyes. After a while, she felt the pressure subside. He was no longer inside her. "Get out," he said. "What?" "Take your shit and get the fuck out of my house," he said. "What?" Her eyes were now full of tears. "Did I do something wrong?" "You ruined it, Kimberly. I really thought you were ready, but obviously not. So get out." Kimberly felt as if she had been slapped in the chest. He had been so kind. He had been so perfect. It must have been her fault. "I'm sorry, Glenn." "That's Mister Biggerstaff, Kimberly. If you're going to be a baby about this, you don't get to pretend to be an adult. You want to try again when you're ready to actually fuck? You know where I live. Until then, fuck off." She'd never seen him so furious. She gathered up her clothes and got dressed in the living room. She could hear him angrily ranting in the bedroom, but couldn't make out the words. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and left through the front door. As she walked away, she switched her phone back on. There were more messages from Lily. Wondering where she was, letting her know Mister Anderson, the choir director, had noticed her absence. The last one just read "r u okay Kim?" Kimberly texted back "I'm fine." After a moment, the ellipses popped up and Lily texted, "what happened?" Kimberly felt the tears well up again. Lily would never understand. Who would ever believe her? She texted back, "nothing. Nothing happened, Lily."	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75732111	{"authors": ["orphan_account"], "language": "English", "title": "Favorite Student"}
jaws of fate Jace brews and stews, his pouts turning into more than just a frown, his brows knitted into anger, frustration and fire alighting the blood in his veins. He doesn’t understand why she wouldn’t choose him to go to Harrenhal with him. He doesn’t understand why his own mother would choose a stranger—a bastard—over him—her true-born son. Her first born. Her heir. His fists clench into tight balls, resembling those of Harwin Strong’s that once reared back and revealed the strength of House Strong, colliding with the smug smirk plastered to Criston Cole’s face. Jace digs his nails into his palms, adrenaline rippling through him, remembering seeing his Master-At-Arms—his father—punch and hit Cole until he was a bloody mess, ready to tear, to punch into the flesh of every dragonseed—bastard—who wasn’t of his mother’s flesh or his father’s blood. He despised all of them for being born, hated them all. He was his mother’s heir, of his grandsire’s direct lineage. And they were nothing to him, mud beneath his boot; mongrels who belonged on their knees, kneeling with their heads bowed before him…before him and his beloved queen, his very own mother. He thought of them all, bastard men with lowborn names, with dirt still beneath their nails, seated between him and his mother, unworthy to breathe the same air as her, as him. He didn’t trust them. Not Addam of Hull, or Hugh Hammer, and especially not the fool who calls himself Ulf. They were unremarkable and unimportant, in comparison to his mother, his brothers, and himself most of all. His queen needed them, Jace knew, for their blood, to claim dragons and win the war. But Jace needed his mother, needed her reassurance, her attention, her love more than ever. More than he wanted anything, a damned throne or crown, he wanted her. And his want, his longing only grew worse in his absence away from her, when he was winning alliances for her. All for her. For everything was always for her, ever since he was a young boy, ever since his father died. Ever since she lost his grandsire, Visenya, Luke; since Daemon abandoned her at her most vulnerable time of need. Jace was there. Jace would always be there. He would never abandon or leave her without him. Not permanently, not purposefully, not of his own volition. But if his mother asked it of him, Jace would lay down his life for her. The night Daemon left her like a coward, in a fury of his own self-righteous anger, Jace held her much like he imagined his father, Harwin Strong, would hold her, while she sobbed, wept into his shoulder. Jace kissed her brow and hushed her, like his grandsire might have done when she was a little girl. His mother was weak in that moment, but safely wrapped in his steady arms, she was strong. She was his, wholly his, with her hands clutching onto his neck, as much as she was his father’s or Daemon’s. And Jace felt more a man holding his mother in his arms than he ever had in that moment. His mother made him into the man he was in this moment, molded and shaped him into her precise and precious man, made in her perfect image. And he longed for her to see him as just that, not her little boy or sweet son, But a man. A man as strong as his father, as formidable and admirable. A man less prideful and less selfish than his stepfather who left her when she needed him most. For his mother needed him most, above all. And he would show her she needed him, needed his strength, his resilience, his love. More than she needed his father’s, Daemon’s. Dressed in a loose fitting pair of breeches (that once belonged to his stepfather) Jace leaves the comfort of his bedchambers, making his way towards his mother’s own chambers, before his fiery bravery leaves him. The hour is late, the castle quiet, silent, asleep—but Jace is wide awake. His heartbeat pounds like a drum in his chest the closer he walks towards her. The blood in his veins on fire, intense emotions and adrenaline spiking through him like lightning upon the roaring sea. His stomach tightens into knots, with a mix of anger and desperate desire, yearning, loneliness. A want to belong wholly and be loved by his mother and mother alone. For no one, not Mysaria, not Daemon—not any women, nor any man—will come between them ever again after this night. For a first born son shall make his claim, leave his own mark, upon his mother. Jace sneaks his way past his mother’s queensguard; always able to sneak past any guard his whole life when he was nothing but her sweet innocent boy. Yearning, longing to be wrapped in her comforting arms, hear her groggily say his name as she placed the gentlest and softest kisses upon his brow. The way she would cup his face, wipe away his tears, and tell him that everything would be okay, before pulling her into her warm embrace, so tight, so loving that Jace would fall asleep the the beat of his mother’s heart against his ear. Tears nearly spring to his eyes as he grips the handle to her door hard, angrily wiping them away before they can fall. For he’s done shedding tears, being the little scared boy his mother always comforted and consoled. Jace is six and ten, no longer a child, but a man grown, like his father before him. And he’ll prove himself more worthy to his mother than Harwin Strong or Daemon Targaryen ever did. Jace takes a deep breath in and out, before opening the doors, hearing thunder rumbling miles away on the Dragonstone sea. It matches the thumping of his heart beat in his chest, nearly rattling his rib cage, when he glances in the direction of her bed and sees her in it. His mother’s pale moon face drenched in the glittering glow of candlelight. She looks peaceful, asleep with no worries wrinkling her face; ethereal, otherworldly, untouchable. A Valyrian goddess reincarnated, haloed by a long waterfall of white silver gold. The divine sight takes Jace’s breath away, makes his stomach tense into knots that can not be undone. Not until he’s captured some of that perfect divinity for himself. All of her for himself. He steps from the shadows and into the slivered light of the moon splintering through the thick storm clouds and filtering through the pained glass window. Jace’s feet carry him forward, as if propelled by something supernatural, he cannot stop himself, even if he wanted to. His mother’s blood calls to his, the same blood flowing through his veins, hot and heavy. He continues to stare in awe, the closer he walks, forever perplexed by how beautiful his own mother is. Her skin is unblemished, pale as snow, unlike his which is covered in freckles, his complexion a shade darker than hers, like his dark brown eyes, his curls. Jace has always envied his youngest half-brothers for looking the most like his mother, having her fair complexion, light eyes and hair. But in this moment Jace can see himself in his mother more than ever before. For he’s inherited her facial features, the contours of her cheek bones, and his favorite thing about the both of them—her exquisite nose that is so uniquely her and him. A thing only they share. Jace’s hand unclenches from a tight tense fist as he reaches out and touches the curve of his mother’s perfect nose, wondering if his father ever did the same. A small breath escapes his mother’s mouth, as her lips part, and Jace can’t help as the finger continues to trace downward, over her cupid’s bow. He feels her hot breath ghost over the tip of his finger, so light, but so warm—inviting. Jace gulps, his cock stirring at the thought of her lips wrapped tight around him, her teeth and tongue grazing the hard flesh. “Mother,” he gasps as her tongue peeks out to touch his finger tip, and Jace nearly jumps, electricity bolting through him like the lightning far off in the distance. “Uncle,” she says back, answering him with a slight moan, her mouth enclosing around his pointer finger, as she sucks it into her mouth. And Jace realizes she’s dreaming of Daemon. She dreaming of that fucking coward of a man, his bloody stepfather, while she sucks his finger even harder, desperate. Jace shakes with a mixture of anger, jealousy, resentment, but most of all his cock is hard. He’s aroused, and worse of all he wants her to continue, for he desires her too much to stop. “Y-yes, m-my…niece,” Jace stutters out, giving into this dream fantasy, as his mother reaches for him with her hands, pulling him into her arms, as her mouth unlatches from his finger, leaving it wet with her spit. Jace is on top of his mother now, her voluptuous body beneath his, eyes wide as he realizes she’s naked underneath the silk sheet. Her large breasts bare for him to see every detail, nipples ripe and pink, peaked to perfection, her plump belly decorated in pale marks caused from carrying so many children. Jace bites his lip to hold back a groan, saliva filling his mouth, with hunger, thirst for her. “Take me, Daemon. Fuck me, uncle. Breed me, my love.” She whispers in her dream state, eyes still closed, a voice so needy Jace nearly comes from how sweet and sumptuous it sounds. Her lips part perfectly for Jace to slot his lips against, unable to deny his desire for her. He kisses his mother like he’s seen his stepfather kiss her a thousand times; with an intimacy unknown to him until this very moment—not how a son should kiss his mother. That thought only makes Jace groan low in the back of his throat, especially when his mother answers him back with a moan. Her tongue beckons his with a temptation to taste her sweetness, that seeps into his bloodstream, when their tongues twine together like twins in a womb. Rhaenyra wraps her arms around his neck, grasping for his long dark curls, as she kisses him deeper, as deeply as possible, parting her legs for Jace's cock to crook right up against the apex of her thighs, right against her hot, wet core. "Mother," Jace gasps against her lips, groaning so loud it echoes off of the walls, grinding his bulge against her naked cunt, hearing her breath hitch. "I need you,	jaws of fate Jace brews and stews, his pouts turning into more than just a frown, his brows knitted into anger, frustration and fire alighting the blood in his veins. He doesn’t understand why she wouldn’t choose him to go to Harrenhal with him. He doesn’t understand why his own mother would choose a stranger—a bastard—over him—her true-born son. Her first born. Her heir. His fists clench into tight balls, resembling those of Harwin Strong’s that once reared back and revealed the strength of House Strong, colliding with the smug smirk plastered to Criston Cole’s face. Jace digs his nails into his palms, adrenaline rippling through him, remembering seeing his Master-At-Arms—his father—punch and hit Cole until he was a bloody mess, ready to tear, to punch into the flesh of every dragonseed—bastard—who wasn’t of his mother’s flesh or his father’s blood. He despised all of them for being born, hated them all. He was his mother’s heir, of his grandsire’s direct lineage. And they were nothing to him, mud beneath his boot; mongrels who belonged on their knees, kneeling with their heads bowed before him…before him and his beloved queen, his very own mother. He thought of them all, bastard men with lowborn names, with dirt still beneath their nails, seated between him and his mother, unworthy to breathe the same air as her, as him. He didn’t trust them. Not Addam of Hull, or Hugh Hammer, and especially not the fool who calls himself Ulf. They were unremarkable and unimportant, in comparison to his mother, his brothers, and himself most of all. His queen needed them, Jace knew, for their blood, to claim dragons and win the war. But Jace needed his mother, needed her reassurance, her attention, her love more than ever. More than he wanted anything, a damned throne or crown, he wanted her. And his want, his longing only grew worse in his absence away from her, when he was winning alliances for her. All for her. For everything was always for her, ever since he was a young boy, ever since his father died. Ever since she lost his grandsire, Visenya, Luke; since Daemon abandoned her at her most vulnerable time of need. Jace was there. Jace would always be there. He would never abandon or leave her without him. Not permanently, not purposefully, not of his own volition. But if his mother asked it of him, Jace would lay down his life for her. The night Daemon left her like a coward, in a fury of his own self-righteous anger, Jace held her much like he imagined his father, Harwin Strong, would hold her, while she sobbed, wept into his shoulder. Jace kissed her brow and hushed her, like his grandsire might have done when she was a little girl. His mother was weak in that moment, but safely wrapped in his steady arms, she was strong. She was his, wholly his, with her hands clutching onto his neck, as much as she was his father’s or Daemon’s. And Jace felt more a man holding his mother in his arms than he ever had in that moment. His mother made him into the man he was in this moment, molded and shaped him into her precise and precious man, made in her perfect image. And he longed for her to see him as just that, not her little boy or sweet son, But a man. A man as strong as his father, as formidable and admirable. A man less prideful and less selfish than his stepfather who left her when she needed him most. For his mother needed him most, above all. And he would show her she needed him, needed his strength, his resilience, his love. More than she needed his father’s, Daemon’s. Dressed in a loose fitting pair of breeches (that once belonged to his stepfather) Jace leaves the comfort of his bedchambers, making his way towards his mother’s own chambers, before his fiery bravery leaves him. The hour is late, the castle quiet, silent, asleep—but Jace is wide awake. His heartbeat pounds like a drum in his chest the closer he walks towards her. The blood in his veins on fire, intense emotions and adrenaline spiking through him like lightning upon the roaring sea. His stomach tightens into knots, with a mix of anger and desperate desire, yearning, loneliness. A want to belong wholly and be loved by his mother and mother alone. For no one, not Mysaria, not Daemon—not any women, nor any man—will come between them ever again after this night. For a first born son shall make his claim, leave his own mark, upon his mother. Jace sneaks his way past his mother’s queensguard; always able to sneak past any guard his whole life when he was nothing but her sweet innocent boy. Yearning, longing to be wrapped in her comforting arms, hear her groggily say his name as she placed the gentlest and softest kisses upon his brow. The way she would cup his face, wipe away his tears, and tell him that everything would be okay, before pulling her into her warm embrace, so tight, so loving that Jace would fall asleep the the beat of his mother’s heart against his ear. Tears nearly spring to his eyes as he grips the handle to her door hard, angrily wiping them away before they can fall. For he’s done shedding tears, being the little scared boy his mother always comforted and consoled. Jace is six and ten, no longer a child, but a man grown, like his father before him. And he’ll prove himself more worthy to his mother than Harwin Strong or Daemon Targaryen ever did. Jace takes a deep breath in and out, before opening the doors, hearing thunder rumbling miles away on the Dragonstone sea. It matches the thumping of his heart beat in his chest, nearly rattling his rib cage, when he glances in the direction of her bed and sees her in it. His mother’s pale moon face drenched in the glittering glow of candlelight. She looks peaceful, asleep with no worries wrinkling her face; ethereal, otherworldly, untouchable. A Valyrian goddess reincarnated, haloed by a long waterfall of white silver gold. The divine sight takes Jace’s breath away, makes his stomach tense into knots that can not be undone. Not until he’s captured some of that perfect divinity for himself. All of her for himself. He steps from the shadows and into the slivered light of the moon splintering through the thick storm clouds and filtering through the pained glass window. Jace’s feet carry him forward, as if propelled by something supernatural, he cannot stop himself, even if he wanted to. His mother’s blood calls to his, the same blood flowing through his veins, hot and heavy. He continues to stare in awe, the closer he walks, forever perplexed by how beautiful his own mother is. Her skin is unblemished, pale as snow, unlike his which is covered in freckles, his complexion a shade darker than hers, like his dark brown eyes, his curls. Jace has always envied his youngest half-brothers for looking the most like his mother, having her fair complexion, light eyes and hair. But in this moment Jace can see himself in his mother more than ever before. For he’s inherited her facial features, the contours of her cheek bones, and his favorite thing about the both of them—her exquisite nose that is so uniquely her and him. A thing only they share. Jace’s hand unclenches from a tight tense fist as he reaches out and touches the curve of his mother’s perfect nose, wondering if his father ever did the same. A small breath escapes his mother’s mouth, as her lips part, and Jace can’t help as the finger continues to trace downward, over her cupid’s bow. He feels her hot breath ghost over the tip of his finger, so light, but so warm—inviting. Jace gulps, his cock stirring at the thought of her lips wrapped tight around him, her teeth and tongue grazing the hard flesh. “Mother,” he gasps as her tongue peeks out to touch his finger tip, and Jace nearly jumps, electricity bolting through him like the lightning far off in the distance. “Uncle,” she says back, answering him with a slight moan, her mouth enclosing around his pointer finger, as she sucks it into her mouth. And Jace realizes she’s dreaming of Daemon. She dreaming of that fucking coward of a man, his bloody stepfather, while she sucks his finger even harder, desperate. Jace shakes with a mixture of anger, jealousy, resentment, but most of all his cock is hard. He’s aroused, and worse of all he wants her to continue, for he desires her too much to stop. “Y-yes, m-my…niece,” Jace stutters out, giving into this dream fantasy, as his mother reaches for him with her hands, pulling him into her arms, as her mouth unlatches from his finger, leaving it wet with her spit. Jace is on top of his mother now, her voluptuous body beneath his, eyes wide as he realizes she’s naked underneath the silk sheet. Her large breasts bare for him to see every detail, nipples ripe and pink, peaked to perfection, her plump belly decorated in pale marks caused from carrying so many children. Jace bites his lip to hold back a groan, saliva filling his mouth, with hunger, thirst for her. “Take me, Daemon. Fuck me, uncle. Breed me, my love.” She whispers in her dream state, eyes still closed, a voice so needy Jace nearly comes from how sweet and sumptuous it sounds. Her lips part perfectly for Jace to slot his lips against, unable to deny his desire for her. He kisses his mother like he’s seen his stepfather kiss her a thousand times; with an intimacy unknown to him until this very moment—not how a son should kiss his mother. That thought only makes Jace groan low in the back of his throat, especially when his mother answers him back with a moan. Her tongue beckons his with a temptation to taste her sweetness, that seeps into his bloodstream, when their tongues twine together like twins in a womb. Rhaenyra wraps her arms around his neck, grasping for his long dark curls, as she kisses him deeper, as deeply as possible, parting her legs for Jace's cock to crook right up against the apex of her thighs, right against her hot, wet core. "Mother," Jace gasps against her lips, groaning so loud it echoes off of the walls, grinding his bulge against her naked cunt, hearing her breath hitch. "I need you," he confesses, on the verge of tears, shaking, one of his hands fumbling to release his cock so he can sink into his mother's warm welcoming cunt. So he can fuck and breed her for the first time. He rips his breeches down enough to grip the base of his cock, pressing it between his mother's slick cunt covered in silver hair, exquisitely and lovely, understanding his stepfather's obsession with getting his mother pregnant, full of his seed, nearly every year since they married. It's addicting, an opiate, an aphrodisiac, and Jace's mouth waters, for he will sure want a taste later. To sup and satiate his seed mixed with his mother's own musky sweetness. To taste what they have made. Jace nearly slips inside, sealing his fate to his mother's once more, by entering the place he came out of, when her eyelids flutter open and deep violet meets dark brown. Her dreamy, carefree expression turns to one of confusion. "J-Jace?" She questions sleepily, brows furrowed in concern, confusion, before her eyes travel downward, seeing the state of her oldest son’s naked cock nestled between her labia. “Jace, w-what is happening?” She swallows, trembling, unwrapping her hands from around his neck, pressing them into his chest. “What are you doing, m-my son?” Her voice sounds so different from the sweet and wanton one he heard just moments ago, begging him to fuck her—breed her. Jace flares his nostrils, cock throbbing hard against his mother’s cunt, his precome dripping from the tip. She shifts under him, her hand pushing against his chest, trying to remove his body from hers, trying to get the upper hand. But Jace is unmovable, unrelenting, unbending. He won’t move a muscle, not when his mother pulled him on top of him first, initiated this first—even if she was dreaming of another. Someone he yearned to be, to take the place of. For no one could replace Jace, he was Rhaenyra Targaryen’s first born son, her flesh, her blood, her heir. And now all her flesh would be his, her heart and soul too, he swore. “Jace, get off of me.” His mother commands, but she is not his queen in this moment, but his entirely to do with as he pleases. Her body at his mercy. “Jacaerys.” She says his full name, but she sounds almost scared, panicked. So Jace gives his mother a reason to fear him. “No, mother.” He grits, grabbing her wrists and pushing them above her head, angrily, as he grinds his aching cock against her cunt, the tip of his cock rubbing against her clit. “Ah! W-wait! N-no!” Rhaenyra bucks against him, her back arching when he does it again, hearing her say no, seeing her heavy breasts jiggling. “No, Jace, wait!” “I’ve waited my whole life for this, mother.” Jace can’t help but lower his head to take one of his mother’s nipples into his mouth and suck wetly, like a babe nursing. “Oh, gods, please, this is wrong. Jacaerys. You are my son.” His mother’s voice is ragged, breathless, on the verge of tears of sadness, as he draws sparks of pleasure from her body. Rain begins to fall outside, when Jace suckles at her other breast, wondering what it would be like to drink and feast off of her mother’s milk. He decides he will find out nine moons from now, once she grows his seed in her fertile womb. Jace bites her nipple, finally hearing his mother whimper, cry out as her nipple pops from his mouth. “Yesss,” He hisses, his tongue soothing over her bitten nipple, before he kisses a messy wet trail up to her mouth. “Yes, I am your son, your first born, yours, my mother. And now you shall be mine like you were my father’s.” Jace kisses her harshly, growling when his mother refuses at first, so he releases a hand from her wrists, takes his cock and guides it into her entrance that’s so slick with her juices, so warm and willing. “You will be mine, like you are Daemon’s. I’ll fuck and breed you better than my father and stepfather ever have or will again.” Jacaerys shoves his cock into his mother in a swift rough stroke, not giving her time to adjust, and he groans out, so loud in pleasure, while his mother gasps. “Fuck, fuck, mother. You’re so tight.” Jace breathes into Rhaenyra’s mouth, his hand releasing her wrists, leaving marks behind, his cock sheathed to the hilt inside her. His coarse dark pubic curls pressed against her silky soft silver ones. The sight makes his sac tighten. He’s never felt this kind of spine tingling pleasure or fire bloom in his veins, his blood pumping so hotly. It’s divinity, like being held in the most incredibly euphoric embrace, between the jaws of fate. For this is his fate, his destiny, to be this close inside his beloved, revered, sweet and succulentmother. Everything melts away, and there is just pure joy, ecstasy, and he wants to die, here, inside his mother. For nothing will ever make him feel more whole again. “Fuck, you’re perfect, mother. I cannot move. I want to stay inside you forever. I belong inside you forever.” Jace kisses her lips sweetly, tears falling down from his face, all his internal pain resurfacing the longer he stays within her, wanting her walls to suffocate his flesh, make his suffering end permanently. “Tell me you won’t leave me, that you love me, mother. That I am yours, please. That I am irreplaceable, mummy.” Jace begs, pleads, becomes molten and mouldable in his mother’s arms, as she wraps them around her first born son, comforting, all encompassing. “J-Jace, you are mine, sweet boy. My first, my heir, mine. Irreplaceable…irresistible.” Rhaenyra’s voice drips with honeyed honest truth, husky and hoarse with want. For she has resisted her needs, and she needs him. “Make me yours, Jacaerys. Make me come like your father did before he died. Breed me with your strong seed, my son. Fuck me better than your stepfather, so he may see what his stepson claimed selfishly, while he left me all alone. Fuck my cunt, sweet boy.” “Yesss, fuck, yes mother.” Jace whines, her words making his swollen sac tighten. He knows he won’t last long if she keeps encouraging him like this. “Do you want me to cream on your cock, sweet boy? Do you want to watch your cock fuck me?” “Yes, please, mummy, please.” Jace salivates, drool dribbling down his chin, unable to help it. Rhaenyra licks it from his chin, always cleaning his messes. “Then put the back of my knees onto your shoulders and stretch me out with your cock. Your father and Daemon always make me come the hardest that way.” Jace reluctantly removes his cock and heeds his mother’s—no, his queen’s—commands. “Yes, my queen,” he gasps, always her loyal subject, her servant, wanting to please his mother. Make her proud; pleasure her with everything in him. An offering ready to be wholly devoured, ruined, ravaged. “You’re mine, mine.” “Fuck, Jace.” Rhaenyra curses when he roughly shoves her legs onto his shoulders, biting into the meat of her calf. Leaving his mark imprinted into her flesh. Her moan is met with him thrusting into her with a growl so deep and guttural, his mother trembles, not from fear, but from the overwhelming feeling of having her son so deep in her body—where he always belongs. “You’re so deep, Jacaerys. Can you feel how deep, my sweet son?” “Fuck, seven hells, fuck.” Jace has to take several deep breaths in, his mother’s voluptuous plush curves pressed perfectly to his. He won’t last long, now when every part of his mother clings to him so gloriously. “You’re too tight, mother. Not while—fuck! Mother!” Jace cries and Rhaenyra squeezes her walls tightly, nearly sending him over the edge. She strokes a hand over his curls, pulling them tautly, before she’s kissing him and biting the meat of his bottom lip. “Then fuck me, my prince, my future king.” She whispers “Yes, yes. Mother.” Jace grunts, then fucks into her with abandonment, a feral, instinctual drive that maddens him to push through need to breed her, but to make her come. To make her feel pleasure unlike she’s ever felt from any man who has ever had the pleasure from being inside her. Rhaenyra gasps and moans, her words of praise, of encouragement, making pride surge through him. “Make me come, please, oh please, Jace. Jacaerys. Harder, my son.” She pleas and begs him, her voice becoming more strained and insistent. She almost sounds like a younger version of herself. One that his father got the ultimate and enviable luck to fuck first—to make his mother bleed on his cock…the cock that made him. “Gods, mother, you are perfect. S-so perfect.” Too perfect, Jace murmurs kissing his mother and swallowing her groan, slipping his tongue inside her wet cunt squelching as he thrusts faster into her, his dark coarse curls and sac slapping against her pretty silver curls. “You’re so fucking wet, so fucking tight, sweet mother—Rhaenyra.” Jace groans her name and Rhaenyra’s throaty rasp of a cry breaks through like thunder, erupting a deep well inside Jace that ruptures swiftly. “Mother!” Jace cries, nearly sobs, as her mouth opens to chant his name like a prayer. “Yes, yes, gods yes, sweet boy.” She kisses him passionately, her cunt clamping around him victoriously, claiming his seed from his tense, trembling body. Her cunt suffocates and chokes him, never ceasing, milking every last bit of his seed. “F-fuck, mummy, gods!” Jace whimpers, understanding why both his fathers could never stop breeding his mother. Why she was always round and fat with their babes. Her cunt was made for their cocks—his cock, especially. And Jace was addicted, already craving the fucking her, of being inside his mother, even though his cock wasn’t yet soft and still fully within her. “I love you, mother.” Jace says earnestly, his brown eyes sparkling with tears again. But tears of happiness, of joy, of perfect contentness for the first time in his life. She cups his face, thumb brushing away the tears as they fall. “Don’t cry, sweet boy. I’m here and I will never let you go.” Jace releases Rhaenyra’s knees and she whimpers when his cock slips wetly from her, some of his seed trickling out. The sight makes his mouth water, her cunt glistening with sticky slick and seed, but he also hates seeing it leave her pretty hole, so Jace scoops it up and attempts to put it back inside his mother where only his seed belongs now. “J-Jace, oh, oh. be careful, I have to—Jacaerys!” Rhaenyra gasps when two fingers enter her harshly without warning. “My seed belongs inside you, mother,” Jace speaks firmly, his calloused fingers hooking upwards in quick thrusts, like he had been taught jokingly by his stepfather years ago. But Jace took learning seriously, just like everything in his life. And right now, his mother’s body was accepting his intrusions like she was made to take them. “Fuck Daemon, he won’t ever get to touch my cunt ever again—will he—mother?” “Fuck, fuck, Jace, I-I, it’s too much, my son. Please, gods, please” Rhaenyra’s whole body shook, her heavy breasts bouncing, and Jace added a third finger, her cunt creamy and white around them. “Whose cunt is this? Whose seed is deep inside your womb, mother?” Jace grits his teeth, nearly growling the words and Rhaenyra screams, sings for him, when his other fingers touch her clit. “Yours, Jace! Yours, my son! Oh, f-fuck! Fuck!” She groans, squeezing her breasts, her cunt clamping around his fingers as a stream of hot liquid squirts from her cunt and dislodges them. “Mother,” Jace says in awe, wishing he could drink every bit of her release down, so he strokes her clit until she’s shrieking, begging him to stop. And Jace does, until his mouth is replacing his fingers and he places his plush lips over her cunt, drinking down another hot squirt of her fluids, groaning deep and guttural in the back of his throat, drinking every last drop. "Jace! Jacaerys Velaryon! E-enough, son!" Rhaenyra commands, shrieking, fingers tangling in his messy curls as Jace attempts to suck her overstimulated and oversensitive clit into his mouth, but her nails dig into his scalp, yanking him away almost violently, and Jace hisses, in pleasure and pain; loving how rough his mother is. How he's able to draw such wild wantonness and ecstasy from his mother, his very first time. Jace smiles proudly, his face a filthy mess, covered in his mother's come, staring up at her face, which is covered in sweat, her cheeks flushed blood red, tear streaks staining them. He wishes to kiss her, to lick her sweat and tears up, but her eyes are closed, her breathing unsteady. So Jace's gaze travels to her breasts, seeing how puckered her nipples are, how they call to his mouth, so he slowly kisses her silver haired mound, just above her tender pearl, kissing the striped marks on her belly he created when she grew him inside her womb all those years ago. "You're beautiful, mother." Rhaenyra can only whimper, unable to speak, but he knows she hears him loud and clear, especially when his mouth wraps around her nipple and she gasps softly, moaning, making Jace suck just hard enough that she cradles his head to her, urging him to continue. And Jace does, hearing her little breathless gasps of pleasure, knowing that nine moons from now, her womb will be full again. Full of his seed, his son. Knowing that he'll be supping and gluttonously gorging himself on her mother's milk that was created because of him. And that his own mother, his queen, will be cradling another babe with her own son's—husband's—hair and brown eyes. A child that will be theirs, one that Jace will claim proudly. One of his strong seed mixed brilliantly with the fire and blood his dearest beloved mother gave him. "Mother," Jace gasps, tears flowing freely down his face, but ones of relief, ones that he welcomes, as he lays his head against his mother's plump breast, listening to the steady beat of her heart. And she hums to him, sweetly and softly, like when he was her little boy. A carefree prince. A prince who didn't know he was a bastard, didn't feel the burden of being an heir. An innocent son, who didn't feel rage or anger, but just the love and protectiveness of a mother. Jace closes his eyes, letting her ethereal airy singing voice, mixed with the gentle sound of rain, carry him higher, into the comfort; the protective loving arms of his mother, who loves him above all. More than she loved his father, even more than she loves his stepfather. And Jace feels peace, lighter, like he's floating with the clouds on Vermax, feeling the sun shining on his face, the serene captivating and encapsulating him entirely. He falls asleep in Rhaenyra's embrace, both falling into a deep peaceful slumber for the first time since Luke died, since Daemon abandoned them. Two souls entangled like the branches of a twisted tree, like their veins full of fiery blood, connecting them, tethering them together like an uncut umbilical cord unto a womb. Mother and son becoming one.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75732126	{"authors": ["theheartlines"], "language": "English", "title": "jaws of fate"}
Juno Shane should have known something was wrong the moment Ilya stopped answering texts. Not busy wrong. Not practice ran late wrong. This was the ominous, suspicious silence of a man who was up to something. Ilya didn’t come home loud, either. No keys clattering, no shouted commentary about traffic, no dramatic sighs about how North American drivers were “cowards.” Instead, he appeared in the kitchen doorway like a man with a secret, phone already in his hand, grin sharp enough to be dangerous. “Hi, husband,” Ilya said sweetly. Shane squinted. “What did you do.” “I did something nice,” Ilya said, which somehow made it worse. He crossed the kitchen in three long strides and slid in close, crowding Shane back against the counter in that familiar way that still made Shane’s pulse kick. Ilya’s hands settled at his hips, thumbs hooking just under the hem of Shane’s T-shirt. “Before you say no,” Ilya added, already anticipating it, “I bought tickets.” Shane blinked. “To…?” Ilya lifted his phone like he was presenting evidence in court. The screen glowed pink. SABRINA CARPENTER — SHORT N’ SWEET TOUR Shane stared. Then stared some more. “You bought… concert tickets,” he said carefully. “Yes.” “For… Sabrina Carpenter.” “Yes.” “For us.” Ilya beamed. “Now you understand.” Shane opened his mouth. Closed it. Ran a hand through his hair. “Ilya, I—” “I saw videos,” Ilya barreled on, eyes bright, words tumbling. “People dress up. It’s fun. Everyone is hot and confident and there is glitter. Also choreography I think I could learn.” “You cannot,” Shane said automatically. “I absolutely can.” Shane laughed despite himself, then caught the look in Ilya’s eyes—hopeful, excited, already picturing it—and felt that familiar tug in his chest. The one that had made him say yes to a lot of things he’d never thought he’d do. “I don’t really—” Shane tried again. “I mean, concerts aren’t really my—” Ilya leaned in, voice dropping conspiratorially. “You have to dress sexy.” Shane froze. “…I’m sorry?” Ilya nodded firmly. “This is requirement. I saw online. People wear crop tops. Tight pants. Little shirts. You are very hot. You should show this.” Shane felt heat climb straight up his neck. “Ilya.” “Yes?” “I play professional hockey. I do not—” “You have abs,” Ilya said, completely unbothered. “This is crime to hide.” Shane groaned, dropping his forehead briefly against Ilya’s shoulder. “I don’t do ‘sexy outfits.’ I do suits. Jerseys. Occasionally a sweater Caro buys me because she says I look ‘approachable.’” Ilya’s hands tightened at his waist, grounding, not teasing now. “Shane.” He tipped Shane’s chin up gently, expression softening in that way that always disarmed him. “You do not have to,” Ilya said. “But I want you with me. We can have fun. We dance badly. We scream. We kiss in crowd. You are my husband. People can see.” Shane swallowed. The idea of it—the noise, the attention, the way people would look—made his nerves hum. Old instincts tugged at him. Be careful. Be quiet. Don’t stand out. But this wasn’t that life anymore. “I’m going to panic,” Shane said honestly. Ilya smiled, slow and reassuring. “Then I will hold your hand.” “And you promise you won’t post pictures immediately.” Ilya hesitated. Just a second. “…I will wait at least one hour.” Shane sighed. “You’re unbelievable.” “Yes,” Ilya agreed cheerfully. “So. You will wear something tight?” Shane looked at him—really looked. At the excitement, the trust, the easy certainty that they belonged wherever they decided to go together. “…We’ll talk about it,” he said. Ilya grinned like he’d already won. Shane should have run. Instead, he made the mistake of laughing. That was all the encouragement Ilya needed. “Bedroom,” Ilya announced, already gripping Shane’s wrist. “Ilya, wait—” Too late. Ilya hauled him down the hallway like a man on a mission, Shane stumbling slightly, socks sliding on hardwood. As they passed the living room, Shane locked eyes with Anya, who was sprawled on the rug, tail thumping lazily. “Anya,” Shane said desperately. “Help.” Anya lifted her head. Blink. Put it back down. Traitor. “You see?” Ilya said cheerfully, shoving the bedroom door open with his shoulder. “Even dog agrees. You must be hot.” “Ilya,” Shane tried again as he was backed toward the bed, “this is supposed to be fun, not—” Ilya pressed him gently down onto the mattress, hands braced on either side of Shane’s hips, eyes sparkling with mischief and something fonder underneath. “This is fun,” he said. “You are just dramatic.” Shane groaned and covered his face with one hand. “I don’t want to look ridiculous.” Ilya caught Shane’s wrist and pulled it away, expression instantly serious. “You will not.” Then, softer, “You look beautiful in everything. But tonight, I want other people to know you are mine.” Shane’s ears went red immediately. “That’s—” he swallowed, “that’s not helping.” Ilya grinned and went to the closet. What followed could only be described as an assault. “Too big,” Ilya muttered, tossing a shirt aside. “Too boring.” “Why do you have twelve identical black T-shirts.” “They’re comfortable!” Ilya held one up. “This one hugs.” Shane eyed it suspiciously. “That’s not a compliment.” “Yes it is.” Shane glanced back at Anya, who had followed them in and now sat near the door, watching with polite concern. “Anya,” Shane said quietly, “if he puts me in leather, I need you to bite him.” Ilya laughed. “She loves me more.” Anya wagged her tail. Unbelievable. Eventually, Shane stood in front of the mirror wearing dark jeans that were definitely tighter than his usual, a fitted shirt that clung in ways he was uncomfortably aware of, and boots Ilya had insisted on. Shane stared at his reflection. “Oh,” he said faintly. Ilya stepped up behind him, hands sliding to his waist, chin resting on Shane’s shoulder. “See?” Shane’s pulse thudded. “I look like I’m trying.” “Yes,” Ilya said reverently. “You look like someone I will fight strangers for.” Shane huffed a nervous laugh. “Ilya.” “What?” Ilya said, already turning away. “My turn.” Shane watched, helplessly, as Ilya stripped and redressed with deliberate slowness: slim black pants, a fitted jacket left just a little open, chain at his throat catching the light. Confident. Sharp. Dangerous in the way that had always undone him. Ilya caught Shane staring. “Now who is nervous,” he teased. Shane swallowed. “You can’t just—” “I can,” Ilya said, grabbing his keys. “We are married.” He tugged Shane close, quick kiss, all heat and promise. “Come. I will hold your hand. You will scream at pop music. And everyone will know we are having very good sex.” Shane groaned again, but he let Ilya pull him toward the door. Behind them, Anya barked once. “Don’t worry,” Shane told her. “I’ll survive.” Ilya squeezed his hand. “You will have fun.” The parking lot was chaos. Music thumped faintly from open car doors, laughter spilling into the night, flashes of pink and glitter and rhinestones everywhere Shane looked. The air buzzed with anticipation, sweet and electric. Shane stepped out of the car—and promptly froze. Every single person around them was dressed like they were about to be photographed. Crop tops. Mesh. Sequins. Tiny skirts. Boots with heels that defied physics. People strutted past like confidence was a given, like showing skin was just another way to breathe. Shane glanced down at himself. Tight jeans. Fitted shirt. Exposed collarbone. Oh. “Oh,” he said quietly. Ilya shut the car door and turned, already grinning. “See?” Shane leaned closer, lowering his voice. “They’re all dressed sexy.” “Yes.” “Like… aggressively sexy.” Ilya hooked an arm around his waist, proud. “You are one of them now.” “I don’t think I’m built for this,” Shane muttered, watching a group of girls in sparkly pink cowboy hats laugh their way toward the entrance. “What if someone recognizes me?” Ilya tilted his head, considering. “Then they will think, ‘Wow. Hockey player has taste.’” “That’s not—” Ilya kissed his cheek, quick and grounding. “Breathe. Look around. No one is looking at you.” Shane did. And realized—Ilya was right. No one cared. Everyone was too busy being themselves, showing off outfits, taking pictures, holding hands, existing loudly and unapologetically. Shane felt something in his chest loosen. They walked toward the venue, Ilya practically vibrating with excitement, squeezing Shane’s hand every few steps like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. “I like this,” Ilya said suddenly. “This is very… free.” Shane nodded slowly. “Yeah.” At security, they shuffled forward with the crowd, bracelets jangling, phones already out. Ilya leaned in and murmured, “After this, you will let me buy you glitter jacket.” “Let’s survive tonight first,” Shane said, though he was smiling now. Inside, the arena opened up—huge, bright, pulsing with energy. Pink lights washed over the crowd. Music boomed. People screamed just because they could. Shane stopped short, taking it all in. This wasn’t a rink. No rules. No expectations. Just joy. Ilya tugged him forward. “Come. Our seats.” As they climbed the steps and found their place, Shane sat down, heart still racing—but not from fear anymore. From excitement. Ilya dropped into the seat beside him, eyes shining, shoulders relaxed, utterly himself. He leaned over, pressed his forehead to Shane’s. “Thank you for coming with me,” he said softly. Shane squeezed his hand back. “Thank you for dragging me.” The lights dimmed. The crowd screamed. Ilya gasped like the world had just changed. And Shane—still nervous, still very aware of what he was wearing—felt something warm and thrilling settle in his chest. Maybe this could be fun. Then— The lights dropped. The stage exploded into gold and pink, and Sabrina Carpenter stepped into the spotlight in a sparkly bodysuit that caught every beam of light like it was designed to cause damage. Ilya made an incoherent noise. “Oh my God,” he said. Louder: “OH MY GOD.” “Are you okay?” Shane laughed.	Juno Shane should have known something was wrong the moment Ilya stopped answering texts. Not busy wrong. Not practice ran late wrong. This was the ominous, suspicious silence of a man who was up to something. Ilya didn’t come home loud, either. No keys clattering, no shouted commentary about traffic, no dramatic sighs about how North American drivers were “cowards.” Instead, he appeared in the kitchen doorway like a man with a secret, phone already in his hand, grin sharp enough to be dangerous. “Hi, husband,” Ilya said sweetly. Shane squinted. “What did you do.” “I did something nice,” Ilya said, which somehow made it worse. He crossed the kitchen in three long strides and slid in close, crowding Shane back against the counter in that familiar way that still made Shane’s pulse kick. Ilya’s hands settled at his hips, thumbs hooking just under the hem of Shane’s T-shirt. “Before you say no,” Ilya added, already anticipating it, “I bought tickets.” Shane blinked. “To…?” Ilya lifted his phone like he was presenting evidence in court. The screen glowed pink. SABRINA CARPENTER — SHORT N’ SWEET TOUR Shane stared. Then stared some more. “You bought… concert tickets,” he said carefully. “Yes.” “For… Sabrina Carpenter.” “Yes.” “For us.” Ilya beamed. “Now you understand.” Shane opened his mouth. Closed it. Ran a hand through his hair. “Ilya, I—” “I saw videos,” Ilya barreled on, eyes bright, words tumbling. “People dress up. It’s fun. Everyone is hot and confident and there is glitter. Also choreography I think I could learn.” “You cannot,” Shane said automatically. “I absolutely can.” Shane laughed despite himself, then caught the look in Ilya’s eyes—hopeful, excited, already picturing it—and felt that familiar tug in his chest. The one that had made him say yes to a lot of things he’d never thought he’d do. “I don’t really—” Shane tried again. “I mean, concerts aren’t really my—” Ilya leaned in, voice dropping conspiratorially. “You have to dress sexy.” Shane froze. “…I’m sorry?” Ilya nodded firmly. “This is requirement. I saw online. People wear crop tops. Tight pants. Little shirts. You are very hot. You should show this.” Shane felt heat climb straight up his neck. “Ilya.” “Yes?” “I play professional hockey. I do not—” “You have abs,” Ilya said, completely unbothered. “This is crime to hide.” Shane groaned, dropping his forehead briefly against Ilya’s shoulder. “I don’t do ‘sexy outfits.’ I do suits. Jerseys. Occasionally a sweater Caro buys me because she says I look ‘approachable.’” Ilya’s hands tightened at his waist, grounding, not teasing now. “Shane.” He tipped Shane’s chin up gently, expression softening in that way that always disarmed him. “You do not have to,” Ilya said. “But I want you with me. We can have fun. We dance badly. We scream. We kiss in crowd. You are my husband. People can see.” Shane swallowed. The idea of it—the noise, the attention, the way people would look—made his nerves hum. Old instincts tugged at him. Be careful. Be quiet. Don’t stand out. But this wasn’t that life anymore. “I’m going to panic,” Shane said honestly. Ilya smiled, slow and reassuring. “Then I will hold your hand.” “And you promise you won’t post pictures immediately.” Ilya hesitated. Just a second. “…I will wait at least one hour.” Shane sighed. “You’re unbelievable.” “Yes,” Ilya agreed cheerfully. “So. You will wear something tight?” Shane looked at him—really looked. At the excitement, the trust, the easy certainty that they belonged wherever they decided to go together. “…We’ll talk about it,” he said. Ilya grinned like he’d already won. Shane should have run. Instead, he made the mistake of laughing. That was all the encouragement Ilya needed. “Bedroom,” Ilya announced, already gripping Shane’s wrist. “Ilya, wait—” Too late. Ilya hauled him down the hallway like a man on a mission, Shane stumbling slightly, socks sliding on hardwood. As they passed the living room, Shane locked eyes with Anya, who was sprawled on the rug, tail thumping lazily. “Anya,” Shane said desperately. “Help.” Anya lifted her head. Blink. Put it back down. Traitor. “You see?” Ilya said cheerfully, shoving the bedroom door open with his shoulder. “Even dog agrees. You must be hot.” “Ilya,” Shane tried again as he was backed toward the bed, “this is supposed to be fun, not—” Ilya pressed him gently down onto the mattress, hands braced on either side of Shane’s hips, eyes sparkling with mischief and something fonder underneath. “This is fun,” he said. “You are just dramatic.” Shane groaned and covered his face with one hand. “I don’t want to look ridiculous.” Ilya caught Shane’s wrist and pulled it away, expression instantly serious. “You will not.” Then, softer, “You look beautiful in everything. But tonight, I want other people to know you are mine.” Shane’s ears went red immediately. “That’s—” he swallowed, “that’s not helping.” Ilya grinned and went to the closet. What followed could only be described as an assault. “Too big,” Ilya muttered, tossing a shirt aside. “Too boring.” “Why do you have twelve identical black T-shirts.” “They’re comfortable!” Ilya held one up. “This one hugs.” Shane eyed it suspiciously. “That’s not a compliment.” “Yes it is.” Shane glanced back at Anya, who had followed them in and now sat near the door, watching with polite concern. “Anya,” Shane said quietly, “if he puts me in leather, I need you to bite him.” Ilya laughed. “She loves me more.” Anya wagged her tail. Unbelievable. Eventually, Shane stood in front of the mirror wearing dark jeans that were definitely tighter than his usual, a fitted shirt that clung in ways he was uncomfortably aware of, and boots Ilya had insisted on. Shane stared at his reflection. “Oh,” he said faintly. Ilya stepped up behind him, hands sliding to his waist, chin resting on Shane’s shoulder. “See?” Shane’s pulse thudded. “I look like I’m trying.” “Yes,” Ilya said reverently. “You look like someone I will fight strangers for.” Shane huffed a nervous laugh. “Ilya.” “What?” Ilya said, already turning away. “My turn.” Shane watched, helplessly, as Ilya stripped and redressed with deliberate slowness: slim black pants, a fitted jacket left just a little open, chain at his throat catching the light. Confident. Sharp. Dangerous in the way that had always undone him. Ilya caught Shane staring. “Now who is nervous,” he teased. Shane swallowed. “You can’t just—” “I can,” Ilya said, grabbing his keys. “We are married.” He tugged Shane close, quick kiss, all heat and promise. “Come. I will hold your hand. You will scream at pop music. And everyone will know we are having very good sex.” Shane groaned again, but he let Ilya pull him toward the door. Behind them, Anya barked once. “Don’t worry,” Shane told her. “I’ll survive.” Ilya squeezed his hand. “You will have fun.” The parking lot was chaos. Music thumped faintly from open car doors, laughter spilling into the night, flashes of pink and glitter and rhinestones everywhere Shane looked. The air buzzed with anticipation, sweet and electric. Shane stepped out of the car—and promptly froze. Every single person around them was dressed like they were about to be photographed. Crop tops. Mesh. Sequins. Tiny skirts. Boots with heels that defied physics. People strutted past like confidence was a given, like showing skin was just another way to breathe. Shane glanced down at himself. Tight jeans. Fitted shirt. Exposed collarbone. Oh. “Oh,” he said quietly. Ilya shut the car door and turned, already grinning. “See?” Shane leaned closer, lowering his voice. “They’re all dressed sexy.” “Yes.” “Like… aggressively sexy.” Ilya hooked an arm around his waist, proud. “You are one of them now.” “I don’t think I’m built for this,” Shane muttered, watching a group of girls in sparkly pink cowboy hats laugh their way toward the entrance. “What if someone recognizes me?” Ilya tilted his head, considering. “Then they will think, ‘Wow. Hockey player has taste.’” “That’s not—” Ilya kissed his cheek, quick and grounding. “Breathe. Look around. No one is looking at you.” Shane did. And realized—Ilya was right. No one cared. Everyone was too busy being themselves, showing off outfits, taking pictures, holding hands, existing loudly and unapologetically. Shane felt something in his chest loosen. They walked toward the venue, Ilya practically vibrating with excitement, squeezing Shane’s hand every few steps like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. “I like this,” Ilya said suddenly. “This is very… free.” Shane nodded slowly. “Yeah.” At security, they shuffled forward with the crowd, bracelets jangling, phones already out. Ilya leaned in and murmured, “After this, you will let me buy you glitter jacket.” “Let’s survive tonight first,” Shane said, though he was smiling now. Inside, the arena opened up—huge, bright, pulsing with energy. Pink lights washed over the crowd. Music boomed. People screamed just because they could. Shane stopped short, taking it all in. This wasn’t a rink. No rules. No expectations. Just joy. Ilya tugged him forward. “Come. Our seats.” As they climbed the steps and found their place, Shane sat down, heart still racing—but not from fear anymore. From excitement. Ilya dropped into the seat beside him, eyes shining, shoulders relaxed, utterly himself. He leaned over, pressed his forehead to Shane’s. “Thank you for coming with me,” he said softly. Shane squeezed his hand back. “Thank you for dragging me.” The lights dimmed. The crowd screamed. Ilya gasped like the world had just changed. And Shane—still nervous, still very aware of what he was wearing—felt something warm and thrilling settle in his chest. Maybe this could be fun. Then— The lights dropped. The stage exploded into gold and pink, and Sabrina Carpenter stepped into the spotlight in a sparkly bodysuit that caught every beam of light like it was designed to cause damage. Ilya made an incoherent noise. “Oh my God,” he said. Louder: “OH MY GOD.” “Are you okay?” Shane laughed. “LOOK AT HER,” Ilya said, clutching Shane’s arm. “She is human disco ball. How is this allowed?” The first beat hit. The crowd screamed. Ilya bounced immediately, dragging Shane into motion, hands settling at his hips. Shane let himself move, laughing, leaning in. Ilya pulled Shane closer, hips rocking in time, playful and intimate. Shane laughed breathlessly and kissed him—once, then again. And then— “Wait, this couple is so hot!” The big screen snapped to them. “Oh no,” Shane whispered. “What’s your names?” She asked sweetly, leaning down in her very revealing outfit. Shane felt his cheeks blush. “Ilya!” His husband yelled from beside him, “And this is Shane!” Sabrina squinted at the screen. “Wait. I know you.” The crowd roared. “Is that Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov from the Ottawa Centaurs?” The arena exploded. Ilya waved. “Canada and Russia coming together and looking like that?” Sabrina laughed. “You’ll create an international incident.” “You are under arrest,” she added. “For being aggressively sexy during my song.” Ilya leaned in and murmured, delighted, “We are geopolitical event.” When “Juno” started, the crowd lost its mind. The camera mercifully cut away. Shane was laughing too hard to care as Ilya kissed him again, slow and sweet. “This song makes me want to get you pregnant,” he added softly. Shane choked on a laugh. “ILYA.” The last song faded out in a wash of light and noise, the crowd screaming like they were trying to keep the night from ending. Shane clapped until his hands hurt, chest buzzing, head light in the best way. Ilya looked wrecked. Hair mussed, eyes bright, shirt clinging to him like he’d danced through every second. “I am changed person,” Ilya announced hoarsely. Shane laughed. “You say that every time we leave the house.” They were still catching their breath when a woman with a headset approached their row, smiling wide. “Hi—sorry to interrupt,” she said. “Sabrina would love to meet you backstage.” Shane blinked. “Us?” Ilya froze. Fully, completely froze. “She—” Ilya swallowed. “She knows we exist?” The woman laughed. “Very much so.” Ilya stared at Shane, eyes wide with genuine panic. “I cannot meet pop star. I am not emotionally prepared.” “You literally just waved at her on the jumbotron,” Shane said. “There was stage between us,” Ilya hissed. “This is different.” The woman gestured for them to follow, already turning away. Ilya grabbed Shane’s arm like a lifeline. “Shane,” he whispered urgently. “What do I say? Do I bow? Do I compliment bodysuit? Is it rude to cry?” Shane grinned. “Relax. You’re equally famous.” Ilya stared at him. “This is lie.” “You’re an international hockey superstar,” Shane said calmly. “You’ve met presidents.” “Yes, but they are not wearing glitter.” Ilya took a deep breath as they followed down the hallway, then immediately exhaled all of it again. “If I pass out, you must tell her I died happy.” Shane squeezed his hand. “I’ll make sure she knows.” The entire walk behind the stage, Shane had to keep a hold of Ilya. He was afraid his husband was going to pass out from how excited he was acting. It only got worse once they saw a glittery, very tiny, blonde woman pop into the backstage hallway. “There they are!” Sabrina said. “My favorite international incident.” She looked them up and down. “You’re gigantic. Both of you. Is this a hockey thing?” “Only best ones,” Ilya said. She snapped her fingers. “Merch. All of it.” Then she handed Shane a sparkly jacket. “Trust me.” Ilya beamed. “I told you.” Shane slipped it on, warmth blooming in his chest. Yeah. This was fun. Ilya leaned close to Shane’s ear as he admired his sparkly jacket, “Will you let me make you Juno?” “Ilya!” Shane squeaked out. “Oh I love you!” Sabrina laughs, and slides her arm into Ilya’s elbow and begins to lead him away. Shane sighed and followed the two of them. They ended up clustered together in front of a pink backdrop, phones out, one of Sabrina’s assistants offering to take pictures while Sabrina slung an arm around Shane’s shoulders like they were old friends. “Okay,” Sabrina said. “One serious. One hot. One unhinged.” Ilya immediately chose unhinged. He leaned in, pressing his cheek to Shane’s, one hand still firm at Shane’s waist, grin sharp and unapologetic. Shane laughed mid-shot, shoulders relaxed, sparkly jacket catching the light just right. The next they choose is of Shane and Ilya holding Sabrina up in their arms like a trophy in her glittering outfit. Sabrina glanced at the phone when it was handed back and gasped. “Oh my god. That’s criminal.” Ilya was already pulling his own phone out. “I am posting all.” Shane blinked. “Right now?” “Yes.” Sabrina leaned over his shoulder. “What’s the caption?” Ilya typed quickly, then turned the screen toward them. Sex sells. There was a beat of silence. Then Sabrina lost it. She laughed so hard she had to bend over, clutching her stomach. “Oh my GOD. That’s it. That’s the best caption I’ve ever seen. You win.” Shane groaned, covering his face. “Ilya—” Sabrina pointed at him, still laughing. “No, no, don’t stop him. This is art. This is branding.” Ilya hit post, completely satisfied. “You’re welcome, internet.” Shane shook his head, smiling despite himself, and leaned into Ilya’s side as Sabrina snapped one last picture. Yeah. They had fun.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75730056	{"authors": ["Sugar_cloud"], "language": "English", "title": "Juno"}
Rendezvous Full moon shone down the holy ground of the Stonebell Castle, a cloudless sky allowing her beauty to hover above one and all, clouds perfectly forming just enough shapes to adorn the high stars. Even the night itself cooperated for yet another flawless party hosted by the Banquet Countess, illuminating the castle above the hills. Inside, a giant chandelier decorated the dome-shaped ceiling, gold framed paintings illustrate the ancient stories of the one who once sealed Samhain; a story to entertain and frighten children of all kinds in the modern times. Idle chatter echoed through the main dancing room while ghostlings’ laughter filled the cemetery grounds with their games of trick-or-treat. Among them all, the Countess’ princess framed in a familiar teal-blue dress could be found carrying the dashing smile she always wore towards the guests during the banquets, just the way the Countess taught her. Polite and cordial, sweet yet not too much to make them think you are docile. Ms. Duncan was a gorgeous feast to the eyes in all her glory, ready to entertain guests, leaving the pleasant scent of cinnamon as she struts by, always the life of the party with her pleasant conversation over a glass of wine or her eloquent laughter that twinkles like bells. She only ever presents herself to be the polite lady she was raised to be, while still acting that sweet hint of childish yet amiable behavior. In the future, the Countess hopes to see that same face framed by a pair of well-made ginger pigtails taking over the host's seat by the Banquet’s table, receiving the guests not as a princess, but rather as Countess Quinlan. The Countess knows not even herself is meant to last for eternity. Unfortunately for the Banquet's Countess, this night isn't the night her wishes would come true, as she notes that her star pupil once again vanished away from her sight. Underneath the Countess' mask and above the ballroom's main stairs, sharp eyes glanced over the whole crowd, yet she still had no sight of the infamous puffed dress and mismatched shining eyes. “Any news?” The Countess asks blindly, but her eyes remain down looking for something. Someone. “Not yet, my lady,” beside the woman in an elegant black dress, her loyal dog answers with a respectful nod to her master. Conviction’s speech was so formal towards her lady, it almost sounds uncharacteristic from her usual alarming annoyance. “I ordered the ghosts to warn us if they see her around.” The Countess sighed because she knows they won't help her. The ghostlings have always been on Ms. Duncan's side, a natural side effect after all they kept the little miss’ company ever since her arrival in a long lost childhood. “Make sure she appears before the twelfth chime of the clock,” she checks her pocket watch, still eleven hitting the clock point. Time seems to be in favor of the little miss, but the Countess can't help but despise the lack of responsibility her prodigy takes in such an important occasion. Sometimes she wonders if her lessons weren't harsh enough to tame the girl to her likeness. “If she doesn't appear by the table before midnight, make sure she won't leave her room for the next week.” Conviction hides away her pleasure of punishing the brat, bowing to her lady's will with no protest. “Yes, my lady.” Ms. Duncan checks the main clock by the ballroom, and the corners of her lips upturn further upon noticing it's not midnight. If the banquet itself is not ongoing yet, it only means she has all the right for some freedom before dinner is served, right? Maybe she won't get her Mother's strong sense of responsibility even in a couple of centuries to come, nor the way she is so rigid with an already flawless event. She wonders if it was age making that old lady so boring or if she was born like that. If only the Countess knew what was on Ms. Duncan's plans, would she still be oh so punctual and responsible, or would she allow Quinlan to have her affairs in peace without leading her like a barking dog down her ankles? Quinlan isn't sure, and she doesn't plan to discover yet as she strolls down the cemetery with a humming of her own, careless in her booted steps. “Your Ladyship is looking for you!” A ghost warned her; “Ms. Duncan is running late again!” Another one was taunting through a laugh. To all of them, Quinlan only answered with a good laugh of her own in return, for she knew they wouldn't rat her out to her mother. Sweet things they are. No worldly threats would keep her away from having her little fun through the night. When the faint smell of marigolds invaded Quinlan's senses, she was immediately led by the scent like a moth called by the flame. Intense in its wood base, spicy in the way Quinlan always loved it, suave in the hints of flowers always present in the deadly invitation silently calling the witch's presence. Scents that could lead one to sense danger only enticed the witch's will to wander further. Down the cemetery graves and near the forest's entrance she went, the addicting scent becoming stronger than ever once a pair of hands covers her eyes from behind. “You are late.” A deep, male voice warns her, but there's no malice in his tone. In fact, that only makes Quinlan's smile an inch as she caresses the broad hands with her painted nails, teasing death incarnate. “Well, if you didn't decide to meet so far from the castle, maybe we could've met earlier!” She graciously takes his hands off and turns around to face the man she is so fond of meeting at each banquet. Her hands caressed his softly, a pure contrast to the sharp tone in her tongue. “Aren't you a shy thing, Mr. Soul Catcher? Scared of those undead corpses dancing by mother's ballroom? I assure you they are far more scared of you than the other way around.” Purple really fits Soul Catcher the most she thinks, even with the glare he gives her, decked in golden accessories to show off his wealth from the underworlds. His sombrero is large above his skull painted face, filled with marigolds and other flowers Ms. Duncan had the pleasure of stealing oh so many times. She finds amusement in the way these flowers never wither away, keeping them neatly in a vase, doing her company by her bed's side and between pages of countless books through her personal stuff. “My matters aren't surrounding the Countess' castle tonight, rather doing my job by guiding the fresh souls to the right path,” his hands betray the formality in his words, shameless in the way he holds her slim arms and kisses her exposed wrists. It gives Quinlan a shiver down her spine, and a cheeky grin stretched across her lips. “Always working overtime, alwaaays busy with your job,” Quinlan sighs, although there’s a mix of faux boredom in her tone between the ticklish feeling she felt from those same lips that trailed down kisses through her palm, each touch of his cold lips a reminder to her of his undead nature as there was no warmth from his breath. “When will you have time for such a beautiful lady as myself?” “Beautiful lady, you say?” Soul Catcher hums, but his need is much clearer in his act than his words. “Speak too highly of yourself when you should keep your feet on the ground instead. Reality calls all, don’t you know that?” “Never too fond of reality when it’s made in monotonous colors,” Quinlan shrugs, but her half lidded mismatched eyes carries a hint of something malicious in the way she gives him a look. “Why, Mr. Soul Catcher, giving me life lessons at this time of the year? How special I must feel to be taught by death himself!” She laughs, but it soon turns into a yelp. His free hand grabs her waist, pulling her even closer. It makes her giggle despite the initial surprise, she never holds back to show her appreciation for his flirty touch. Strong hands led her to a tree down a well-worn path, their faces so close that he could whisper by the shell of her pointed ear, making her bite her lower lip in anticipation for what comes next. “You have a lot to learn in death, witchie,” his voice, deep and hoarse, is seasoned with a luxurious hint of lust as the corner of his lips upturn into a grin. “All I see is a luxurious prostitute coming down from her mother's party to slut herself out to a man she meets in the forest.” A warmth spread from her face and down her body as if she was under his spell, she can't help but rub her legs together to relieve some of the arousal instantly welling up between her thighs. “Calling me a prostitute before I could even show—” She gasps; her voice sounded as needy as the hands that caressed her sides. During all the other times they managed to meet through the centuries, it seemed that they could never get enough of each other. Soul Catcher always considered himself as someone who had an eye for beautiful things, fancied himself a collector of some sort, and Quinlan just happened to be one of the biggest masterpieces he managed to get his hands on. “Ah! Someone's in a hurry tonight, huh? Try to not make as much of a mess of my dress! I still have dinner to attend later, darling.” “Sure thing, princess,” he scoffs, death makes no confirmation to her words and there's no such a thing as the promise of not making a mess. Quinlan knew from the very beginning, but pretending to be a good girl is an act she's most familiar with to win in her own favor. No matter if it’s mother, death or fool, they all fall to the trick of a well put heartwarming smile. The touch of his lips on the cold flesh of her neck is more than enough for the woman to do a little show, gasping under all his kisses and the pleasure that was reserved for her. Oh, to hell with that dinner, her mother's punishment would be worth it as she felt Soul’s clothed erection against her ass. She grinds against him lazily, meeting his eye from over her shoulder, already hungry for what was to come. “Excited already?” Her back arches, and she makes sure to slip a hand between their bodies, teasingly running her finger	Rendezvous Full moon shone down the holy ground of the Stonebell Castle, a cloudless sky allowing her beauty to hover above one and all, clouds perfectly forming just enough shapes to adorn the high stars. Even the night itself cooperated for yet another flawless party hosted by the Banquet Countess, illuminating the castle above the hills. Inside, a giant chandelier decorated the dome-shaped ceiling, gold framed paintings illustrate the ancient stories of the one who once sealed Samhain; a story to entertain and frighten children of all kinds in the modern times. Idle chatter echoed through the main dancing room while ghostlings’ laughter filled the cemetery grounds with their games of trick-or-treat. Among them all, the Countess’ princess framed in a familiar teal-blue dress could be found carrying the dashing smile she always wore towards the guests during the banquets, just the way the Countess taught her. Polite and cordial, sweet yet not too much to make them think you are docile. Ms. Duncan was a gorgeous feast to the eyes in all her glory, ready to entertain guests, leaving the pleasant scent of cinnamon as she struts by, always the life of the party with her pleasant conversation over a glass of wine or her eloquent laughter that twinkles like bells. She only ever presents herself to be the polite lady she was raised to be, while still acting that sweet hint of childish yet amiable behavior. In the future, the Countess hopes to see that same face framed by a pair of well-made ginger pigtails taking over the host's seat by the Banquet’s table, receiving the guests not as a princess, but rather as Countess Quinlan. The Countess knows not even herself is meant to last for eternity. Unfortunately for the Banquet's Countess, this night isn't the night her wishes would come true, as she notes that her star pupil once again vanished away from her sight. Underneath the Countess' mask and above the ballroom's main stairs, sharp eyes glanced over the whole crowd, yet she still had no sight of the infamous puffed dress and mismatched shining eyes. “Any news?” The Countess asks blindly, but her eyes remain down looking for something. Someone. “Not yet, my lady,” beside the woman in an elegant black dress, her loyal dog answers with a respectful nod to her master. Conviction’s speech was so formal towards her lady, it almost sounds uncharacteristic from her usual alarming annoyance. “I ordered the ghosts to warn us if they see her around.” The Countess sighed because she knows they won't help her. The ghostlings have always been on Ms. Duncan's side, a natural side effect after all they kept the little miss’ company ever since her arrival in a long lost childhood. “Make sure she appears before the twelfth chime of the clock,” she checks her pocket watch, still eleven hitting the clock point. Time seems to be in favor of the little miss, but the Countess can't help but despise the lack of responsibility her prodigy takes in such an important occasion. Sometimes she wonders if her lessons weren't harsh enough to tame the girl to her likeness. “If she doesn't appear by the table before midnight, make sure she won't leave her room for the next week.” Conviction hides away her pleasure of punishing the brat, bowing to her lady's will with no protest. “Yes, my lady.” Ms. Duncan checks the main clock by the ballroom, and the corners of her lips upturn further upon noticing it's not midnight. If the banquet itself is not ongoing yet, it only means she has all the right for some freedom before dinner is served, right? Maybe she won't get her Mother's strong sense of responsibility even in a couple of centuries to come, nor the way she is so rigid with an already flawless event. She wonders if it was age making that old lady so boring or if she was born like that. If only the Countess knew what was on Ms. Duncan's plans, would she still be oh so punctual and responsible, or would she allow Quinlan to have her affairs in peace without leading her like a barking dog down her ankles? Quinlan isn't sure, and she doesn't plan to discover yet as she strolls down the cemetery with a humming of her own, careless in her booted steps. “Your Ladyship is looking for you!” A ghost warned her; “Ms. Duncan is running late again!” Another one was taunting through a laugh. To all of them, Quinlan only answered with a good laugh of her own in return, for she knew they wouldn't rat her out to her mother. Sweet things they are. No worldly threats would keep her away from having her little fun through the night. When the faint smell of marigolds invaded Quinlan's senses, she was immediately led by the scent like a moth called by the flame. Intense in its wood base, spicy in the way Quinlan always loved it, suave in the hints of flowers always present in the deadly invitation silently calling the witch's presence. Scents that could lead one to sense danger only enticed the witch's will to wander further. Down the cemetery graves and near the forest's entrance she went, the addicting scent becoming stronger than ever once a pair of hands covers her eyes from behind. “You are late.” A deep, male voice warns her, but there's no malice in his tone. In fact, that only makes Quinlan's smile an inch as she caresses the broad hands with her painted nails, teasing death incarnate. “Well, if you didn't decide to meet so far from the castle, maybe we could've met earlier!” She graciously takes his hands off and turns around to face the man she is so fond of meeting at each banquet. Her hands caressed his softly, a pure contrast to the sharp tone in her tongue. “Aren't you a shy thing, Mr. Soul Catcher? Scared of those undead corpses dancing by mother's ballroom? I assure you they are far more scared of you than the other way around.” Purple really fits Soul Catcher the most she thinks, even with the glare he gives her, decked in golden accessories to show off his wealth from the underworlds. His sombrero is large above his skull painted face, filled with marigolds and other flowers Ms. Duncan had the pleasure of stealing oh so many times. She finds amusement in the way these flowers never wither away, keeping them neatly in a vase, doing her company by her bed's side and between pages of countless books through her personal stuff. “My matters aren't surrounding the Countess' castle tonight, rather doing my job by guiding the fresh souls to the right path,” his hands betray the formality in his words, shameless in the way he holds her slim arms and kisses her exposed wrists. It gives Quinlan a shiver down her spine, and a cheeky grin stretched across her lips. “Always working overtime, alwaaays busy with your job,” Quinlan sighs, although there’s a mix of faux boredom in her tone between the ticklish feeling she felt from those same lips that trailed down kisses through her palm, each touch of his cold lips a reminder to her of his undead nature as there was no warmth from his breath. “When will you have time for such a beautiful lady as myself?” “Beautiful lady, you say?” Soul Catcher hums, but his need is much clearer in his act than his words. “Speak too highly of yourself when you should keep your feet on the ground instead. Reality calls all, don’t you know that?” “Never too fond of reality when it’s made in monotonous colors,” Quinlan shrugs, but her half lidded mismatched eyes carries a hint of something malicious in the way she gives him a look. “Why, Mr. Soul Catcher, giving me life lessons at this time of the year? How special I must feel to be taught by death himself!” She laughs, but it soon turns into a yelp. His free hand grabs her waist, pulling her even closer. It makes her giggle despite the initial surprise, she never holds back to show her appreciation for his flirty touch. Strong hands led her to a tree down a well-worn path, their faces so close that he could whisper by the shell of her pointed ear, making her bite her lower lip in anticipation for what comes next. “You have a lot to learn in death, witchie,” his voice, deep and hoarse, is seasoned with a luxurious hint of lust as the corner of his lips upturn into a grin. “All I see is a luxurious prostitute coming down from her mother's party to slut herself out to a man she meets in the forest.” A warmth spread from her face and down her body as if she was under his spell, she can't help but rub her legs together to relieve some of the arousal instantly welling up between her thighs. “Calling me a prostitute before I could even show—” She gasps; her voice sounded as needy as the hands that caressed her sides. During all the other times they managed to meet through the centuries, it seemed that they could never get enough of each other. Soul Catcher always considered himself as someone who had an eye for beautiful things, fancied himself a collector of some sort, and Quinlan just happened to be one of the biggest masterpieces he managed to get his hands on. “Ah! Someone's in a hurry tonight, huh? Try to not make as much of a mess of my dress! I still have dinner to attend later, darling.” “Sure thing, princess,” he scoffs, death makes no confirmation to her words and there's no such a thing as the promise of not making a mess. Quinlan knew from the very beginning, but pretending to be a good girl is an act she's most familiar with to win in her own favor. No matter if it’s mother, death or fool, they all fall to the trick of a well put heartwarming smile. The touch of his lips on the cold flesh of her neck is more than enough for the woman to do a little show, gasping under all his kisses and the pleasure that was reserved for her. Oh, to hell with that dinner, her mother's punishment would be worth it as she felt Soul’s clothed erection against her ass. She grinds against him lazily, meeting his eye from over her shoulder, already hungry for what was to come. “Excited already?” Her back arches, and she makes sure to slip a hand between their bodies, teasingly running her finger against the buttons of his pants, feeling the swollen head of his cock beneath the layers. This earned her the pleasure of hearing his breath hitch, feeling her wetness drip down her thighs, needy for the unspoken promise of something bigger soon to come. “I haven't even shown you my surprise yet.” Quinlan thought she was so shrewd and clever in the way she carefully pushes Soul Catcher away; The man lets her think that she has all the power once more in this arrangement. It's cute, he thinks. It makes Quinlan puff with pride that a man who was literally death incarnate— had himself wrapped around her pinky so tightly, so so pliant, and so needy for her, it gave her a certain kind of rush that makes her head grow 2 times bigger. She loved how easy it was to turn this man into a mess with just the simple touch of her fingers. Her painted lips flashed off her fangs when delicate fingers held on the edge of her teal-blue dress, teasingly lifting them up to show off bare bottom half, none of her usual white lace panties in sight as her tiny cunt dripped with her essence, down to her inner thighs thanks to the little foreplay they quickly shared. It was a mesmerizing vision, luring any man to look, and it was a sight specifically reserved for him. Greedy thing death can be, taking all he wants; this sight no different. Truly no magic was needed for her to get all the attention she wanted from the man in front of her, his stare focused down on her sex and on the slick down her thighs. “Just thought I could make things easier, since I have so little time tonight,” she keeps her legs tightly closed after a moment passes, feeling too exposed once the man's glowing red eyes wouldn't leave her pussy. Play-pretend naiveness. Pale thighs were pressed one against the other with the decency of a true lady. Poor thing, pathetically trying to keep her insides safe from the big bad wolf about to devour her. “Ah, zorrita…” There's just something exhilarating, when a creature who didn’t need air takes a deep breath in want, need for you, and Quinlan is not as naive as she seems, taking note in the singular rise and fall Soul Catcher’s chest does. This little vixen knows exactly what she is doing to him. “Always full of surprises under your sleeves, really a witch full of tricks,” his deep gaze raises to meet her mismatched eyes. “No wonder people tend to not trust witches. They tend to trick the other races merely for their own personal fun.” No further exchange is needed for the witch to get everything she wants in a matter of seconds. Her body is effortlessly manhandled to turn around with hands grabbing everywhere they can reach, her cheek pressed against the tree's trunk and dress lifted to expose her sex provocatively, her ass cheeks pressed against Mr. Soul Catcher’s not-so-subtle erection packed inside his tight pants. “Harsh thing you are, Mister—” She whines, pouting to play the role of a weak prey by trying to rub her bare sex against him, letting out a shameless noise when Soul Catcher's hand slaps a cheek, causing a wave of warmth to run down her cunt. “Ah! You really have no manners when it comes to a lady. At least have the decency to let me feel you, won’t you?!” “We both know who is the most desperate one here tonight,” his thick fingers trace down her slick entrance, making his fingers slippery enough that they were sure to go in with no problem, she was kept at the tips of her toes- wiggling her hips trying to encourage the man to just plug her up already, inclining her body against his hand for more of his touch. Quinlan is good at keeping herself in control, that's a trait she is proud of herself, but could anyone blame her for almost losing it all when two fingers force their way inside her cunt in one go? Her jaw drops open in a choked moan, eyes fluttering closed in the fog of pleasure. She is just so wet, making it so easy for Soul Catcher to push his fingers deeper and hook them good, stretching her open in just the way she needed them. “Look at you, already so wet over a couple of kisses, uh?” His shit eating grin was almost audible in his voice. “Are you even trying to act as a refined lady anymore, Miss Duncan?” “W-Whatever you say. Hurryyy…!” Her hand tried to messily reach behind and help the man in the task of freeing his member, but no extra help is needed as he does it himself quickly; the feeling of emptiness when he withdrew his fingers was followed by a disappointed whine of her own, one to which Soul Catcher chuckles in amusement. Acting all provocative one second just to turn into a pouting brat on another. How lovely. “Is that all that you had to offer, big boy?” She gives him a mocking look over her shoulder before gasping at the feeling of his head against her slick vaginal entrance. Despite the bratty attitude her exposed cunt was more than enthusiastic for more with the little pinkish hue that Soul loved to see. “Have some patience, would you?” The witch arched a brow, glancing down towards the entity's hardened member. “You are no one to speak of patience here.” Narrowed eyes is all Quinlan receives as a warning in response to her defiance, before Soul Catcher finally thrusts his hips forward with great strength, earning her silence and that sweet, broken moan he loved to hear while he fills her cunt to the brim. Going from all the needy feeling to sudden fullness stretching her so well is painful yet a sort of addicting drug for the witch, a trance she is led by the uncontrolled warmth dripping down her sex, and she doesn't fight back when Soul starts moving to achieve his selfish pleasure with her body. Pleasure was all she seeks, too. Moaning at every slow thrust impacting her to bounce against the tree, making a show off of her body's abuse, she accepts everything he gives to her as if she really was made just for him. Her body is his to handle, and it reacts so sweetly to his touch — a rough hand holds her clothed waist while the other one firmly hooks itself around her shoulders, with her smaller body it was easy to man handle her in any way he wanted. Quinlan doesn't realize when she starts calling out for the entity's name, like a prayer to induce the sin they share, but Soul Catcher takes every slickly twisted syllable out of her tongue with gusto. “S-Soul— Mister, please, ah!” She yelps at a particular thrust, her back arching so prettily to Soul Catcher's eyes. If it wasn't by the arm hooked around her, her trembling legs would've given in to meet the ground already. “Misteeer, I'm so hungry, pleeeease…!” She slurred her words, pliantly, chuckling her way out of it. Soul Catcher slows his hips, staying still deep inside her core. For a moment, Quinlan knew that the tip of this man's cock was kissing against the entrance of her womb so well that if she were a normal human she’d have been pregnant ages ago and she absolutely loved the idea of so much fullness. Maybe gifting him one of her little floating bunny companies next year and pretending that is their child can be a nice little halloween trick for her to work on. “Just a sip,” she pleads, begs, taking advantage of the slowed pace to grind her hips against his crotch and turn her face around with the eyes of an obedient, innocent puppy. Isn't it cute when a man moans as the fruit of your doings? Quinlan might as well return it with a bit of her own prettiness. Enchanted fingers reach up to the entity's face, cupping his cheek with such care contrasting the brute hold present around her waist trying to keep her still. “Haven't I been good enough to you, mister?” Her whisper up to him is filled with honey, and she appreciates the way his hands’ pressure oh-so-subtle increases on her body to stop the vulgarity of her gestures. Idly she lifts her dress further thumbing against the silk nervously, his cock twitching inside her with need. “Please, mister?” She blinks sweetly with the purity of a true lady, contrasting her true nature. If Soul Catcher didn't know any better, he would fall for the act and really believe that was a lady under his grasp, and not the woman he has deflowered through the last century with scheduled meetings by the nights of all hallows. That woman is Soul Catcher's devil in a puffed dress and pigtails. “Fine,” he gives in with a sigh, charmed under her spell, as he frees her body from his hooked arm and sets it against the tree in front of her instead. Quinlan's eyes completely shine with happiness, fangs more than ready feed herself good on that exquisite banquet. She's fast in undoing his sleeve, and artful in licking through cold flesh before sinking her fangs in one go to pierce through flesh and almost reach bones. His hand immediately turns into a fist, piercing pain reminding the entity not every trace of humanity is gone from his very being. It's delicious! One of a kind dessert no one else has but Ms. Duncan has proved through time, a luxury she finds herself proud of knowing. Tastes like nothing she ever had before! Bittersweet and succulent. A light hint of something spice. The entity's grunts by her wiggling ear only entices her to take much more than a sip from the god-like elixir flowing down her tongue, feeding her so well with energy to move her hips harder against him. “I said one sip, you bloody witch,” Soul Catcher complains, but doesn't draw his arm away from the claws grasping to his arm. Instead, he decides to return her eagerness by resuming the movement of his body against her, regaining all control over her. He is rougher this time, fucking open her cunt while she is busy being a messy eater on his arm. Bloodlets stains her dress, dripping down her chin with every thrust making her moan against his flesh, but no physical dirt ever passes through her mind, busy in the fog of pleasure making her head spin every time his cock reaches so deep and good. “I can't help it,” she tries to be quiet and fails through her moans, tiptoeing with her growing climax at every move readjusting her guts. “I can't— Oh, M-Mister, so good—!” Mercy is the last give Soul Catchers gives her, mixed essences slipping down her thighs with leaking precum. Their natural fluids acting so well together, really meant to be through all Soul Catcher had to offer from his very essence — Quinlan licks clean every inch of red she gets from him, like a cat desperate to finish her food, eyebrows curled with utter pleasure to the climax she doesn't even realized to get until it's the entity who grabs her attention by touching her modded sex. The witch screams in pleasure, stimulated to the core while her walls spasms around his twitching cock. She reaches heavens with every thrust offering him a jolt of bliss through her whole body, and soon after takes him as high with her with all the warm fluid Soul Catcher releases inside her. Good, so good, Quinlan doesn't mind the time it takes for Soul Catchers to actually withdraw from her cunt, puffy in the abuse of her flesh and wetter than ever with the conclusion of their filthy action. Weak legs and fogged sights, blissful high and reached goals. Their bodies glues one against other in the post math of shared lust, and Quinlan takes deep breathes over the sweet iron smell making her drunk. Soul Catcher rests his forehead against her shoulder, and she caresses her head against his. How pliant a man can be with so little, uh? “Oh, Mister…” She licks his arm a last time, and he only sighs loudly with a small grin on his lips; that woman is unbelievable. “You still make me feel as good as the first decade I've met you in— The time!” In a rush, it seems like all of the witch's tiredness vanishes away as she gets away from him and adjusts her dress down, making him lean his head against the tree instead. He watches the woman's snap of her fingers to summon both a small pocket watch by her delicate fingers and a floating mirror in front of her, quickly adjusting her pigtails and trying to wipe away some leaves and the stained fabric of her dress. Well, most of the stained parts, at least. “Mother will be furious! Mine, shouldn't I have got an alarm for this stupid night!” It's more of a monologue than a conversation, and she doesn't expect an answer from her company. “I have barely eight minutes left, therefore if I turn into a bat and fly quickly enough I might…” For Soul Catcher, the best part of her getting ready in front of him was always her still exposed legs — no panties? Hah. He whistles at the sight of leaking cum down her knees, and she gives him an annoyed look upon noticing his sound. “You pervert!” She sticks out her tongue, but can't hide away the smile on her face, even more as he packs himself back safe and sound. “Weren't you the one who came to see me, zorrita?” “So? You are still a pervert for deflowering an innocent lady like me!” She claps her boots, and walks backward giving him her final look. “Now it's time for you to play the paper of a runaway knight, isn't it, Mister?” A thrown kiss is all Soul Catcher receives before the woman before his eyes turns into a bat, and flies high into the skies above and towards the Castle. No exchanged words are needed for them to be eager in meeting once again next year. For the nth time through the last hour, the Countess checks her pocket watch. Less than five minutes until midnight strikes. Yet no sights of familiar freckled face framed in orange. The nose twitching in annoyance is hidden away from one and all by the mask covering the Countess' face, as her politeness in a welcoming gestures remains unchanged to the guests she takes responsibility in leading the event towards the main Banquet. Daydreaming of what she can do to Ms. Duncan will need to wait, she thinks. At least one person under the castle's higher hierarchy needs to take responsibility in the important subjects. Or at least, that's what goes on the Countess' head, before her attention is drawn to the movement of the reserved seat by her side with no one else but the chair's owner. “Ms. Duncan.” “Yes, mother?” Quinlan asks, almost naively, sweet-looking eyes and honey coated voice dedicated to her mother. An adorable thing, if it wasn't by the fact the Countess was the very oke who raised that adorable thing enough to know the brat under that faux sweetness. “You're late,” the lady states. “Not the first time I've heard it tonight,” Quinlan whispers, but her eyes darts towards the clock her mother holds on. “Besides, it's not true. I'm punctual, see?” She points towards the watch, but the Countess closes it almost immediately with the grace of a queen. “It's eleven and fifty eight, mother. Dare I say I'm actually early to the occasion.” She shrugs masterly of fact, and idle steals a cherry from a colorful plate in front of her. Her response, however, isn't enough to satisfy her mother, and she knows it by the static way the Countess' face stays still, glaring with her crimson hidden eyes. If that isn't enough to boil her anger under the politely hidden facade, Quinlan still plays further with fire. “What?” The little miss asks with faux ingenuity, and offers one of the cherries she stole just a second before towards her beautiful mother. “Want some?” She smiles, the corner of her lips slowly growing with masked mischief as she leans in the Countess' space to whisper what looks like a secret meant for the two ladies alone. “It's sweetness might take care of your bitter look away, mother.” A vampire taking a deep breath through her nose sure is a sight to delight, one Quinlan has seen oh so many times as the little brat she grown into under her mother's ruling. A vampire forcing her charms on another of her own species is almost exciting to Quinlan as she feels her mother's enchants invading her system and flowing through her veins, controlling her free will and forcing her to to behave on her seat. A silent charm to keep the prodigy of the Stonebell Castle sitting still and neatly through the night, with the promise of punishment for defiance in the near future. The next thing Quinlan knows is her mother's voice echoing inside her head, meant for her and her alone to hear, while the Countess is busy serving herself a glass of wine. “Stay still until the party is over, so you can explain the dirt in your legs, Ms. Duncan.”	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75730061	{"authors": ["Cirlufe"], "language": "English", "title": "Rendezvous"}
ready player one red letters spelling “game over” flash on the screen in front of you. “that’s the fifth time in a row, choso,” you laugh, reaching over your shoulder to thread your fingers through his messy black hair. the controller he holds in front of you trembles in his white-knuckled grasp. his face is hidden in your neck and you feel puffs of hot air on your skin as he pants harshly. “i-i c-can’t do it!” your fingers pull on his hair harshly and he cries out. he drops the controller onto your lap and wraps his arms around your middle, squeezing your back into his chest, his body shuddering uncontrollably. he mouths at your neck, groaning around the flesh, the taste of you on his tongue. you try to keep still atop him, but your cunt flutters around his cock, your bottom halves pressed together and completely bare, with choso is trying to buck his hips up into your ass for just a bit more friction, wanting so badly to just give up on the game and use you to fuck himself silly but you won’t let him. “cho.” your voice is even, calm, but it holds a warning that makes choso whine, but his hips fall limp against the couch. you let out a steadying breath, but your cunt dribbles around where his cock is nestled deep inside you. “sorry, s-sorry. feels so good,can’t help—can’t help i-it,”his breathing is labored and he tries to calm himself but he can hardly focus, can hardly think or speak with the feel of your cunt wrapped around him so tightly. “‘s ok, baby,” your voice soothes him and his breath catches in his throat when you turn and press a kiss to his forehead, lips cooling the warm skin. you watch him, stare into his wide, teary eyes and take in the light pink tint of his usually pale skin, illuminated by the red of the screen still blinking with choso’s most recent failure. “you got this,” you smile, running your hand through his hair and down his flushed cheek to grip his chin. “and when you finally win, i’ll let you fuck me.” choso’s head jerks up and down in quick nods, mouth agape as he hangs on to your every word, cock pulsing with its own heartbeat at the promise of a light at the end of this tunnel. he squeezes you around your stomach, forcing his mouth to yours and mewling when you chuckle against his lips. he kisses you how he feels, barely controlled and sloppy, tongue darting out too fast and painting your lips and the bottom half of your face with his saliva. your fingers gripping his chin dig in harder, leaving crescent moon indents in your wake, giving him an unsaid command to slow down. he whimpers at the sting but his hurried movements slow, his kisses turn lazy and languid. you hum into his mouth, he always listens so well. when you pull away, choso releases a stuttering breath, trying to ignore the clenches of your cunt that seem too timed, too deliberate. with one final squeeze, his arms let go of your mid drift and reach for the controller he dropped in your lap. you turn to face the screen again, feeling choso rest his chin on your shoulder where it was before so he gets a good look at the screen, but also so he can get a good look at you from the corner of his eye. he smiles shakily, watching how your eyes clench shut and hands drop to grab at his thighs underneath you. you try to adjust your position on his lap when you both gasp, his cock shifting inside you just slightly, sliding against your sensitive walls so good your head falls back just a bit. you make an effort not to let a desperate groan pass your lips, clearing your throat to cover it. your clit pulses in time with your heart between your legs. in denying choso you’ve denied yourself, and as much as you like to toy with him and watch his fracture beneath you, it’s taking a toll. it’s even worse when he can tell. “you ok, baby?” you can hear the smile in his voice and his voice vibrates against your cheek, smug and low with want. you roll your eyes, but the sound of his voice makes heat bloom on your face. “perfectly fine, cho.” your fingernails lightly scrape the skin of his thigh and he stiffens, goosebumps rushing like a wave over his body. “start the game. pay good attention this time, yeah?” you press yourself back into his chest, feeling his thundering heart beat against your back. you watch choso fumble with the controller, sweaty grip making it slip and slide in his grasp before the screen flashes blue with the color of the past level that’s been giving choso trouble. the controller pushes and presses on your stomach as choso jerks and moves it, matching the movements with the character on the screen. his breath is caught, coming upon the part where he dies time and time again, he’s almost there and he can see the finish line if he just focuses— a strangled breath catches in his throat when he feels you cunt squeeze his cock, just for a second. his fingers slip on a button and the screen flashes red, another “game over” screen glaring at you and painting your bodies with red light once more. choso groans loudly, directly into your ear and he clutches your hip. “please, baby. you gotta—gotta be s-still. let me focus.” his balls are tensing and his head feels faint from the unrelenting warmth of you surrounding his cock. he knows you’re doing it on purpose, knows he wants you to fail so his fingers dig into your hips until he hears a shaky exhale from you, bodies almost unbearably hot against one another. “not doing anything, cho,” you lie, voice soft, fingers splayed across the hand that’s holding onto you. “try one more time, honey. concentrate. you can do it.” choso groans lowly, his entire body flushed with the effort of remaining still. he pushes his hair back from his face, and adjusts you on his lap, spurring himself on when he hears the sound you try to hide in your throat when his cock slides against your walls with the movement. the controller is in his grip again and his chin is tucked firmly against your shoulder. eyes on the prize. when you clench around him this time, choso doesn’t relent. his eyes slip shut and his mouth falls open, but he snaps back to attention, back to his game, wanting so badly to get your permission, to have you how he wants. he’s made it past his previous death spots you realize. your breath kicks up. you can hear the noises coming from him behind you, can practically hear him biting his lip until pinpricks of blood bloom where his canines dig in, but he keeps going. nothing can be heard other than the synced heavy breaths of you both and the clicks of controller buttons. your eyes are glued to the screen in anticipation, preparing for the inevitable— the screen lights up bright blue with the word “victory” splayed across it. your cunt clenches, out of your control and choso drops the controller to the ground, a loud crack disturbing the air. but his hands are moving across your thighs, between them, up your stomach, cupping your breasts, sliding around your throat before you can flinch at the noise. “ride me,” he whimpers suddenly, face pressed to your cheek, hips rocking up. your body is pulled back into his chest and he plants his feet on the floor for leverage before he grinds his cock into your cunt, moving at a speed so fast you barely have a second to moan as the tip of his cock rubs inside you. “wanna c-cum so bad,been toolong—“ you catch the wrist of his hand that rests on your neck before he loses it completely. “choso—“ you can feel his head shaking back and forth, deep voice, breathy and whiny while his hips jerk an unsteady rhythm into your still body. “i did it. i w-won. and y-youpromised.” his tongue is licking stripes across your face before he turns your head and shoves it into your mouth, trying to devour you. you kiss him back just as eager, catching the sounds that fly from him as he pushes himself closer to release with his little grinds into your cunt, barely moving but so desperate to cum that it doesn’t matter. “wanna fill you,” he breathes the words into your mouth needily, one of his arms coming to wrap around your belly tight, holding you where he wants as his stomach clenches. “you’ll let me, r-right? i did what you said. i was good,wasn’t i?” you stroke his hair away from his face pulling back from his lips, listening to his soft whimpers fill the room. sweat gleams on his forehead and in the locks of his hair, dripping onto your neck and face. you feel his shaky breaths and cries on your skin, your own moans quieted as choso’s chase for the pleasure you’ve denied him pushes you closer to the edge with him. “‘m gonna cum—gonna cum—feels so g-good—need more, more, give me m-more, please—“ “that’s it, cho. make yourself—shit—feel good.” your voice is airy with pleasure and your body rocks in his lap in time with his uncoordinated grinds. he continues to babble into your ear, voice cracking and overwhelmed with need. choso stills, cumming violently behind you, voice pitching high before you feel warmth flooding your cunt and hear your name fall from his lips into the skin of your neck where he’s pressed his face. choso shakes with aftershocks beneath you, hiccuping breaths catching in his throat. his cock throbs weakly inside you, and you run your hand over his hair while he comes down, whispering sweet nothings and preparing to lift yourself from his lap when his soft noises quiet and his grip around your middle tightens. “don’t move. i wanna—wanna keep going.” his voice is low, and he tries to keep it steady but you hear the shakiness. his arms release you slowly, but you remain seated, still in his lap while his hands run over your thighs to rest underneath your knees. a confused sound leaves you as choso lifts them, pulling you both backwards until he’s leaned against the couch, his bottom half hanging slightly off the edge while he pulls your legs up against your chest, fully exposing you. you can feel remnants of choso’s release leak out of your cunt and down the length of his cock that left you while he adjusted your positions. he plants his feet	ready player one red letters spelling “game over” flash on the screen in front of you. “that’s the fifth time in a row, choso,” you laugh, reaching over your shoulder to thread your fingers through his messy black hair. the controller he holds in front of you trembles in his white-knuckled grasp. his face is hidden in your neck and you feel puffs of hot air on your skin as he pants harshly. “i-i c-can’t do it!” your fingers pull on his hair harshly and he cries out. he drops the controller onto your lap and wraps his arms around your middle, squeezing your back into his chest, his body shuddering uncontrollably. he mouths at your neck, groaning around the flesh, the taste of you on his tongue. you try to keep still atop him, but your cunt flutters around his cock, your bottom halves pressed together and completely bare, with choso is trying to buck his hips up into your ass for just a bit more friction, wanting so badly to just give up on the game and use you to fuck himself silly but you won’t let him. “cho.” your voice is even, calm, but it holds a warning that makes choso whine, but his hips fall limp against the couch. you let out a steadying breath, but your cunt dribbles around where his cock is nestled deep inside you. “sorry, s-sorry. feels so good,can’t help—can’t help i-it,”his breathing is labored and he tries to calm himself but he can hardly focus, can hardly think or speak with the feel of your cunt wrapped around him so tightly. “‘s ok, baby,” your voice soothes him and his breath catches in his throat when you turn and press a kiss to his forehead, lips cooling the warm skin. you watch him, stare into his wide, teary eyes and take in the light pink tint of his usually pale skin, illuminated by the red of the screen still blinking with choso’s most recent failure. “you got this,” you smile, running your hand through his hair and down his flushed cheek to grip his chin. “and when you finally win, i’ll let you fuck me.” choso’s head jerks up and down in quick nods, mouth agape as he hangs on to your every word, cock pulsing with its own heartbeat at the promise of a light at the end of this tunnel. he squeezes you around your stomach, forcing his mouth to yours and mewling when you chuckle against his lips. he kisses you how he feels, barely controlled and sloppy, tongue darting out too fast and painting your lips and the bottom half of your face with his saliva. your fingers gripping his chin dig in harder, leaving crescent moon indents in your wake, giving him an unsaid command to slow down. he whimpers at the sting but his hurried movements slow, his kisses turn lazy and languid. you hum into his mouth, he always listens so well. when you pull away, choso releases a stuttering breath, trying to ignore the clenches of your cunt that seem too timed, too deliberate. with one final squeeze, his arms let go of your mid drift and reach for the controller he dropped in your lap. you turn to face the screen again, feeling choso rest his chin on your shoulder where it was before so he gets a good look at the screen, but also so he can get a good look at you from the corner of his eye. he smiles shakily, watching how your eyes clench shut and hands drop to grab at his thighs underneath you. you try to adjust your position on his lap when you both gasp, his cock shifting inside you just slightly, sliding against your sensitive walls so good your head falls back just a bit. you make an effort not to let a desperate groan pass your lips, clearing your throat to cover it. your clit pulses in time with your heart between your legs. in denying choso you’ve denied yourself, and as much as you like to toy with him and watch his fracture beneath you, it’s taking a toll. it’s even worse when he can tell. “you ok, baby?” you can hear the smile in his voice and his voice vibrates against your cheek, smug and low with want. you roll your eyes, but the sound of his voice makes heat bloom on your face. “perfectly fine, cho.” your fingernails lightly scrape the skin of his thigh and he stiffens, goosebumps rushing like a wave over his body. “start the game. pay good attention this time, yeah?” you press yourself back into his chest, feeling his thundering heart beat against your back. you watch choso fumble with the controller, sweaty grip making it slip and slide in his grasp before the screen flashes blue with the color of the past level that’s been giving choso trouble. the controller pushes and presses on your stomach as choso jerks and moves it, matching the movements with the character on the screen. his breath is caught, coming upon the part where he dies time and time again, he’s almost there and he can see the finish line if he just focuses— a strangled breath catches in his throat when he feels you cunt squeeze his cock, just for a second. his fingers slip on a button and the screen flashes red, another “game over” screen glaring at you and painting your bodies with red light once more. choso groans loudly, directly into your ear and he clutches your hip. “please, baby. you gotta—gotta be s-still. let me focus.” his balls are tensing and his head feels faint from the unrelenting warmth of you surrounding his cock. he knows you’re doing it on purpose, knows he wants you to fail so his fingers dig into your hips until he hears a shaky exhale from you, bodies almost unbearably hot against one another. “not doing anything, cho,” you lie, voice soft, fingers splayed across the hand that’s holding onto you. “try one more time, honey. concentrate. you can do it.” choso groans lowly, his entire body flushed with the effort of remaining still. he pushes his hair back from his face, and adjusts you on his lap, spurring himself on when he hears the sound you try to hide in your throat when his cock slides against your walls with the movement. the controller is in his grip again and his chin is tucked firmly against your shoulder. eyes on the prize. when you clench around him this time, choso doesn’t relent. his eyes slip shut and his mouth falls open, but he snaps back to attention, back to his game, wanting so badly to get your permission, to have you how he wants. he’s made it past his previous death spots you realize. your breath kicks up. you can hear the noises coming from him behind you, can practically hear him biting his lip until pinpricks of blood bloom where his canines dig in, but he keeps going. nothing can be heard other than the synced heavy breaths of you both and the clicks of controller buttons. your eyes are glued to the screen in anticipation, preparing for the inevitable— the screen lights up bright blue with the word “victory” splayed across it. your cunt clenches, out of your control and choso drops the controller to the ground, a loud crack disturbing the air. but his hands are moving across your thighs, between them, up your stomach, cupping your breasts, sliding around your throat before you can flinch at the noise. “ride me,” he whimpers suddenly, face pressed to your cheek, hips rocking up. your body is pulled back into his chest and he plants his feet on the floor for leverage before he grinds his cock into your cunt, moving at a speed so fast you barely have a second to moan as the tip of his cock rubs inside you. “wanna c-cum so bad,been toolong—“ you catch the wrist of his hand that rests on your neck before he loses it completely. “choso—“ you can feel his head shaking back and forth, deep voice, breathy and whiny while his hips jerk an unsteady rhythm into your still body. “i did it. i w-won. and y-youpromised.” his tongue is licking stripes across your face before he turns your head and shoves it into your mouth, trying to devour you. you kiss him back just as eager, catching the sounds that fly from him as he pushes himself closer to release with his little grinds into your cunt, barely moving but so desperate to cum that it doesn’t matter. “wanna fill you,” he breathes the words into your mouth needily, one of his arms coming to wrap around your belly tight, holding you where he wants as his stomach clenches. “you’ll let me, r-right? i did what you said. i was good,wasn’t i?” you stroke his hair away from his face pulling back from his lips, listening to his soft whimpers fill the room. sweat gleams on his forehead and in the locks of his hair, dripping onto your neck and face. you feel his shaky breaths and cries on your skin, your own moans quieted as choso’s chase for the pleasure you’ve denied him pushes you closer to the edge with him. “‘m gonna cum—gonna cum—feels so g-good—need more, more, give me m-more, please—“ “that’s it, cho. make yourself—shit—feel good.” your voice is airy with pleasure and your body rocks in his lap in time with his uncoordinated grinds. he continues to babble into your ear, voice cracking and overwhelmed with need. choso stills, cumming violently behind you, voice pitching high before you feel warmth flooding your cunt and hear your name fall from his lips into the skin of your neck where he’s pressed his face. choso shakes with aftershocks beneath you, hiccuping breaths catching in his throat. his cock throbs weakly inside you, and you run your hand over his hair while he comes down, whispering sweet nothings and preparing to lift yourself from his lap when his soft noises quiet and his grip around your middle tightens. “don’t move. i wanna—wanna keep going.” his voice is low, and he tries to keep it steady but you hear the shakiness. his arms release you slowly, but you remain seated, still in his lap while his hands run over your thighs to rest underneath your knees. a confused sound leaves you as choso lifts them, pulling you both backwards until he’s leaned against the couch, his bottom half hanging slightly off the edge while he pulls your legs up against your chest, fully exposing you. you can feel remnants of choso’s release leak out of your cunt and down the length of his cock that left you while he adjusted your positions. he plants his feet firmly on the floor before his hips lift experimentally, burying his cock deep into your cunt in one hard thrust, meeting your pelvis with an audible slap. your back arches against his chest where you lay against him, mouth dropping open in a silent cry and choso groans underneath you, fingers digging in the apex of your knees and he pauses. one hesitant breath, like he’s waiting. you reach up, circling a hand around the back of his neck as an anchor, squeezing your knees closer to your chest even though they shake with the effort. “go ahead, baby,” you coax, voice breathless, giving him the permission he was waiting to receive.“show me how bad you want it. make yourself cum again.” choso releases a weak cry into your hair, fully body tensing as he immediately pulls his cock almost completely free of your cunt before snapping his hips upwards and plunging back in deep. the breath is knocked out of you as his thrusts keep a steady rhythm. choso’s cries are mixed with grunts of exertion, putting all his energy into making you feel good, just as you told him. his eyes flutter shut, thighs trembling with the effort. the sloppy sounds of his sticky hips meeting your ass makes heat swirl in his stomach. your head rests in the crook of his neck and he angles his head down to kiss along your hairline. “wasn’t being fair earlier,” he whines into your ear. you can’t answer him, rendered speechless when he angles his hips and starts pistons his cock into the spot that makes you scramble for purchase on the couch, nails drying to dig in while you ramble and helplessly cry out his name. “was doing it on purpose,m-making me lose.” you try to catch your breath but choso won’t let you, thrusts growing rougher, his pent up frustrations from earlier being taken out on your body. one of his hands lets you go, and it makes its way to your cunt, tracing over your mound with a light fingertip and you quiver, swallowing roughly around your moans. “fuck—fuck, choso,slow down!” your eyes roll back when choso gives his attention to your clit, rubbing the rough pads of his fingertips in tight circles on the nerve. “was just—was just playing—oh, fuck—“ his fingers pause their circles to slap at your clit, your body lurching each time. your cunt squeezes around his cock each time and choso has to fold his lips together to keep the resulting whine at bay. his breaths are heavy and warm against your ear, and his words are shaky but have a dangerous tone when he speaks them to you. “well i should be able to p-play, too, r-right? ‘s only fair.”his merciless treatment of your clit continues, matching time with his thrusts as he moans his promises and praises to you around his sweet whimpers. “d’you feel g-good, b-baby? cry louder. wanna—fuck— wanna h-hear you.” “oh you’re so t-tight, feels like i can barely m-move—“ “gonna cum again—gonna—w-wanna make you cum, are you close, p-please cum with m-me.” “y-yeah, honey. making me feel so g-good—gonna cum with me, baby?” you tilt your head and and his comes to meet yours with a groan, the sound cutting off when your lips claim his. your eyes are clenched tight, teeth pressing hard on choso’s bottom lip, the coil in you stomach tightening at every stroke of choso’s cock into you cunt. “baby—cho—oh, fuck—“ your voice goes high pitched and you toss your head back, body falling limp against choso as you shatter around his cock, release slipping down his shaft and forming a creamy white ring around the base of his cock where it continues to drive into you. choso is fully sobbing now, incoherent as your cunt spasms around him and milks his cock for all it’s worth. his hips continue to drive into you, guiding you through your orgasm until it’s almost painful. your head is fuzzy, body suddenly weak, but you find the energy reach around and cup his cheek. “come on, cho,” you rasp,“fill me up again.” choso tumbles over the edge at your words with a howl, cock planted deep and unmoving as it throbs violently, spilling white inside you, adding the mess that’s accumulated between you both. his breath is hot against your face as he presses it to your cheek, body convulsing through his release, pushed to the limits of his sensitivity. you recover quicker than choso, releasing your legs from his hold while he tries to catch his breath underneath you. your legs tangle with his and your hands slide down his slack arms to his, clasping your fingers together. he hums when your bring his hand up to kiss at his knuckles, relaxing in the silence between you. “how do you feel, cho?” he huffs out a breath, softening cock throbbing inside you weakly. “tired. i think i i’m done for the night.” a chuckle slides past your lips as he yawns, loud and wide. “then let’s get up and get cleaned, honey.” choso grunts with effort, pushing both his weight and yours until you’re seated upright against his chest. a flurry of slow kisses make their way across your cheek to your lips, pressing to yours sweetly. “next time, you’re playing the game.” “deal.”	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75730071	{"authors": ["satorules (monochrome_knj)"], "language": "English", "title": "ready player one"}
a very merry harmony kinkmas Snow powdered her hair—the first snowfall of the unusually warm winter. The white flakes drifted down upon them at the rear garden of the crowded Burrow. Caged between the extended wall of the old home and a tall muscular body fit for an Auror, Hermione took all he had to give and more after an unexpected orgasm that had her body trembling against his as he rocked his hips against hers. "Bloody hell, Hermione," he groaned as he kept pounding into her with unbridled passion. "Don't stop. Please don't stop." She ran her fingers through his unruly hair. Music and conversations could be heard between muffled moans and grunts as Hermione had her stocking-covered legs wrapped around her husband's best mate's waist. Harry had also been a close friend until Ginny's jealousy forced them to stay away. For the sake of their relationships, they had kept their distance, but their bond was too strong to keep them apart. "Harry," she sang his name in praise as he rammed his cock deep inside her eager cunt. "You're in so deep." Her husband could never make her feel so good—not the way Harry did as she felt every inch of him, pushing her to her limits as another orgasm threatened her already sensitive core. "Better than I ever imagined," Harry grunted between thrusts as he filled her, again and again. "Heavens—yes. So good," Hermione couldn't help but confess. "Need more. Need you," she pleaded as she reached another peak. A second orgasm crashed through her, coursing through her body as he continued to rock his hips. "Want daddy to come inside you? Want daddy to fill your cunt?" It had been an accident when she called him by that name whilst watching over their newborns months ago, before issues arose with her sister-in-law, Ginny. "Please, daddy. Come inside me. Make me yours." Harry jerked his hips in a way that caught both unaware, sending another spine-tingling—toes-curling—head-rolling-back—and eyes-shutting-tight climax as he came inside her. Spurt after spurt, Harry grunted with each stream of his seeds that coated her clenching walls, milking his large pulsating dick. He kept still until he emptied himself inside her womb and slipped out of her wet cunt. "Happy Christmas, Harry." "Best gift ever." He leaned down, kissing her lips. "Happy Christmas, Hermione."	a very merry harmony kinkmas Snow powdered her hair—the first snowfall of the unusually warm winter. The white flakes drifted down upon them at the rear garden of the crowded Burrow. Caged between the extended wall of the old home and a tall muscular body fit for an Auror, Hermione took all he had to give and more after an unexpected orgasm that had her body trembling against his as he rocked his hips against hers. "Bloody hell, Hermione," he groaned as he kept pounding into her with unbridled passion. "Don't stop. Please don't stop." She ran her fingers through his unruly hair. Music and conversations could be heard between muffled moans and grunts as Hermione had her stocking-covered legs wrapped around her husband's best mate's waist. Harry had also been a close friend until Ginny's jealousy forced them to stay away. For the sake of their relationships, they had kept their distance, but their bond was too strong to keep them apart. "Harry," she sang his name in praise as he rammed his cock deep inside her eager cunt. "You're in so deep." Her husband could never make her feel so good—not the way Harry did as she felt every inch of him, pushing her to her limits as another orgasm threatened her already sensitive core. "Better than I ever imagined," Harry grunted between thrusts as he filled her, again and again. "Heavens—yes. So good," Hermione couldn't help but confess. "Need more. Need you," she pleaded as she reached another peak. A second orgasm crashed through her, coursing through her body as he continued to rock his hips. "Want daddy to come inside you? Want daddy to fill your cunt?" It had been an accident when she called him by that name whilst watching over their newborns months ago, before issues arose with her sister-in-law, Ginny. "Please, daddy. Come inside me. Make me yours." Harry jerked his hips in a way that caught both unaware, sending another spine-tingling—toes-curling—head-rolling-back—and eyes-shutting-tight climax as he came inside her. Spurt after spurt, Harry grunted with each stream of his seeds that coated her clenching walls, milking his large pulsating dick. He kept still until he emptied himself inside her womb and slipped out of her wet cunt. "Happy Christmas, Harry." "Best gift ever." He leaned down, kissing her lips. "Happy Christmas, Hermione."	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75731266?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["s0uL_b0und"], "language": "English", "title": "a very merry harmony kinkmas"}
Mechanical Complex Ricochet pressed the glowing button. It took 6 clanks till the soda can hit bottom with a rattle. He pocketed it in subspace. Ricochet slipped into a back alley, leaving the bright lights of the main street behind. A few steps in, a voice message pops up on his HUD, Ricochet. It had been a few weeks since he sent in that job application. The job itself was just stocking shelves, and the pay was terrible, but a job was a job. "I'm sorry to inform you that your application to—" Ricochet stopped the messages; he didn't need to listen to the whole thing to know he had been turned down again. Ever since he got out of prison, he had been struggling to find a job, let alone keep one. It meant Ricochet had been forced to take on odd jobs in the meantime. Ever since he lost his old job—which hadn't been his fault—he had been playing delivery bot for his landlord. Ricochet turned the corner out of the maze of alleyways into one of the residential areas it was quite the only noise was the low hum of the street lamps and his pedes hitting the ground. It was a nice change to the hustle and bustle of the shopping districts or the night life of all the bars and clubs. As he came up apon he's apartment complex he stared, weirdly mesmerised by the gray metal walls and the dark gray doors. If Ricochet had to be honest the building was nothing of note but it was nice for a building that should be considered a historical artifact it was always clean, when something broke down it was quickly fixed, and rent was surprisingly cheap. It was nice. Ricochet started walking up the stairs with he could feel his joints flare up. He didn't think his leg joints were that bad. He started to consider seeing a doctor and getting checked out he dismissed that idea after thinking about how many credits it would cost. There is a medic a few floors down, most of the residents living in the apartment complex went to him and the upside is that the mech didn't charge that much and he was willing to take enjex as payment which didn't make Ricochet trust him in the slightest. What kind of doctor openly asks for enjex Ricochet thought as he reached his apartment floor it was dark and seemingly empty only the furthest two out of the five apartments having their lights on. Ricochets paused finding winged mech laying down in front of what he presumed to be their apartment door. When he walked closer, Ricochet noticed how seeker-like their wings were, although he could be wrong. Ricochet had only ever seen seekers on TV to be more accurate the news for better or for worse usually worse. The outside light was on, illuminating the door enough so Ricochet could see the room number clearly F3-4. He looked back to the winged mech. Optics aren't tinted, their venting is normal, and they don't smell like enjex so they're not drunk. Although the living metal under their optics are a bit dark possibly sleep depression. When Ricochet thought about it he'd never seen or heard of this mech before. They lived in the apartment to the right next to him, so maybe they just moved in considering how fast gossip spread here someone would have mentioned it Ricochet looked over to the keypad for the door. "This is gonna to take a while" he sighed and started to take the piece of wall under the keypad and started working. -- Breaking into keypads were easy if you were able to get access to the cables connected to them but if that wasn't an option a mech could hack it which depending on the door was easy especially for Ricochet so why the hell was he having such a hard time with this one!? After another declined Ricochet steps back the keypad screen turning back to blue. He checks his chronometer: 1:27 Ricochet remembers a few of his neighbors begin to come home this time, and it would be awkward and possible incriminating if someone caught trying to break into someones house no matter how good his intentions are plus he needs to recharge. This leads him back to the problem. He wasn't going leave this mech outside. Ricochet slides a hand down his face trying to think of anything that could help when his processor wonders to someone who could bypass. ::So you've finally decided to call:: ::What? have you been...:: Ricochet looked back quickly locating two cameras one pointing towerds the stairs and the other at the end of the hall giving anybody who's watching a view of the whole hallway. ::Watching you for the past hour. Yes:: ::And you never thought to help!?:: ::Yes:: She paused ::No:: Then she started to laugh ::Honestly I was too busy watching you fail at something so simple:: Ricochet wanted to bang his helm in a wall. ::How about you shut up and help me!:: ::Well what's the fun in that:: ::Why you:: He grits this denta stopping himself before he could say anything that would get him evicted. Instead he looked a the camera and smiled his denta bared. ::Alright then at least tell me who this is:: Ricochet point at the wing mech with a thumb. ::Oh Altair, don't worry she's been living here way longer than you.:: ::This happens every now and again, Altair gets a few days off of work, decides it's worth it to make the trip back home after working all cycles and passes out before making into her apartment cue people calling me about a strange mech passed out somewhere around the building:: ::Just leave her there she'll wake up sooner or later:: Her voice lowered to almost a whisper. ::But if you're really so concerned just drag her into your apartment:: ::Why the hell would ever do that:: ::Because I don't know her door code:: ::How do you not know her door code you own the building!?:: For his own reasons Ricochet had a deep respect for his landlord. ::I don't know, Altair changes it every once and a while plus she's been living here a little before Sentinel inherited the primacy I just stopped paying attention:: Sadly that didn't stop her from acting like a sparkling at times. Ricochet hung up. He looked over the wing mech—no Altair—once more she was a helm taller than him and a bit bigger. Ricochet walked over and opened his door then he walked back and grabbed Altair by the waist hoisting her up on his shoulder. When he moved he was careful with Altair' wings not to nick them on the door. He gently placed her on the coach, covers her, and gathers a few pillows, positioning them where he hoped would be comfortable. With that done Ricochet sinked to the floor, dragging a servo over his face. What in the pit is he doing, why was he doing this Ricochet didn't know this mech hell he hadn't even known they existed until now so why was he helping. Who was he kidding he knows why Ricochet had been like this since he was young always trying to help everyone and any one stretching himself thin till snapping. Even then he still was a bleeding spark. Ricochet could feel his optics dimming he must have been more tired than he thought. He should get up and go to lay down his berth but the felt so comfortable right now and his whole frame hurt. Slowly dimming his optics he could hear Altair's soft vets, they were light like the hum a base made after one of its strings had been plucked. Ricochet happily let the sound guide him into recharge.	Mechanical Complex Ricochet pressed the glowing button. It took 6 clanks till the soda can hit bottom with a rattle. He pocketed it in subspace. Ricochet slipped into a back alley, leaving the bright lights of the main street behind. A few steps in, a voice message pops up on his HUD, Ricochet. It had been a few weeks since he sent in that job application. The job itself was just stocking shelves, and the pay was terrible, but a job was a job. "I'm sorry to inform you that your application to—" Ricochet stopped the messages; he didn't need to listen to the whole thing to know he had been turned down again. Ever since he got out of prison, he had been struggling to find a job, let alone keep one. It meant Ricochet had been forced to take on odd jobs in the meantime. Ever since he lost his old job—which hadn't been his fault—he had been playing delivery bot for his landlord. Ricochet turned the corner out of the maze of alleyways into one of the residential areas it was quite the only noise was the low hum of the street lamps and his pedes hitting the ground. It was a nice change to the hustle and bustle of the shopping districts or the night life of all the bars and clubs. As he came up apon he's apartment complex he stared, weirdly mesmerised by the gray metal walls and the dark gray doors. If Ricochet had to be honest the building was nothing of note but it was nice for a building that should be considered a historical artifact it was always clean, when something broke down it was quickly fixed, and rent was surprisingly cheap. It was nice. Ricochet started walking up the stairs with he could feel his joints flare up. He didn't think his leg joints were that bad. He started to consider seeing a doctor and getting checked out he dismissed that idea after thinking about how many credits it would cost. There is a medic a few floors down, most of the residents living in the apartment complex went to him and the upside is that the mech didn't charge that much and he was willing to take enjex as payment which didn't make Ricochet trust him in the slightest. What kind of doctor openly asks for enjex Ricochet thought as he reached his apartment floor it was dark and seemingly empty only the furthest two out of the five apartments having their lights on. Ricochets paused finding winged mech laying down in front of what he presumed to be their apartment door. When he walked closer, Ricochet noticed how seeker-like their wings were, although he could be wrong. Ricochet had only ever seen seekers on TV to be more accurate the news for better or for worse usually worse. The outside light was on, illuminating the door enough so Ricochet could see the room number clearly F3-4. He looked back to the winged mech. Optics aren't tinted, their venting is normal, and they don't smell like enjex so they're not drunk. Although the living metal under their optics are a bit dark possibly sleep depression. When Ricochet thought about it he'd never seen or heard of this mech before. They lived in the apartment to the right next to him, so maybe they just moved in considering how fast gossip spread here someone would have mentioned it Ricochet looked over to the keypad for the door. "This is gonna to take a while" he sighed and started to take the piece of wall under the keypad and started working. -- Breaking into keypads were easy if you were able to get access to the cables connected to them but if that wasn't an option a mech could hack it which depending on the door was easy especially for Ricochet so why the hell was he having such a hard time with this one!? After another declined Ricochet steps back the keypad screen turning back to blue. He checks his chronometer: 1:27 Ricochet remembers a few of his neighbors begin to come home this time, and it would be awkward and possible incriminating if someone caught trying to break into someones house no matter how good his intentions are plus he needs to recharge. This leads him back to the problem. He wasn't going leave this mech outside. Ricochet slides a hand down his face trying to think of anything that could help when his processor wonders to someone who could bypass. ::So you've finally decided to call:: ::What? have you been...:: Ricochet looked back quickly locating two cameras one pointing towerds the stairs and the other at the end of the hall giving anybody who's watching a view of the whole hallway. ::Watching you for the past hour. Yes:: ::And you never thought to help!?:: ::Yes:: She paused ::No:: Then she started to laugh ::Honestly I was too busy watching you fail at something so simple:: Ricochet wanted to bang his helm in a wall. ::How about you shut up and help me!:: ::Well what's the fun in that:: ::Why you:: He grits this denta stopping himself before he could say anything that would get him evicted. Instead he looked a the camera and smiled his denta bared. ::Alright then at least tell me who this is:: Ricochet point at the wing mech with a thumb. ::Oh Altair, don't worry she's been living here way longer than you.:: ::This happens every now and again, Altair gets a few days off of work, decides it's worth it to make the trip back home after working all cycles and passes out before making into her apartment cue people calling me about a strange mech passed out somewhere around the building:: ::Just leave her there she'll wake up sooner or later:: Her voice lowered to almost a whisper. ::But if you're really so concerned just drag her into your apartment:: ::Why the hell would ever do that:: ::Because I don't know her door code:: ::How do you not know her door code you own the building!?:: For his own reasons Ricochet had a deep respect for his landlord. ::I don't know, Altair changes it every once and a while plus she's been living here a little before Sentinel inherited the primacy I just stopped paying attention:: Sadly that didn't stop her from acting like a sparkling at times. Ricochet hung up. He looked over the wing mech—no Altair—once more she was a helm taller than him and a bit bigger. Ricochet walked over and opened his door then he walked back and grabbed Altair by the waist hoisting her up on his shoulder. When he moved he was careful with Altair' wings not to nick them on the door. He gently placed her on the coach, covers her, and gathers a few pillows, positioning them where he hoped would be comfortable. With that done Ricochet sinked to the floor, dragging a servo over his face. What in the pit is he doing, why was he doing this Ricochet didn't know this mech hell he hadn't even known they existed until now so why was he helping. Who was he kidding he knows why Ricochet had been like this since he was young always trying to help everyone and any one stretching himself thin till snapping. Even then he still was a bleeding spark. Ricochet could feel his optics dimming he must have been more tired than he thought. He should get up and go to lay down his berth but the felt so comfortable right now and his whole frame hurt. Slowly dimming his optics he could hear Altair's soft vets, they were light like the hum a base made after one of its strings had been plucked. Ricochet happily let the sound guide him into recharge.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75732121/chapters/198077461	{"authors": ["Juncothebird"], "language": "English", "title": "Mechanical Complex"}
Leaves From The Vine They were met face to face with Shao Kahn once more, well, Johnny was at least. He grumbled about tripping over his footing because it sent him tumbling down a slop. Now he was here. His feet hurt from all his kicks, both over and under, whilst his knuckles were busted and blue. His hits weren't landing solid, and the other could see with a shit eating grin. Seeing the very bottom of Liu Kang's pride and joy all bloody and bruised, heaving to catch his breath. “You're losing your light, star,” He laughed cruelly, catching his ankle from the side. He flipped him to the cold solid ground, making sure he hit him in the air to get more leverage. He let out a pathetic groan of pain as the ex-general hit him over the head with his double axe handle. He felt light headed, black spots forming in his vision. But he prompted himself up to the balls of his feet, steadying to raise onto his knee before a hard kick to his stomach. Clawing at his calf, his foot dug and dug until his ribs caved in and punctured his lungs. The clawing grew weaker and weaker, he saw the shit eating grin for one final time before it was wiped away. The gentle kiss of fire shot him back, soldiers falling back with the command of Reiko and Shao. It was hard to breathe to focus to feel to hear To see? He saw the sunset, full in its color and setting below the horizon. A final goodbye to the world, to his world. He felt like a feather, he didn't feel heavy anymore, drifting in the cool water of Malibu's ocean water. Man, he wished he had gone there more often. But he'll have the next eternity to do so. For now, he can dream with the sun crying for him. Letting it shout for him, ear to his chest to assess the damage. Letting the sun pick him up past his weak moans of protest. The sun was running with him. But the star knew, the star knew its light was weak and dim. The sun couldn't help. The star was dying, and the star looked at peace. It was a blissful peace. The star looked beautiful in death. Maybe death wasn't so scary. Maybe it was the transition into the eternal walk, the permanent restoration was not to be feared but to be embraced. The sun wept and grieved. Its light dimmed as the sun held the star close, it wept and wept into the leftover core of the star. The brightest star dimmed to almost nothing, it wiped away its tears as its brother held him close. The star's best friend wanted to cry, to bawl, to plead with the beings above. The sun laid the, now cool white dwarf, on the bedding made back at home. The sun kneeled besides the pale star, weeping with their knuckles against their forehead. The stars infectious laughter from his time rang through his ears. When the two small sun's broke a hole to the walls of the training grounds. The elder sun scolded them and the star scurried off to attend a military retreat. When the star dragged the two smaller suns to have a relaxing night. The sun drank with the star's best friend and the sun's brother got up to sing with the star. The stars lover laughed with another, snow and fire covered their ears from the bleeding screaming. The stars grief when the other star became a cool and small dwarf. The sun stayed by his side with the younger star, letting the star weep into the sun, the sun felt his pain and the sun kept him close. Closer than usual. The sun shared warmth and light. The light made the star bright. So bright it shined once more. The younger star carried two tags, the brother suns received the personal belongings the star left for them. The alone star saluted before leaving. The sun felt pain. Why was this pain harder than the other pains. If only he could have helped him If only he could have helped him. The suns tears now dry. The fire calm and quiet. The sum looked up at his star. He kissed his palm. He was at peace, the star, and he couldn't be in peace with that. The flames blew out. Letting the three flood in as the other left, stopping as he heard the soft cries. He wanted to go back, ready to make sure that the light that shined shared it with other, would never share it again. But a grounding hand was on his shoulder, shaking his head and ruled that this would not be in Liu Kang's favor. That this was the change of the star's fate, this was the draw of his curtains. A final show with a standing ovation. Rose petals decorated his plush resting place, roses that should've been thrown at him at the final scene. Liu Kang was given a moment of silence. Loneliness. He stated at the star, this brand new Johnny that was supposed to live longer than his own. “My brave soilder boy…” He brushed his hair infront of the man's face. Leaning down to press his forehead against the others. “I could have helped you. My brave soilder boy, you'll go marching home.” His whispered ghosted over the others lips till he pulled away and didn't look back. Not even once. “Who are you?” The blonde boy asked, rocking back and forth on his heels. Walking with the man to find his dad. “A good person,” He said softly. Not believing himself to his extent. “I don't believe that,” The boy made him chuckle. “I like the glow in your eyes. It reminds me of the stars.” The boy was so jolly, it made him clench his jaw. “...yeah-” “Daddy!” The boy left go and ran to his worried father. Giggling as his father picked him up and kissed him through the laughs and tears. Liu Kang watched from the side of life's damned woes, seeing the boy and his father on the side of life's spiritual from the woes. He wept one final time. His brave soilder boy marched home. He helped him.	Leaves From The Vine They were met face to face with Shao Kahn once more, well, Johnny was at least. He grumbled about tripping over his footing because it sent him tumbling down a slop. Now he was here. His feet hurt from all his kicks, both over and under, whilst his knuckles were busted and blue. His hits weren't landing solid, and the other could see with a shit eating grin. Seeing the very bottom of Liu Kang's pride and joy all bloody and bruised, heaving to catch his breath. “You're losing your light, star,” He laughed cruelly, catching his ankle from the side. He flipped him to the cold solid ground, making sure he hit him in the air to get more leverage. He let out a pathetic groan of pain as the ex-general hit him over the head with his double axe handle. He felt light headed, black spots forming in his vision. But he prompted himself up to the balls of his feet, steadying to raise onto his knee before a hard kick to his stomach. Clawing at his calf, his foot dug and dug until his ribs caved in and punctured his lungs. The clawing grew weaker and weaker, he saw the shit eating grin for one final time before it was wiped away. The gentle kiss of fire shot him back, soldiers falling back with the command of Reiko and Shao. It was hard to breathe to focus to feel to hear To see? He saw the sunset, full in its color and setting below the horizon. A final goodbye to the world, to his world. He felt like a feather, he didn't feel heavy anymore, drifting in the cool water of Malibu's ocean water. Man, he wished he had gone there more often. But he'll have the next eternity to do so. For now, he can dream with the sun crying for him. Letting it shout for him, ear to his chest to assess the damage. Letting the sun pick him up past his weak moans of protest. The sun was running with him. But the star knew, the star knew its light was weak and dim. The sun couldn't help. The star was dying, and the star looked at peace. It was a blissful peace. The star looked beautiful in death. Maybe death wasn't so scary. Maybe it was the transition into the eternal walk, the permanent restoration was not to be feared but to be embraced. The sun wept and grieved. Its light dimmed as the sun held the star close, it wept and wept into the leftover core of the star. The brightest star dimmed to almost nothing, it wiped away its tears as its brother held him close. The star's best friend wanted to cry, to bawl, to plead with the beings above. The sun laid the, now cool white dwarf, on the bedding made back at home. The sun kneeled besides the pale star, weeping with their knuckles against their forehead. The stars infectious laughter from his time rang through his ears. When the two small sun's broke a hole to the walls of the training grounds. The elder sun scolded them and the star scurried off to attend a military retreat. When the star dragged the two smaller suns to have a relaxing night. The sun drank with the star's best friend and the sun's brother got up to sing with the star. The stars lover laughed with another, snow and fire covered their ears from the bleeding screaming. The stars grief when the other star became a cool and small dwarf. The sun stayed by his side with the younger star, letting the star weep into the sun, the sun felt his pain and the sun kept him close. Closer than usual. The sun shared warmth and light. The light made the star bright. So bright it shined once more. The younger star carried two tags, the brother suns received the personal belongings the star left for them. The alone star saluted before leaving. The sun felt pain. Why was this pain harder than the other pains. If only he could have helped him If only he could have helped him. The suns tears now dry. The fire calm and quiet. The sum looked up at his star. He kissed his palm. He was at peace, the star, and he couldn't be in peace with that. The flames blew out. Letting the three flood in as the other left, stopping as he heard the soft cries. He wanted to go back, ready to make sure that the light that shined shared it with other, would never share it again. But a grounding hand was on his shoulder, shaking his head and ruled that this would not be in Liu Kang's favor. That this was the change of the star's fate, this was the draw of his curtains. A final show with a standing ovation. Rose petals decorated his plush resting place, roses that should've been thrown at him at the final scene. Liu Kang was given a moment of silence. Loneliness. He stated at the star, this brand new Johnny that was supposed to live longer than his own. “My brave soilder boy…” He brushed his hair infront of the man's face. Leaning down to press his forehead against the others. “I could have helped you. My brave soilder boy, you'll go marching home.” His whispered ghosted over the others lips till he pulled away and didn't look back. Not even once. “Who are you?” The blonde boy asked, rocking back and forth on his heels. Walking with the man to find his dad. “A good person,” He said softly. Not believing himself to his extent. “I don't believe that,” The boy made him chuckle. “I like the glow in your eyes. It reminds me of the stars.” The boy was so jolly, it made him clench his jaw. “...yeah-” “Daddy!” The boy left go and ran to his worried father. Giggling as his father picked him up and kissed him through the laughs and tears. Liu Kang watched from the side of life's damned woes, seeing the boy and his father on the side of life's spiritual from the woes. He wept one final time. His brave soilder boy marched home. He helped him.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75731296	{"authors": ["Dino_chip"], "language": "English", "title": "Leaves From The Vine"}
You Young, Lost, Sinner Dear God, Please fix this. Please fix my parents, fix me. Please fix our family. Amen Quinn unfolded her hands and he climbed into bed, pulled the comforter up over her chest, and waited. A few minutes later, her mom appeared in the doorway. Her voice was slightly strained as she asked, “Did you say your prayers?” “Yes, Mom.” Quinn answered, a smile slipping onto her lips as easily as if it was real. A tense smile was given in return, followed by a quick glance to the living room. Her mom cleared her throat, trying to cover her dad’s angry grumbling. “Goodnight, Quinnie.” “Goodnight.” Lying in bed, in the dark, the white duvet almost too warm for the weather outside, Quinn squeezed her eyes shut and tried to block out the sounds of her parents’ yelling. Her dad’s yelling. It had always been bad, but it had only gotten worse after the baby. After her mom caved and let her dad move back in, a few months after Quinn herself was allowed to come home. They hated each other even more now and it was all her fault. She knew it was all her fault. She rolled onto her side, clasping her hands under the covers. Dear God, Please make everything okay. Amen – – – – Quinn looked at the mirror in her locker, adjusting her cross necklace until it sat perfectly in the center of her chest. Carefully, she tightened her ponytail, until it just gave her a hint of a headache. As she was about to close the locker door, a hand tapped her shoulder. Rachel’s face appeared in the lower corner of the mirror, her signature expression of determined annoyance catching Quinn’s eye. “Quinn. What song are you singing for this week’s lesson?” Quinn stared into the mirror, eyes tracing the wisp of hair flying away from Rachel’s headband. The fluorescent lights made it look like she was glowing. “Quinn!” Rachel’s eyebrows shot up in annoyance. “Sorry.” she mumbled, her words tripping over themselves. “I-not sure yet.” “Well, I have several suggestions that I think would fit your vocal range. I’ll give them to you in Glee club later.” Rachel turned around with a huff and hurried off in the other direction. “Uh-huh. Perfect.” Quinn nodded, turning slightly to watch her walk away. The longer she watched, the further a strange, buzzing feeling crept into her stomach, so she squeezed her eyes shut. She took a deep breath. Dear God Please make me not feel like this anymore- “Fabray!” Quinn whirled around, her heart pounding. “Santana.” The irrational fear that maybe Santana could read her thoughts - because if anyone could read thoughts, it would be her - snuck into her mind, but she pushed it down. “You good?” Santana raised an eyebrow. “You look like you have a fever. Mono again?” She prodded, smirking. “No.” she blurted, much harsher than intended. “Nope. Just hot.” “Well yeah, I’m sure every guy here would agree with that.” Santana joked, unaware of the way that the comment felt like a kick in the stomach. Or a slap in the face, a feeling that Quinn had more experience with identifying. “See ya at Glee.” Santana rolled her eyes, linking pinkies with Brittany as they continued down the hall. Quinn nodded, gripping the edge of her locker. She made eye contact with herself in the mirror, clenched her jaw, and tried to stop her mind from replaying Rachel’s voice saying her name over and over and over and over again. Amen – – – – Sitting in the back row of the choir room, still clutching the sheet music that Rachel had shoved into her hands a few minutes ago, Quinn stared down towards the front of the room. Rachel stood front and center, singing another solo, and while everyone else had complained about it, Quinn really didn’t mind. It gave her such a nice feeling, watching Rachel sing. It felt almost like the same buzzing from earlier, but without the anxiety, and she never wanted it to stop. Plus, Rachel being at the front of the room gave Quinn a chance to look at how nicely that headband framed her face, and how her nose perfectly fit between her shining eyes, and- The last notes of the song ended, taking Quinn’s thoughts with them. Suddenly, she was all too aware of how red her cheeks were, and she crossed her legs, looking down at her skirt. Instantly, her fingers went to her necklace, rubbing back and forth and back and forth. Dear God, Why am I like this? Nobody else feels like this. Please just make me not feel like this anymore. Make me normal. Please. Amen She opened her eyes again, half listening to Mr. Schue ramble on about how nicely Rachel’s song fit this week's theme while trying to keep her eyes from straying down to the center of the first row, where she knew Rachel was sitting, soaking up the praise. – – – – “Did you get your homework done?” Quinn nodded. “Yes, Daddy.” “Good.” The table was silent, except for the quiet clinking of forks and knives. “How are your grades?” “I’m getting all A’s.” As she spoke, she looked up from her plate and smiled at him. He nodded, satisfied. He looked almost pleased, and Quinn relished that. She loved that she could still make him happy. Her mom cleared her throat. “So, Quinnie. Have you talked to Finn recently-” “Judy!” Her dad slammed his fist on the table, making both the silverware and Quinn jump. “Russel, please.” Judy sent him a sideways look, pleading with her eyes for this dinner to stay peaceful. Quinn just stared down at her plate, counting the number of bites she had left. Her dad took a deep breath and another bite of chicken. Then another. He took a sip of his beer. After a moment, he let his fork clatter onto the plate, making Quinn jump once again. “I can’t do this right now.” He stood up and pushed his chair back. “Quinn, go to bed.” She glanced up at the clock in the kitchen. 7:30. “Okay.” She nodded and stood up, taking her plate to the sink. Once she’d washed it, she hovered in the doorway of the dining room. Turning back to look at her parents, she bit her lip and murmured, “I’m sorry, Daddy.” Glancing up at her, his face softened. “I know, sweetheart. It’s not your fault. You’re a good girl. It’s just hard.” She nodded. “I know.” “Goodnight, Quinn.” He sighed and turned his attention back to the television. “Goodnight, Daddy.” Quinn turned and walked towards her room. Slowly, she changed out of her dress and into her pajamas, picking them up from where they’d been neatly folded on her dresser. She brushed her teeth while staring at herself in the mirror. She fixed her hair, even though there was nothing left to get ready for. Once she was ready, she knelt by her bed. As she bowed her head to pray, she could make out the beginnings of yet another fight. “Judy, I can’t believe you would ask that-” “Russel, he’s the father of our grandchild-” “That’s no grandchild of mine!” Quinn bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. The words “you’re a good girl” sat heavy on her mind. If he only knew, she thought. If he only knew how wrong he was. Knew how she thought about Rachel. If he knew, it wouldn’t just be her mom he yelled at. If he knew- She shuddered, quickly clasping her hands. Dear God, Please fix my family. Please make me the good girl they need me to be. Please just make me normal. Please. Amen She climbed into bed, staring at the ceiling and focusing on pretending not to hear a glass shatter on the floor of the kitchen. Just breathe, she reminded herself, just breathe. Everything is okay. It’s all okay. Quinn shut her eyes tightly and lay perfectly still, waiting for her mom to come in. A while later, after a door somewhere else in the house slammed, her bedroom door cracked open. Quinn turned her head to look at her mom. Her eyes were red-rimmed and there was a new band-aid on her finger, but she looked as composed as ever. “Did you say your prayers?” she asked, keeping their unspoken agreement to never acknowledge what happened in their house at night, after Quinn had been safely sent to her room. “Yes, Mom.” Quinn nodded, forcing a pleasant smile onto her face. “Oh, Quinnie.” Judy smiled sadly. “Your dad is right. You’re a good girl.” Quinn bit her lip and forced a smile. “Goodnight, Mom.” “Goodnight.” Judy flicked off the light and closed the door. Quinn closed her eyes again and counted her breaths. “I’m a good girl.” she whispered to herself. “I’m a good girl.” As she drifted off, a hazy image of Rachel appeared in her mind. Brown hair flowing over her shoulder, that tiny smile that she got when she was focused, slightly furrowed eyebrows- Quinn dug her nails into her palms. “Stop it. Just stop it. Please.” she mumbled. Wiping her eyes, she rolled over and pressed her face into the pillow. Eventually, she fell asleep, tossing and turning uncomfortably. – – – – She slept until noon. The only reason she finally dragged herself out of bed was to use the bathroom. It was Saturday, so her dad was playing golf and her mom was at her knitting group, meaning there was no one to stop her from going to the family computer and opening Google. She hesitated, fingers frozen over the keyboard, until she forced herself type: ‘why am i am girl who thinks about girls’ A dictionary definition came up first: Lesbian; a gay woman. Quinn bit her lip. She typed again: ‘how do i know if im a lesbian’ An article: Early Signs You Might Be a Lesbian.” Sign one: “When you’re on a date with a guy, you’re thinking about your female best friend. She swallowed, remembering sitting across from Finn at Breadstix, picturing talking to Rachel. Sign two: Your eyes are drawn to women. She took a deep breath, mentally flashing through all the times that she’d looked at one of the Cheerios before noticing their boyfriend. Sign three: You’ve questioned your sexuality. Quinn clenched her fists. She didn’t want to be questioning anything. She wanted it to be obvious, wanted some website to answer with a big, red, flashing, “No.” Instead, a new question sparked in her mind. One that terrified her, but one she needed an answer for. She typed again again: ‘is being a lesbian a sin’ A	You Young, Lost, Sinner Dear God, Please fix this. Please fix my parents, fix me. Please fix our family. Amen Quinn unfolded her hands and he climbed into bed, pulled the comforter up over her chest, and waited. A few minutes later, her mom appeared in the doorway. Her voice was slightly strained as she asked, “Did you say your prayers?” “Yes, Mom.” Quinn answered, a smile slipping onto her lips as easily as if it was real. A tense smile was given in return, followed by a quick glance to the living room. Her mom cleared her throat, trying to cover her dad’s angry grumbling. “Goodnight, Quinnie.” “Goodnight.” Lying in bed, in the dark, the white duvet almost too warm for the weather outside, Quinn squeezed her eyes shut and tried to block out the sounds of her parents’ yelling. Her dad’s yelling. It had always been bad, but it had only gotten worse after the baby. After her mom caved and let her dad move back in, a few months after Quinn herself was allowed to come home. They hated each other even more now and it was all her fault. She knew it was all her fault. She rolled onto her side, clasping her hands under the covers. Dear God, Please make everything okay. Amen – – – – Quinn looked at the mirror in her locker, adjusting her cross necklace until it sat perfectly in the center of her chest. Carefully, she tightened her ponytail, until it just gave her a hint of a headache. As she was about to close the locker door, a hand tapped her shoulder. Rachel’s face appeared in the lower corner of the mirror, her signature expression of determined annoyance catching Quinn’s eye. “Quinn. What song are you singing for this week’s lesson?” Quinn stared into the mirror, eyes tracing the wisp of hair flying away from Rachel’s headband. The fluorescent lights made it look like she was glowing. “Quinn!” Rachel’s eyebrows shot up in annoyance. “Sorry.” she mumbled, her words tripping over themselves. “I-not sure yet.” “Well, I have several suggestions that I think would fit your vocal range. I’ll give them to you in Glee club later.” Rachel turned around with a huff and hurried off in the other direction. “Uh-huh. Perfect.” Quinn nodded, turning slightly to watch her walk away. The longer she watched, the further a strange, buzzing feeling crept into her stomach, so she squeezed her eyes shut. She took a deep breath. Dear God Please make me not feel like this anymore- “Fabray!” Quinn whirled around, her heart pounding. “Santana.” The irrational fear that maybe Santana could read her thoughts - because if anyone could read thoughts, it would be her - snuck into her mind, but she pushed it down. “You good?” Santana raised an eyebrow. “You look like you have a fever. Mono again?” She prodded, smirking. “No.” she blurted, much harsher than intended. “Nope. Just hot.” “Well yeah, I’m sure every guy here would agree with that.” Santana joked, unaware of the way that the comment felt like a kick in the stomach. Or a slap in the face, a feeling that Quinn had more experience with identifying. “See ya at Glee.” Santana rolled her eyes, linking pinkies with Brittany as they continued down the hall. Quinn nodded, gripping the edge of her locker. She made eye contact with herself in the mirror, clenched her jaw, and tried to stop her mind from replaying Rachel’s voice saying her name over and over and over and over again. Amen – – – – Sitting in the back row of the choir room, still clutching the sheet music that Rachel had shoved into her hands a few minutes ago, Quinn stared down towards the front of the room. Rachel stood front and center, singing another solo, and while everyone else had complained about it, Quinn really didn’t mind. It gave her such a nice feeling, watching Rachel sing. It felt almost like the same buzzing from earlier, but without the anxiety, and she never wanted it to stop. Plus, Rachel being at the front of the room gave Quinn a chance to look at how nicely that headband framed her face, and how her nose perfectly fit between her shining eyes, and- The last notes of the song ended, taking Quinn’s thoughts with them. Suddenly, she was all too aware of how red her cheeks were, and she crossed her legs, looking down at her skirt. Instantly, her fingers went to her necklace, rubbing back and forth and back and forth. Dear God, Why am I like this? Nobody else feels like this. Please just make me not feel like this anymore. Make me normal. Please. Amen She opened her eyes again, half listening to Mr. Schue ramble on about how nicely Rachel’s song fit this week's theme while trying to keep her eyes from straying down to the center of the first row, where she knew Rachel was sitting, soaking up the praise. – – – – “Did you get your homework done?” Quinn nodded. “Yes, Daddy.” “Good.” The table was silent, except for the quiet clinking of forks and knives. “How are your grades?” “I’m getting all A’s.” As she spoke, she looked up from her plate and smiled at him. He nodded, satisfied. He looked almost pleased, and Quinn relished that. She loved that she could still make him happy. Her mom cleared her throat. “So, Quinnie. Have you talked to Finn recently-” “Judy!” Her dad slammed his fist on the table, making both the silverware and Quinn jump. “Russel, please.” Judy sent him a sideways look, pleading with her eyes for this dinner to stay peaceful. Quinn just stared down at her plate, counting the number of bites she had left. Her dad took a deep breath and another bite of chicken. Then another. He took a sip of his beer. After a moment, he let his fork clatter onto the plate, making Quinn jump once again. “I can’t do this right now.” He stood up and pushed his chair back. “Quinn, go to bed.” She glanced up at the clock in the kitchen. 7:30. “Okay.” She nodded and stood up, taking her plate to the sink. Once she’d washed it, she hovered in the doorway of the dining room. Turning back to look at her parents, she bit her lip and murmured, “I’m sorry, Daddy.” Glancing up at her, his face softened. “I know, sweetheart. It’s not your fault. You’re a good girl. It’s just hard.” She nodded. “I know.” “Goodnight, Quinn.” He sighed and turned his attention back to the television. “Goodnight, Daddy.” Quinn turned and walked towards her room. Slowly, she changed out of her dress and into her pajamas, picking them up from where they’d been neatly folded on her dresser. She brushed her teeth while staring at herself in the mirror. She fixed her hair, even though there was nothing left to get ready for. Once she was ready, she knelt by her bed. As she bowed her head to pray, she could make out the beginnings of yet another fight. “Judy, I can’t believe you would ask that-” “Russel, he’s the father of our grandchild-” “That’s no grandchild of mine!” Quinn bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. The words “you’re a good girl” sat heavy on her mind. If he only knew, she thought. If he only knew how wrong he was. Knew how she thought about Rachel. If he knew, it wouldn’t just be her mom he yelled at. If he knew- She shuddered, quickly clasping her hands. Dear God, Please fix my family. Please make me the good girl they need me to be. Please just make me normal. Please. Amen She climbed into bed, staring at the ceiling and focusing on pretending not to hear a glass shatter on the floor of the kitchen. Just breathe, she reminded herself, just breathe. Everything is okay. It’s all okay. Quinn shut her eyes tightly and lay perfectly still, waiting for her mom to come in. A while later, after a door somewhere else in the house slammed, her bedroom door cracked open. Quinn turned her head to look at her mom. Her eyes were red-rimmed and there was a new band-aid on her finger, but she looked as composed as ever. “Did you say your prayers?” she asked, keeping their unspoken agreement to never acknowledge what happened in their house at night, after Quinn had been safely sent to her room. “Yes, Mom.” Quinn nodded, forcing a pleasant smile onto her face. “Oh, Quinnie.” Judy smiled sadly. “Your dad is right. You’re a good girl.” Quinn bit her lip and forced a smile. “Goodnight, Mom.” “Goodnight.” Judy flicked off the light and closed the door. Quinn closed her eyes again and counted her breaths. “I’m a good girl.” she whispered to herself. “I’m a good girl.” As she drifted off, a hazy image of Rachel appeared in her mind. Brown hair flowing over her shoulder, that tiny smile that she got when she was focused, slightly furrowed eyebrows- Quinn dug her nails into her palms. “Stop it. Just stop it. Please.” she mumbled. Wiping her eyes, she rolled over and pressed her face into the pillow. Eventually, she fell asleep, tossing and turning uncomfortably. – – – – She slept until noon. The only reason she finally dragged herself out of bed was to use the bathroom. It was Saturday, so her dad was playing golf and her mom was at her knitting group, meaning there was no one to stop her from going to the family computer and opening Google. She hesitated, fingers frozen over the keyboard, until she forced herself type: ‘why am i am girl who thinks about girls’ A dictionary definition came up first: Lesbian; a gay woman. Quinn bit her lip. She typed again: ‘how do i know if im a lesbian’ An article: Early Signs You Might Be a Lesbian.” Sign one: “When you’re on a date with a guy, you’re thinking about your female best friend. She swallowed, remembering sitting across from Finn at Breadstix, picturing talking to Rachel. Sign two: Your eyes are drawn to women. She took a deep breath, mentally flashing through all the times that she’d looked at one of the Cheerios before noticing their boyfriend. Sign three: You’ve questioned your sexuality. Quinn clenched her fists. She didn’t want to be questioning anything. She wanted it to be obvious, wanted some website to answer with a big, red, flashing, “No.” Instead, a new question sparked in her mind. One that terrified her, but one she needed an answer for. She typed again again: ‘is being a lesbian a sin’ A church website popped up, and she clicked on the link. The highlighted section read: The Scriptures teach that homosexuality is an immoral and prohibited sexual orientation. Her breathing started to pick up and she could feel tears forming in her eyes as she typed: ‘will being a lesbian send you to hell’ A different church website appeared, and it read: Practicing homosexuals will not go to heaven. She froze in place, staring at the screen as her vision blurred over, tears fighting for a way out. The cross around her neck felt like a lead weight. She forced her fingers to move again and typed: ‘how to erase search history’ Once Quinn was sure that no one would be able to find what she’d read, she stood up. Her hands were shaking, so she clenched them into fists. She felt like she couldn’t breathe right, like the walls were closing in around her. She already knew from a lifetime of sermons that fags were going to hell, but this was the first time she’d ever let herself think that maybe it applied to her too. It couldn't. She was a good girl. Right? She squeezed her eyes shut. Without warning, her mind began replaying the night she’d told her parents about the baby. She could hear her dad shout, “You’re the disappointment here.” as clearly as if he was right in front of her. Her breaths came quicker and she could feel her heart pounding in her chest. They’d gotten past all that, hadn’t they? He thought she was a good girl now. He said so. She was a good girl. She couldn’t go to hell. She couldn’t be a lesbian. There was no room in this house for another betrayal. For another failure. She needed to be good, to be perfect. “I’m a good girl.” she whispered. “I’m not going to hell. I’m not. I can’t.” Her eyes were open now, and she was walking. Pacing. Around the living room, through the dining room, into the kitchen. Staring at her reflection in the shiny doors of the fridge. It was distorted slightly, warped around the edges. It looked like she was crying. She traced her fingertips over her cheek, then pulled them away to find them laced with water droplets – she was crying. Why was she crying? Good girls never cried. If she cried, her mom would know something was wrong. Her eyes would be red at church tomorrow. Everyone would know something was wrong. Everyone would know she was going to hell. “I am not going to hell.” she whispered, the words sharp and forceful. She wasn’t. She wouldn’t. She needed to stop crying. Almost without meaning to, she reached into the silverware drawer. Blinking the tears out of her eyes enough to see straight, she realized she was holding a knife. “I’m a good girl.” she mumbled. “I’m not a les-” she choked on the word. As if it had a mind of its own, the knife tip dragged across her arm. A thin line of red trailed behind it. The sight of it startled her enough to make her drop the knife onto the counter. She stared at her arm, equal parts shocked and horrified. She couldn’t move. Her arm was dripping blood and the knife was dripping blood and her cheeks were still dripping with tears and she needed to stop crying, she needed to not go to hell. The pain hit her all at once, shocking her out of her trance. Her arm stung and there was blood on the white countertops and the white tile floors and her white pajamas and her parents would be home soon. Suddenly in a rush, she grabbed a wad of paper towels and dropped them onto the floor, using them to wipe up the blood. Next was the countertops, and then she rinsed the knife in the sink and shoved it into the dishwasher. She grabbed fresh paper towels and pressed them to the cut on her arm, trying to stop the blood flow. Once she was sure there was no incriminating evidence left in the kitchen, she turned and practically ran to the bathroom, letting the door slam behind her. Carefully, so as not to get blood on anything else, she flushed the bloody mess of paper towels down the toilet. She stared at herself in the mirror, watching her chest rise and fall with each panicked breath. Her cross necklace was askew, and without even thinking, she fixed it. She swallowed hard, leaning on the edges of the sink. “Get it together. Get. It. Together.” In her reflection, she could see that the bottom hem of her pajama shirt was tinged red, and so she ripped the shirt off. Her parents couldn’t find that. She had to hide it. Leaving the bathroom, she firmly shut the door to her bedroom and glanced around, desperately searching for a hiding place. Her mom insisted on doing her laundry, so the hamper was out of the question. If she put it in her closet, her mom would surely find it while cleaning during the week. Her gaze landed on her backpack, sitting unzipped by her desk chair. No one would check there. She shoved the shirt inside, burying it underneath her books and binders and zipping the bag closed. A couple papers flew out, but she didn’t bother to collect them. They were probably just old worksheets anyway. After she’d pulled on a new shirt – with long sleeves, to cover the cut – she crawled underneath her covers, hoping to not get any blood on her white sheets. Once the comforter was pulled over her head, she closed her eyes and prayed. Dear God, I’m so sorry. I am so, so, so sorry. Please fix me. I don’t want to be broken. I don’t want to go to hell. Please just make me normal. Make me normal. I know I’m a bad person. I know I’m a sinner. But please. I’m a good girl. I pray and I respect my parents and I go to church every Sunday and I read the Bible. Please just fix me. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just make me okay again. Please. Tears began to soak her pillow and quiet sobs spilled out from underneath the heap of blankets, but she didn’t stop. My parents couldn’t take it. I already got pregnant, I can’t be…I can’t. Please. Please. I can’t do this. Please fix me. I’m begging you. Amen – – – – The next thing she heard was the front door unlocking and her dad’s footsteps in the hallway. Panic coursing through her, she jumped out of bed and pulled a sweater on over her pajamas. If she wasn’t dressed, she knew her dad would tear into her about laziness and wasting time. Besides, if he was home, that meant it was late afternoon already. Good girls didn’t wear pajamas all day. Now dressed, she went into the bathroom. She splashed water on her face, hoping the redness underneath her eyes could be brushed off as tiredness. Taking deep breaths and staring into the mirror, she plastered on a calm, easygoing smile. “You’re okay.” she whispered. “You’re a good girl. Good girls don’t go to hell.” Once she was confident that no one could tell anything had happened, she smoothed the wrinkles out of her sweater and went out into the living room. “Hi, Daddy. How was golf?” “Fine, fine.” He nodded, already getting settled on the couch. “How was your day?” “Good. I studied.” She smiled, lying. He grinned. “That’s my girl. Do you have a nice dress clean for church tomorrow?” Quinn nodded. She checked the wall clock. 6:30. He’d gotten home even later than usual, and where was her mom? She knew that after knitting, her mom went to book club, but even that wasn’t supposed to go this late. She kept her face perfectly still, watching her dad click the television on and flip through the channels until landing on Fox news, the same way he always did. She couldn’t bear the thought of sitting out here with him, watching the news and waiting for her mom and pretending everything was perfect. So, she lied again. “Daddy, I already ate, so would it be alright if I went to bed?” He sighed, tearing his eyes away from the television to size her up. “Well, seeing as your mother’s not home yet…alright. Are you feeling alright?” Quickly, she pulled a smile onto her face. “Yes, Daddy. I’m just tired.” “Alright then. Get some rest. See you bright and early tomorrow.” He waved her off, turning back to the television. “Goodnight.” Quinn didn’t let her smile drop until her bedroom door closed softly behind her. Like she did every night, she knelt by her bed. Dear God, Please fix me. I don’t know what else to ask for. Just please, fix me. My parents can’t handle it. I can’t have them find out. Amen She pulled off her sweater, dropped it into the hamper, and crawled back into bed. Her pillow was damp from crying, so she flipped it over. Huddled under the covers, she tried to sleep. She couldn’t. Every time she closed her eyes, images of hellfire and her parents' devastated faces flashed through her mind, over and over until she could hardly breathe. Staring at her ceiling, she exhaled slowly, shakily. There had to be a way for her to not go to hell. There had to be a way for her to stop thinking that way about Rachel, about girls. There had to be. God wouldn’t just abandon her like that. He had to have given her a way to be perfect again. She could ask at church tomorrow. Pastor Ted would know. He would know what she should do. Clinging to that shred of hope, she finally managed to fall asleep, the cut on her arm throbbing in time with her heartbeat. – – – – “Quinn, straighten your skirt.” her mom whispered as they slid into their pew. “You look unwashed.” “Sorry, Mom.” she mumbled, pulling at the wrinkles. She tugged down the sleeves of her sweater, fiddling with them anxiously. “Good morning,” Pastor Ted’s voice boomed out over the rows of pews. “I’m so glad to see all of these familiar faces here. As usual, I would like to begin today’s service by seeing if anyone would like to ask a question for us to speak about today. While we’re passing out the paper, the donation basket for the local homeless shelter will be coming around as well, so please, if you feel able, give a little back to our community.” Quinn worried the cross on her necklace back and forth. After a few minutes, the basket and the paper made its way to their pew, and she grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen. Hardly daring to breathe, she scribbled: ‘will being gay send you to hell/is there a way to stop being gay?’ Terrified of her mom reading over her shoulder, she folded the paper into a tiny square and put it back on the tray. Before her mom handed it to the next person, she pulled a neatly folded ten-dollar bill out of her pocket and slid it into the donation basket. After the tray had made its way all around the room and back to the pulpit, the pastor cleared his throat. “Alright. Let’s see which questions we can answer today.” He sorted through the papers until he came across one that had been folded several times. He unfolded it and scanned the writing before looking back up to address the room. “It seems that we do have one very important question. This question addresses the topic of homosexuality. A member of our church as asked, ‘will being say send you to hell?’” Next to her, Quinn’s mom sighed, shaking her head slightly. Quinn stared straight ahead, silently begging for an answer that would wipe away the things she had read yesterday, some kind of magic cure to guarantee her well-being in the afterlife. “The short answer is yes, all fags who do not repent will go to hell.” All her breath was sucked out of her at once. Her chest felt hollow. There was no air. “However,” he continued, and Quinn started to breathe again. “The sin isn’t in the temptation of homosexual desires. Everyone will experience temptations of some kind. What matters is how you handle them. A sinner who never acts on their feelings and regularly asks God for forgiveness will be allowed to enter the kingdom of heaven.” He paused, flicking his hair out of his eyes. “I do have an issue with the phrasing of the second part of this question: ‘is there a way to stop being gay?’ This seems to imply that a valued member of our congregation has been experiencing homosexual desires, and possibly even acting on them.” On the other side of Quinn, her dad shook his head, muttering something about “Those damn fags, invading our church.” She tangled her fingers together and tried to keep her face blank. “As we know, the Bible clearly states, in Leviticus 20:13, among others, ‘If a man lies with a man as one lies with woman, both of them have done what is detestable. They must be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads.’ There is no way to interpret that other than what is correct: that homosexuality is a sin, and those sinners must be punished.” Pastor Ted continued, staring out at the rows of people hanging onto his every word. Quinn felt like he was staring directly at her, warning her. Those sinners must be punished. He continued speaking, “Now, as it is May, we are all too aware of the upcoming, so-called ‘Pride month’, where good, God-fearing people are forced to watch sexual deviants parade around, passing off their sins as something to find joy in, flying rainbow flags. Rainbow flags!” He pounded his fist on the pulpit, spit flying from his mouth. “The rainbow is God’s sacred symbol, given by Him to His followers, and these-these degenerates are trying to take it from us. We cannot abide this! It is our duty to uphold good values and to teach our children – some of whom are here today –” At that, Quinn’s mom reached over and squeezed her hand, and Quinn forced herself to squeeze back, feeling like she was about to vomit. “-which paths to follow and which paths to not take. We must listen to Jesus’ teachings and God’s warnings, and abide by them carefully. So, in final answer to this question,” He held the sheet of paper up high, over his head, “yes, homosexuals will go to hell unless they repent and get God’s forgiveness for their sins, and are sure to not find pride in their depravity.” That said, he nodded authoritatively and refolded the paper. “Now, before we move on to the rest of our service today, let’s take a moment to pray for the member of our congregation who asked this question, and hope he or she can find the right path to God.” Quinn’s parents bowed their heads along with the rest of the congregation, and Quinn hurriedly followed suit. She felt numb. It was as if someone had taken a sermon-shaped knife and stabbed right through her chest. Tears pricked at her eyes as she clasped her hands. Dear God, Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Pleas- “Alright, my friends. Let us move onto today’s reading.” Amen Quinn raised her head, nails digging into her palms, trying to not let the devastation show on her face. “Bathroom…” she mumbled, standing up and pushing past the rest of the people in the pew. “Sorry, excuse me, sorry…” – – – – Quinn stared at herself in the cheap church bathroom mirror. Her perfectly curled hair hung down past her shoulders. Her best dress, just for Sundays and holidays, fell just below her knees. Her green eyes shone in the reflection of a perfect Christian girl who was slowly being obscured in a haze of tears. The words, “They must be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads.” slammed against the inside of her brain. The longer she stood there, the louder the words got, until she couldn’t take it anymore. Asking that question was supposed to fix everything. It was supposed to fix her. She needed to be fixed. She couldn't be like this anymore. A couple of tears dripped onto her cheek and she shook her head sharply. No. She couldn’t cry. Good girls didn’t cry, especially not at church where everyone would see and whisper and pry. Good girls looked perfect, and if they couldn’t be happy then they should be mean. Nothing else. Especially not terrified. More tears began to work their way out and she rushed to wipe them away. She needed to stop. She tore her gaze away from her reflection and it landed on the paper towel dispenser attached to the wall. Frantically fumbling with it, she ripped the thin piece of serrated metal off of the edge, turning it over and over in her hand. She needed to be perfect. Before she really knew what she was doing, she had rolled the sleeve of her sweater up over her elbow. The sharp edge collided with her skin, intersecting the thin line that was already there. A steady trickle of blood dripped into the sink, staining the perfect white stone a dark red. She stared down at her arm, a different kind of reflection. Something that had been almost perfect, marred by something that could never be erased. She stayed there, unmoving, until a knock on the bathroom door cut through the fog. “Quinnie? Are you in here?” “Yes, Mom!” she yelled, panicked. “Don’t come in! Just…washing my hands!” “Your father is already outside with the other men in the congregation, so please hurry up. We’re going to attend the picnic after the service.” “Be right out!” Quinn called, frantically scrubbing at the blood with the faucet turned on full-blast. She could hear the tension in her mom’s voice. She must have missed the rest of the service, and she could only imagine what everyone was saying about her. She couldn’t afford to screw up anything else. Her family’s reputation was in enough danger already without her making it any worse. She grabbed several paper towels – ripping them out haphazardly, now that the metal piece of the dispenser was lying in the sink, tinged red – and pressed them against the cut. After a minute, the blood finally stopped and Quinn pulled down her sleeve, balling up the paper towels and shoving them down to the bottom of the trash can, along with the strip of metal. She took a few deep breaths and readjusted her necklace before opening the door and smiling at her mom. “Picnic time?” Judy nodded tersely. “This will be our first time attending one of these since…” she trailed off, staring down at Quinn’s stomach. “Well. You know.” “Right. I’ll be on my best behavior.” She forced a smile. Her family was counting on her. “That’s my girl.” Judy smiled slightly in return, draping her arm over Quinn’s shoulders and guiding her towards the exit. – – – – “Ah, Barbra!” Quinn’s mom greeted one of the other women, a big smile firmly plastered onto her face. “It’s so good to see you! How have Rhett and the kids been?” Barbra pursed her lips, scanning her up and down. “Judy. It has been a while, hasn’t it? Not since…” She glanced purposefully at Quinn, turning up her nose. “Well. You’re certainly trying to get involved with the community again, aren’t you?” Judy nodded sharply. “We’ve just been wanting to get in touch with all the families we used to be so close with.” “I’ll be sure to tell Rhett you were here today.” Barbra added, voice dripping syrupy sweetness. “He’ll just be so glad to hear it.” She ended the conversation with a smirk and turned around. Judy closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose before sighing and looking over at Quinn. “You’re very quiet today, aren’t you?” Quinn didn’t respond, she just stared down at her black Mary Janes. On the outside, she looked lost in thought. Inside, she was hearing “homosexuals go to hell” and seeing fresh blood dripping from her arm, on repeat. All her focus was on not letting her thoughts show on her face. No one could know. “Quinn!” Her mom tried again, voice shrill. “Sorry!” Quinn jumped, looking up. “Sorry. Just…thinking about today’s question.” Her mom’s face softened. “I feel awful for the family of whoever asked it. I can’t imagine having to deal with such a thing, especially on top of…everything we’ve gone through this past year.” She looked at Quinn, a soft smile flicking across her lips. “Luckily, I have you for a daughter, so it’s not a concern.” Quinn nodded, feeling somehow more hollow than before. “Right. Of course.” “Caroline!” Her mom burst out, spotting another one of the church wives. “How wonderful to see you!” Caroline’s eyebrows shot up. “Judy. I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” She laughed, high pitched and uncomfortable, trying to hide the fact that she was staring at Quinn with a near bug-eyed expression. “And Quinn, so soon after…that whole ordeal. Well, give my regards to Russel.” She forced another laugh before quickly walking away. The picnic went on for a few hours, with each interaction getting progressively more uncomfortable and Quinn getting progressively more distant. Every fake pleasantry exchanged between her mom and those other women, all ending with a dig – in varying degrees of subtlety – about “How thin Quinn looks now!” or “Where’s the bab-oh, nevermind.” felt like a stab through the heart. At some point they worked their way over to a picnic table laden with food, and Quinn automatically reached for a paper plate. Quickly, her mom hissed into her ear, “Not too much, Quinnie. We wouldn’t want anyone getting any ideas.” “Of course, Mom.” Quinn nodded. This wasn’t anything new. The food she ate was just as regulated as the way she dressed and the way she curled her hair. Her mom had just been a little stricter about it after the baby. Quinn had to lose the extra weight she’d put on, after all, and if she was still fat at this point, people at church would start to speculate. Speculate about what, she wasn’t sure, but she knew it was important to her mom to avoid it. And right now, Quinn needed to do everything possible to please her mom. She selected an apple and a scoop of salad and sat down to eat, not realizing who she’d sat across from until she glanced up. “Oh, Quinn, how nice to see you back and…” Nancy, an older woman who’d been going to this church since before Quinn was born, scanned her up and down, her gaze coming to rest on Quinn’s stomach. “Back to normal.” Quinn just nodded and took a bite of her apple. The longer she could put off this conversation, the better. The thought of making small talk about the food or the weather or her body made her even more nauseous than she already was. “Well, now why are you wearing that sweater? It’s such a nice day out, don’t you want to get some sun?” Nancy prodded further, setting her fork down in order to focus more of energy on her interrogation. Quinn twitched, images of the cuts criss-crossing her arm flashing through her mind. Forcing herself to stay calm, she swallowed and conjured up a convincing smile from somewhere deep inside herself. “Oh, I’m just a little chilly. I run cold.” Before Nancy could say anything else, Judy appeared behind Quinn and dropped a hand onto her shoulder. “Quinnie, come with me. Everyone wants to say hello to you.” “Okay, Mom.” Quinn waved her goodbyes to Nancy as she stood up and followed behind her mom, leaving her untouched salad on the table. She bit her lip to keep from losing her cool as they approached yet another gaggle of church wives staring at her with nothing but judgment in their eyes. – – – – By the time the Fabrays made their way back to the car, Quinn’s arm stung from the cut and her pride stung from the awful conversation and her mind stung from the harsh words of the pastor. All she wanted was a quick, silent ride home, and then to escape into her room. “So!” Her dad announced as he pulled the car out of the parking spot, his spirits clearly lifted after the time spent catching up with the other men. “What did we think of the service today?” Her mom piped up, “Quinnie and I started to discuss the question from the beginning a bit earlier.” She sounded eager to please, as though she really thought that pleasant conversation about church was the solution to all of their problems. “Ah, right.” Russel nodded. “Quinn, what did you think?” Quinn locked eyes with him in the rearview mirror. Every time she thought about it, thought about everything that had been said, all she wanted to do was vomit and cry. “Um.” She swallowed hard, pinching the skin of her thigh as she spoke. “I just wondered, um, what you thought about it, Daddy?” Maybe there was some hope there. Maybe he would disagree, or he’d tell her it didn’t matter what the Bible said and that he’d love her no matter what. Maybe. “Well,” he began, “first of all, I think Pastor Ted was absolutely right.” Quinn drew in a breath, concentrating as hard as she could on keeping herself composed, keeping her face neutral. She honestly didn’t think his words could hurt any more than they did right then. “And secondly, like I was talking about with the guys earlier, I’m just glad that it’s not my child running around being a fag and asking these kinds of questions, because let me just tell you, there would be some serious consequences.” She was wrong. The rest of the horrible day paled in comparison to this. She just managed to nod and squeak out, “Of course, Daddy.” before turning her head and gluing her focus to the scenery passing by. The view was soon obscured with tears, but she was able to blink them away before they dripped down her face. Putting all other thoughts out of her head, she focused on just one: Be a good girl. Be a good girl. Be a good girl. – – – – As soon as Russel parked the car, Quinn asked to go to her room, excusing herself under the pretense of needing to study for a – made up – history test tomorrow. She closed her door and lay on top of her bed, not even bothering to pull down her comforter. Her perfect blonde hair spilled across her perfect white pillow and her whole body shook as she cried. She didn’t move until her mom called her name for dinner, at which point she dragged herself off the bed and fixed herself up in the mirror. Straighten the necklace, fluff the curls, wipe the last tears off her cheeks. Everything was perfect. Everything was fine. – – – – Dinner was a silent affair. Her dad focused on his plate, cutting up his steak with ferocity that bordered on aggression. Her mom drank too much wine, presumably in an attempt to drown the shame from her old friends. Quinn didn’t touch her plate, just stared down at her arm as if she could see through the clean fabric of her sleeve to the jagged scratches underneath. As if she could see through her clean exterior to the horrific sinner she knew she really was. She went back to her room as soon as her parents finished eating and the plates were cleared away. – – – – Dear God, I’m so sorry. Please fix me. I need you to fix me. Please. Help. Help me. I don’t know what to do. Amen Quinn got under the covers, eyes shut as if that could stop the torrent of thoughts from flying through her mind. Outside the perfect quiet of her room, the yelling was louder than usual. And longer. She couldn’t make out any of the words, but it felt like forever until her mom was standing in the doorway. “Did you say your prayers?” “Yes, Mom.” Judy glanced over her shoulder before stepping into the room. She shut the door behind her, then crossed the room and sat on the edge of Quinn’s bed. Quinn couldn’t remember the last time her mom had come into her room for a reason other than cleaning. A silent moment passed before she tentatively asked, “Is everything okay?” Her mom nodded quickly, straightening the corner of the white comforter. “Everything’s just fine.” “Okay.” Quinn nodded hesitantly. She wasn’t sure what to do, so she did nothing. A few moments later, Judy cleared her throat. “I love you very much. And so does your father.” Quinn managed a slight smile. “I love you too.” “There are just some things,” Judy continued, “that we and others with our beliefs cannot accept.” She looked deeply into Quinn’s eyes, trying to convey the meaning she was too afraid to say. “And I hope you know that.” Quinn’s smile dropped, and she swallowed hard. “Yeah. Of course.” Judy patted the comforter once more and stood up. She crossed back to the doorway but hesitated before pulling the door open, turning slightly over her shoulder. Her eyes looked almost watery as she smiled and said, “Goodnight, Quinn.” “Goodnight.” Quinn waited for the door to shut before rolling away to face the wall. Lying in the silent dark, she shivered. The comforter was no help against the cold that her mom’s words had left in the room. With her eyes closed, her mind wandered to a memory of Rachel singing in Glee club. Desperate to fall asleep and so worn out from the day that she couldn’t even cry, she was tempted to let it happen, but after a few seconds she managed to force her thoughts back on track. – – – – Every class period on Monday felt the same. Nothing any teacher said could push its way through the cold fog that had taken up permanent residence in Quinn’s head. The only things she could seem to think about were Pastor Ted’s words, her dad’s words, her mom’s words. And how much her arm hurt underneath yet another perfectly clean sweater. And Rachel. Every time her mind wandered to Rachel, it was immediately pulled back to all the things that had been said and to how much her arm stung, and thinking about that inevitably led her to thinking about Rachel. On and on and on and on it went. The only thing she could think to do was silently pray. She prayed in class and in the hallways and the bathroom, when she hid out there to reapply the makeup she’d put on to hide the dark circles under her eyes. – – – – Dear God, Please fix me. I can’t be like this. They’ll never forgive me. Please just fix it. Amen – – – – Dear God, I don’t understand why I have to be like this. Can’t you just fix me? I don’t want to be like this. I just want to be a good Christian girl like I’m supposed to be and forget all about everything that happened before. Can’t I just forget about this too? Find a new boyfriend and be happy with him? Please? Amen – – – – Dear God, Why won’t you help me? What did I do wrong that I haven’t already asked your forgiveness for? Are you still angry about the baby? I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. What can I do to fix it? Please just tell me what to do and I’ll do it. Please just fix me. Amen – – – – Dear God, Are you listening? Did I do something wrong? Please just tell me. Amen – – – – Dear God, I’m begging you. My parents would hate me if they found out. If you’re listening please, just please, fix me. Amen – – – – Dear God, Please. Amen – – – – After the last period bell rang and Quinn walked into the choir room, she took her usual seat in the back. Still lost in her thoughts, she watched Kurt and Blaine enter, holding hands and talking too loudly about the latest musical they were both obsessed with. Brittany and Santana followed soon after them, pinkies linked as usual. Quinn couldn’t stop herself from staring. Looking at them made something deep inside her ache for…something, but she didn’t know what. She wasn’t like them. She couldn’t be like them. Looking harder, watching Santana whispering something into Brittany’s ear before kissing her on the cheek, Quinn bit down on her lip, hard. She wasn’t supposed to want that. Wasn’t supposed to think about doing that with…her eyes drifted over, down the center seat that belonged to no one else but Rachel Berry. She especially wasn’t supposed to want that with her. Forcing herself to look away from Rachel, her eyes landed back on Kurt and Blaine and she heard Pastor Ted in her ear again: All fags who do not repent will go to hell. As hard as she thought about it, she couldn’t seem to reconcile that fact with the boys sitting one row down from her, laughing together. How could they be going to hell? How could she be going to hell? Kurt, seemingly feeling her stare bore into his neck, turned around and made eye contact with her. “Quinn, you okay?” Quinn, startled out of her own thoughts, blinked at him. He tilted his head, clearly expecting her to say something. In her panicked haze, she lost control of her body. What should have happened was that she nodded, smiled, and said, “Yeah, of course.” Then Kurt would have turned back around and everything would have continued as normal. Instead, what actually happened was that she shook her head. Her mouth opened, but, “Yeah, of course,” did not come out. What came out, whispered so quietly it was hardly audible, was, “Can I talk to you? Privately?” Kurt looked surprised, but he agreed. “Yeah, sure. Right now?” Quinn nodded, getting up from her seat and rushing out into the hallway. She was sure everyone was staring at her as she left. Kurt followed closely behind and leaned against the wall of lockers. He waited for her to say something, and when it became clear that she wasn’t going to, he prompted, “What’s going on?” She wanted to just brush it off, to say everything was fine and go back inside the classroom. She couldn't stop herself, though, and her mouth opened again. Looking at her shoes, her dress, the floor, everywhere but at him, she mumbled, “Well. You know how you…you and Blaine…you’re…” Kurt raised an eyebrow, puzzled by the direction this conversation was taking. “Are dating?” “No.” Quinn shook her head. “Well, yes, but. But you’re…you’re…” Even more confused now, he asked, “You mean that I’m…gay?” Ever so slightly, Quinn nodded. “And. If I. I mean, I’m not, but if I…if I was…” She dug her fingernails into her palm and tried to force the word out, but couldn’t., “If I was. What…um, what would I…what should I do?” Kurt’s eyes widened. “Oh my god, Quinn. Are you gay?” Quinn froze. Are you gay? She couldn’t breathe. All fags go to hell. “I…” “Oh my god, Quinn!” Kurt broke into a warm smile. “Am I the first person you’ve told?” It was all she could do to shrug, every part of her feeling numb. Her voice was ragged as she whispered, “I don’t know what to do.” “Do about what?” he asked, face clouding with confusion. She took a shuddery breath, tangling her fingers together. “My parents.” She held herself back from saying: My parents, my church, my entire life. Everything. “Oh.” Kurt nodded slowly. “They’re…are they homophobic? That’s awful.” Quinn just stared wordlessly, looking through him. She’d never thought about her parents like that. As homophobic. Like maybe they were the problem. Like maybe she wasn’t the problem. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath. It came faster and faster as she stood there, glued to the spot in front of Kurt. He reached out to touch her arm, and she instinctively jerked away. His eyebrows furrowed as he asked, “Quinn, are you okay?” Her rational brain snapped back into action and she smiled, a warm, full smile. The same smile that fooled her parents, her teachers, Ms. Sylvester, Mr. Schue, everyone at church. The classic Quinn Fabray smile that could almost fool herself, if she didn’t look too closely in the mirror. As she smiled, she replied, “Oh, yeah. Everything’s fine. I’m sorry to bother you. You can just forget I said anything.” Punctuating the lie with a sharp little nod, she turned and started back into the classroom. She glanced over her shoulder as she entered the room and watched Kurt stare after her, a mixture of confusion and concern evident in his eyes. She brushed past Rachel as she returned to her seat, refusing to let herself look at her. She sat down in time to watch Kurt come back into the room. He paused by Santana’s chair, leaning down to whisper something to her. Santana started to turn her head to look up at Quinn, before Kurt grabbed her shoulder and shook his head. Santana nodded and Kurt took his seat, just as the bell rang and Mr. Schue stood up. “Alright, guys! Let’s get into this week's lesson.” – – – – The bell rang and Quinn grabbed her backpack and headed for the door, determined to forget her talk with Kurt, determined to forget everything that had happened in the last couple of days. Everything was fine. She just needed to put all of this behind her, pretend nothing ever happened- “Quinn.” Santana stepped in front of her, blocking the door. “Walk with me.” Without another word, she turned and left the room, striding through the hallway with the expectation that Quinn would be behind her. She scoffed and followed Santana out the door. “Hey, wait. What’s going on?” When they reached a somewhat deserted corner of the hallway, Santana abruptly stopped and pulled Quinn over to the wall, into a little alcove between lockers. “So. I know you’re the queen bitch around here, but I’ve been hearing some concerning things about you.” Quinn took a breath, trying to keep her composure. Trying not to show the panic that was rapidly building up inside her, she asked, “What did Kurt tell you? He’s freaking out about nothing-“ “Stop.” Santana held up her hand. “It’s not about what Kurt told me. I’ve known.” Quinn froze. She knew? She knew what? The way that Quinn looked at Rachel? The way she thought about Rachel? Santana couldn’t know that. No one could know. “What are you talking about?” she managed to ask, summoning her best stare of blank confusion. “Quinn. Puh-leeze.” Santana rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. “Everyone knows I have the best gaydar in Lima.” She paused for a moment, looking Quinn up and down. Then, more quietly, “This part sucks. I know. And you know I’m not one for touchy-feely ‘oh I’m here for you’.” she made a face as she spoke. “But y'know. I’ve been through it. On a massive, national television level scale.” “Santana…” Quinn shook her head. This wasn’t happening. There was no way Santana knew. She shouldn’t have said anything to Kurt, she shouldn’t have ever said anything to anybody about it. Everyone was going to know now and it was all going to be her fault. She dug her fingernails into her palm, trying to reply. “It’s not…I’m not…I’m-I’m not-“ “Oh, really?” Santana snickered. “If you say so. But just so you know, hiding it doesn’t help. It actually makes everything worse. Trust me.” “That’s not true.” Quinn muttered. She needed to end this conversation, needed to leave. She wanted to just turn and go, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from adding, “You don’t get it. Even if I was-” she exhaled, quickly tacking on, “I’m not. But it would make everything worse if I told people. Especially my parents.” “Oh, come on. I’m sure they’d be happy you won’t get knocked up again.” Santana teased, cocking her head to the side. Quinn bit down on her lip until her mouth tasted metallic. “It’s not funny.” She spat out the words, her mouth twisting into a scowl. “Leave me alone. You don’t get it, okay? You don’t know my life.” Finally, she managed to turn around and leave. Walk away. Just walk away. Quinn forced herself to breathe, her heartbeat pounding furiously in her ears. Just leave, and she’ll forget all about it. No one will know. No one can know. “Quinn!” Santana yelled after her. “Who else better to get it than me? You know any other lesbians?” “Shut up!” Quinn screamed, not looking back. She broke into a run, pushing her way through the front doors and out onto the street, sprinting past the bus stop. She didn’t slow down until she couldn’t breathe, and even then she kept walking. She couldn’t stop. She couldn’t get home late. That was the last thing she needed right now. – – – – The dinner table that night was even icier than usual, if that was possible. Quinn tried her hardest not to make a sound, keeping her head down and staring at her plate. Everything was normal. “So, Russel. How was work?” Judy tried, looking at him hopefully. “Fine, Judy.” He nodded. “How was…whatever you were up to today?” “Volunteering at the soup kitchen was fine, thank you for asking.” She huffed, then continued, “Quinnie-” “School was fine. I finished my homework. My grades are good.” Quinn recited, flashing a quick smile without looking up. “Wonderful.” Her mom nodded slightly. “Oh, don’t forget, we have that church gathering to attend tomorrow. Can you meet us there after school?” “Yes, Mom.” “And make sure to wear something nice.” Her dad added. She nodded, subconsciously rubbing her fingers over her sleeve, where she could feel the cuts under the fabric, could feel the scabs that had started to form. “Yes, Daddy.” Her mom’s head snapped up. “What’s wrong with your arm?” “Nothing.” Quinn pulled her fingers back like she’d been burned. “Just had an itch.” She sighed. “Well, we’re all just a bundle of fun tonight, aren’t we?” “What is that supposed to mean, Judy?” Her dad muttered, his voice taking on a hard tone. He looked up from his plate, clenching his fork tightly in his fist. “Just that we’re not exactly acting like a happy family, Russel.” Her voice was uncharacteristically sharp, accusatory. Quinn exhaled slowly, trying very hard to disappear. Her mom had to know better than to provoke him like this. She had to know what was coming. Russel glared at her, his eyes harsh and unforgiving. “What, exactly, are you trying to insinuate?” Setting her fork down firmly, Judy countered, “Nothing, just maybe that if you stopped being so obsessed with your work and actually paid attention to your family-” And then all hell broke loose. Russel stood up abruptly, slamming his hands down on the table. “I will not be spoken to this way in my house!” he roared. “This is my house too!” Judy screamed back. Someone shoved the table, knocking over plates and sending silverware careening off onto the floor. Someone threw a glass into the wall and it shattered, flinging shards through the room. Someone grabbed the lamp off the sideboard and lobbed it across the room, and it smashed into pieces as it hit the couch. Someone screamed, and it wasn’t until Quinn had run into her bedroom that she realized it had been her. She crumpled to the floor and leaned back against the door in a frantic attempt to keep it closed. Her fingers trembled violently as she curled herself up to take up the least space she possibly could, covering her head with her hands. The room filled with the sound of hyperventilation and she rocked slightly back and forth, back and forth. She could hear the screaming as clearly as if she was still in the living room and she desperately pressed her hands over her ears. It did nothing to suppress the noise, so she heard her dad scream, “Fuck you, you bitch!” and her mom yell back, “You’re pathetic!” Withdrawing her hands from her ears, Quinn squeezed her cross necklace between her shaking fingers. Crying too hard to pray properly, she just held it tightly and choked out, “God, please.” It didn’t help. Outside her room, the worst fight she’d ever heard raged on, and inside wasn’t much better. Quinn sobbed and pinched her wrists until black and blue bruises formed, and when that didn’t work, she clawed the scabs off her cuts until blood trickled down her arms. She stayed there for as long as she could, using her nails to cut new scratches when she ran out of scabs to pick. Eventually, the pain and the blood forced her to untangle herself from her knot on the floor and crawl over to her desk. She pulled tissues out of their box and pressed them to her arms, tears still pouring down her face. The blood gradually stopped, but her light pink sweater was stained in ways that she didn’t think could ever be fixed, so she pulled it off and stuffed it underneath her bed. She knew her mom would find it at some point, but she couldn’t stop crying long enough to think of anything else to do with it. Without changing into pajamas, she dragged herself into bed and curled tightly into herself, facing the wall. Her tears slowed to a trickle, but they didn’t stop until the screaming did. Only then did she start breathing almost regularly again, feeling the freshly opened gashes on her arm throb. The complete silence that followed was almost worse than the screaming. Based on what she’d been able to hear of the fight, anything could have happened. Quinn was too afraid to leave the relative safety of her room to check, so she stayed frozen, waiting. Waiting for her mom to come in like she did every night. Waiting for everything to be okay. Just when she thought that this was going to be it, just her and the silence, her door creaked open. “Quinn?” Her mom’s voice was hoarse and she spoke so quietly that Quinn almost didn’t hear her. She couldn’t bring herself to respond. “Are you asleep?” Again, no answer. Quinn kept perfectly still, holding her breath. There was a long silence. Quinn could imagine her mom in the doorway, staring at her. Was she okay? Was she hurt? She couldn’t bear the thought of turning over and looking to confirm. Still barely audible, her mom whispered again, “I’m so sorry.” With that, the door shut. Quinn closed her eyes and concentrated on her mom’s footsteps fading away. – – – – No one was home when Quinn’s alarm woke her up. There was a note on the dining room counter next to an apple, reading, Hi Quinnie – gone shopping. Your dad is at work. Take the bus, okay? We’ll see you at the church after school. - Mom Quinn shoved the apple back into the fridge and retreated to her room. She dressed quickly and grabbed her backpack, then stopped in front of the mirror. She looked like a zombie. Her hair was flat and tangled, all the curls knocked out long ago. Her eyes were bloodshot and lined with heavy dark circles. Her cheeks were pale and sunken in. She didn’t have to lift the sleeves of her sweater to know that her arms looked even worse. A glance at the clock told her that there wasn’t nearly enough time to fix all of it, so instead she took a deep breath and straightened her necklace. She had makeup in her bag, she could put it on at school. She would look normal. No one would have to know. – – – – She’d just stepped off the bus and into McKinley when she was intercepted by Kurt. “Quinn. I was thinking about yesterday, and-” He cut himself off, clearly taken aback by what he saw when he looked at her. “Oh. Are you-are you okay?” “I’m fine.” Quinn growled, pushing past him and forging on towards the bathroom. As soon as she took her place by the sink and looked up at the mirror, she sucked in a breath. Behind her, Mercedes smiled as she came out of one of the stalls. “Hey, Quinn.” Mercedes turned her head to look at Quinn as she washed her hands, then raised an eyebrow. “Girl, are you okay? You look-” “Leave me alone.” Quinn spit the words out and stuffed her makeup bag back into her backpack, hurriedly turning to leave. She pushed her way through the packed hallway, keeping her gaze fixed on the floor to minimize the amount of people who would see, and stare, and talk. – – – – Quinn managed to escape to the bathroom between first and second period to put on her makeup. She applied it quickly, careful not to be late for her next class. Before she left the bathroom, though, she gripped the edge of the sink and stared at her reflection in the dented mirror. She looked a little more like herself now. Composed, pretty. Expressionless. The bell rang and she pulled herself away, heading for the stairs. She couldn’t focus. Teachers kept mentioning homework assignments she hadn’t even remembered had been assigned, let alone remembered to do them. Several teachers pulled her over to their desk as class ended, saying something along the lines of, “This is so unlike you, Quinn. You always do your work. Is there something going on?” Each time, she smiled and shook her head. “I’m so sorry, it just slipped my mind. I’ll have it for you tomorrow. It won’t happen again!” Nothing was going on. If she didn’t talk about it, it didn’t exist. Her smile and her words were always enough to convince anyone of anything. Each and every teacher let her go, saying that as long as she got the work in tomorrow there wouldn’t be any consequences. If she was being honest, by the time Quinn left each class, she’d already forgotten what work she was supposed to be completing by tomorrow. The only thing she could think about was last night. Every time she blinked, she saw it happen all again. Blink. The glass shattered. Blink. She screamed. Blink. The yelling, the insults. Blink. Her arms ripped open, blood staining her sweater. Blink. “Quinn? Are you listening?” Her head snapped up. “I’m sorry. Say it again?” Mrs. Carlisle slighted deeply. “I expect some people to be off in dreamland, but Quinn…not you. What I said was that we have a test next week, and it’s going to be serious business. So make sure to start studying. That’s all.” Quinn nodded along with everyone else as the bell rang, then gathered her bag. She had absolutely no idea what was going to be on that test, and while that would have normally terrified her, she couldn’t seem to feel much of anything. On autopilot, she made her way towards the cafeteria for lunch. Halfway there, though, she stopped in her tracks. If she went to lunch, she’d have to sit with Brittany and Santana. Have to talk to them, make up something about what she’d done the night before, but more than that, have to sit there and watch them link pinkies and share a soda. Have to sit there and know that she could never do that. Know that even wanting to do that was enough to earn eternal damnation. She couldn’t deal with that, not today. Instead of continuing on to the cafeteria, she turned and disappeared into the nearest bathroom. As she closed the stall door, she pulled her phone out of her bag and texted Brittany and Santana, Hi, sorry I’m missing lunch today! I have to meet with my group for a history project. She sat down heavily on the toilet seat, bending forward and dropping her head into her hands. Spending lunch in a bathroom stall. “How the mighty fall.” she muttered under her breath. This was unbelievable. She was Quinn Fabray. She sat at the table in the center of the cafeteria, surrounded by cheerleaders and football players. Sure, she’d lost all of that for a while during the pregnancy, but even then she’d never had to hide out in the bathroom. There was a packed lunch in her bag, put there like it was every morning by her mom, but she didn’t take it out. There was no point, really. Eat lunch, don’t eat lunch. Her parents would still hate each other and she would still be a disappointment. Still be going to hell. She closed her eyes, listening to people come in and out of the bathroom. Time seemed to drag on as she sat there, the lunch period that usually felt like ten minutes somehow lasting forever. Finally, the bell rang and she left the stall, scanning the hallway before stepping out to ensure no one would see her. She faked her way through math, scribbling random numbers on her worksheet to look busy and giving Mr. Brady the same excuses for her missing homework. He bought it, of course. The only period left in the day was Glee. Quinn made it almost to the choir room door before remembering that she was supposed to have a song prepared for today. She did not have one. She couldn’t even remember the theme for the week. Stopping in the middle of the hallway, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She couldn't walk in there with nothing. Mr. Schue would be worried and he would ask questions. Everyone would stare. Rachel would stare. Before she could think any more about it, she was walking the other way, down the hall and out the main door. The warm spring air felt nice on her face. She kept walking. She passed trees and parked cars and fire hydrants. Her footsteps pounded on the sidewalk almost as loudly as her heartbeat. None of this mattered. Not the homework, not eating in the bathroom, not skipping Glee. Skipping school. She’d never skipped school. She’d been at school, at Glee, nine months pregnant. She’d gone to school the day after her dad kicked her out. And now here she was, crossing the street and leaving McKinley far behind. She didn’t know where she was going. She could vaguely remember something about her parents going to an event after school, but nothing more than that. It was probably just one of her mom’s things. Bingo or something. Her dad would stay at work late if her mom was going to bingo, or he’d go out with his friends to the bar and get a drink. Either way, he wouldn’t be home. She could just go home. The thought of being in that house, though, made her want to vomit. Having to sit in her room and stare at the same ceiling she stared at every night. Having to look at the framed picture of Jesus over her bed and know that she was a sinner. Sit at the dining room table watching the endless fights replay in her mind. Stand in the kitchen and see the blood run down her wrist. She didn’t go home. She kept walking. Eventually, she ended up at the elementary school playground. Not thinking, at least for the moment, about the potential for trespassing, she pulled herself up and over the short fence, landing heavily on the other side. Walking through the playground, she ran her fingertips over the edge of the slide and the posts of the monkey bars. She’d never played here, never gone to school here, but it felt almost familiar. She found herself in front of the swingset and sat down. Her feet grazed the asphalt beneath as she shifted back and forth. If she closed her eyes, she could just make out a memory of being a kid. Sitting on swings like these ones and laughing with her friends. She almost smiled. But that was before. Before the bullying, before the move, before the baby, before…now. Her eyes flew open. She gripped the swing chains tightly, kicking at the loose stones beneath her feet. It was nice to be alone. She didn’t need to pretend. Didn’t need to smile and twirl her hair and keep her face free of any hint of real emotion, any hint of anything that wasn’t contentment or judgement. She didn’t need to think about anything, either. Not her parents or the cuts on her arms or church, and certainly not Rachel. She kicked harder, propelling herself higher and higher, faster and faster, until the only thing she could feel was the wind in her face. – – – – By the time her legs got tired and forced her to stop swinging, it was getting kind of chilly and dark. Quinn pulled her phone out of her bag to check the time, but was first greeted with a train of missed texts from Santana. > where are you? > mr schue is gonna be pissed > yo you remember you have a solo today right? > hello???? More pressing than the texts, though, was the time. It was nearing six o’clock. She’d somehow managed to spend four hours in this stupid park. If it was six now, by the time she walked home it’d be almost six thirty, which meant her mom would be basically home from bingo and her dad would be getting in the car to come home from work, and if either of them got home before she did- Quinn shook her head, jumping up and stuffing her phone back into her bag. No, there was still time. Plenty of time for her to get home, go to her room, and pretend she’d been there doing homework all afternoon. They’d never know. She kept a brisk pace on her walk back. It would all be fine. She’d get there in plenty of time. Besides, maybe bingo would run late or her dad would stay out drinking for a while. There was nothing to worry about. – – – – As she rounded the corner onto her street, she checked her phone again. Six-twenty. She exhaled slowly. It was all fine. She was plenty early, her parents probably weren’t even on their way home yet. Although, as she approached the house, it did look like there were two cars in the driveway. Getting closer, she saw that the lights were on. They were home. Swallowing hard, she kept walking, right up to the front door. Before she unlocked it, she took several deep breaths. “It's okay. You’re okay.” she whispered. “You…you stayed at school late to work on Glee stuff and had to get the late bus, and then there was traffic. Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Her story set, she pushed the door open, hung her bag on the hook, and entered the house. “Hi, Mom! Hi, Daddy! Sorry I’m so late!” she called as she walked down the hall towards the dining room. “The late bus got caught in so much traffic!” She rounded the corner into the room, apologetic smile out in full force. “I had to stay at school for…” she trailed off, taken aback by what she saw. Her parents sat at the dining room table, facing her. Their faces were unreadable, which already set Quinn’s nervous system into high alert. Even more than that, her dad had his hand clasped around her mom’s. She couldn’t think of the last time they’d held hands, the last time they’d touched each other gently at all. Trying to keep her breathing steady, she smiled wider. “How was bingo, Mom? And, Daddy, how was work?” Her mom pursed her lips. “I wasn’t at bingo, Quinn. We were at the mixer. At church.” Quinn drew in a sharp breath. Now she remembered. The note on the dining room table, the instructions for her to meet them there. She was supposed to have gone right after school. Immediately, apologies poured out. “I’m so sorry. I had to stay after school for a project. I really wanted to go, it must have completely slipped my mind, I’m so so sorry.” Her mom just stared, her face unchanging. “I really didn’t mean to miss it.” Quinn continued, stepping closer to the table. “I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I’ll-” Her dad held his hand up, cutting her off. “That’s not the issue we’re concerned about.” Quinn blinked at him. What was he talking about? Slowly, without speaking, he held up a piece of paper that she hadn’t noticed on the table. Her stomach dropped. The paper was a page from her notebook. A paper she’d doodled a sketch on in class a few weeks ago. “Oh, Daddy, that’s just…” For the first time in her life, Quinn couldn’t find an excuse. The drawing was of Rachel. Not just Rachel, but Rachel singing, surrounded by hearts. In the bottom corner she had written: QF + RB. “It’s-” she floundered, her breathing quickening. How did they find it? She could remember tearing it out of her notebook and burying it in her backpack…her backpack. In a flash, Quinn remembered when she’d hid her sweater in her bag, knocking some papers out in the process. This must have been one of them. She curled her hands into fists, her nails biting into her palms. What could she say to clean this up? To keep them from finding out? Oh, God, they were going to find out. “Did you draw this?” Her dad’s voice was hard, cold. She couldn’t find a way out. Slowly, Quinn nodded. Her dad slammed his hand on the table and Quinn flinched, involuntarily taking a step back. “Don’t walk away from me.” he growled. “Come back.” His eyes bored into hers, icy and unforgiving. Quinn’s heart roared in her chest and she wanted nothing more than to turn and run, down the hallway, out the door, and into the street. But instead, she stepped forward until she was right in front of the table. Right in front of her parents. For a moment, there was silence. She glanced back and forth between them as they sat, neither of them moving. Quinn couldn’t think, couldn’t process anything. All she could do was stand there, frozen like a wild animal caught in the scope of a gun. Russel pushed himself up so that he was standing, towering over her with the paper still clutched in his hand. He walked around the table to stand next to her. Quinn’s whole body trembled and she grabbed onto the table in an attempt to steady herself. After what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke again. Every single word sounded like a weapon as he asked, “Were you the one who asked that question in church?” Oh, God. Quinn clutched the table harder. They weren’t supposed to know about that. They weren’t supposed to know. It was a secret, it was her secret. They could never know. “It’s a yes or no question, Quinn.” Russel leaned forward, his voice dangerously low. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. She was a good girl. This didn't happen to good girls. He slammed his hand on the table again, even more harshly than before. “Dammit, Quinn! Answer the goddamn question!" “Yes.” The word was out before she could stop herself, the confession an instinctual reaction to his anger. Without another word, he pulled his hand away from the table and slapped her across the face. The blow landed hard on her cheek and she crumpled to the floor. She gasped and instinctively brought her hand up to her face. He stepped forward until he was right over her, staring down with nothing but contempt in his eyes. Glaring down at her, he barked out the words, “Get. Out. Of my house.” Quinn’s gaze flicked from him to her mom, still seated behind the table. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy and she looked like she could burst into tears any moment, but she made no move to stand up. “Please, Daddy.” Quinn whispered, forcing herself to look back at him. She couldn’t feel anything besides sheer terror – not the pain from her cheek, not confusion, nothing. “Get out.” he repeated, raising his hand and pointing to the door for emphasis. “Daddy.” Quinn’s voice broke as she started to cry. “Please. Please. I’ll be good, I promise. I won’t ask any more questions or draw any more pictures, and I’ll marry a nice boy and be a good wife, I promise. Just please.” Every word was raw with desperation and she gasped for air between sobs. “Get out!” he screamed, spit flying from his mouth. “I don’t care what lies you tell me, I will not have a fucking dyke living under my roof! I have given you as much grace as I possibly can, and this is too far. We raised you better than this.” “Daddy.” Quinn whimpered, pulling her hands over her face to protect herself as he got closer and closer. “Shut up. Get out.” Frantically, desperately, Quinn looked back to her mom. “Mom. Please.” Judy’s hand flew to her mouth and her shoulders started to shake. “Quinnie…” “Please, please, Mom. Please, I need you.” Quinn could barely get the words out, but she didn’t stop begging until her dad stepped sideways, blocking her view to her mom. “Shut your goddamn mouth.” He bent down, hands on his knees, to get even closer to Quinn as he spat, “You will not corrupt anyone else in this house. You will leave, and you won’t come back. Do you understand me?” Quinn was crying too hard to respond, so Russel grabbed her by the shoulders and dragged her to her feet. “Do you understand?” he screamed, shaking her forcefully. Somehow, Quinn managed a nod. With that, he released her and wiped his hands on his pants, as if brushing off any trace of her. “Go now.” “Daddy, it’s dark outside.” she whispered, using the only other tactic she could possibly think of. “Can I please stay tonight? I’ll go-” she cried harder, forcing out the words, “I’ll go tomorrow.” Her mom nodded slightly, opening her mouth as if to speak, but her dad shook his head. “No. Now.” A final glance from her dad to her mom and back again told her everything she needed to know. There was going to be no sympathy here. No help. This wasn’t like last time. There would be no packing, no timer set on the microwave. No coming back. Unable to stop crying, Quinn turned and ran out of the dining room, down the hallway, and to the door. She grabbed her backpack off the hook and dashed outside, spilling out onto the driveway. She didn’t stop there. Her feet pounded on the concrete and all she could hear was her own sobs and shallow breaths. The night sky was so all-encompassing that she couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of her face. She ran as far as she could, turning down sidewalks and crossing streets until she couldn’t force her legs to move any further. Only then did she collapse onto the sidewalk, curling herself into a tight ball on the ground. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t do anything but sit there. – – – – Sheer exhaustion was the only thing that made her stop crying. Her body eventually gave out, and her sobs turned into gasps. As her breathing slowed, she managed to pick her head up and glance around. She caught a glimpse of a street sign: Cherry Street, not far from her house. Just thinking the words ‘her house’ felt like a punch to the stomach. It wasn’t her house anymore. God, what was she going to do? The longer she sat huddled on the street, the colder it got. Her cheek had begun to hurt and the sting radiated intensely, making it painful to blink or turn her head. She closed her eyes and clasped her hands to her chest. Dear God, … … … … Her eyes flew open. She couldn’t think of anything. Nothing to beg for, nothing to ask. There was nothing to be done. It was too late. They knew. They knew, and she was being punished for it. She would go to hell for it. It was over. In lieu of prayer, Quinn did the only other thing she could think of. She dug her phone out of her bag and dialed the number of the one person who might have a chance at helping. Four rings later, the line clicked to life and she whispered, “Santana?” – – – – “Yo, Quinn. Where the hell were you today? You skipped out on lunch and Glee.” Santana’s voice sounded the same as it usually did, teasing but not harsh. She was chewing gum and Quinn could hear it pop in between her words. “You know you had a solo today, right? I had to tell Mr. Schue you had some kind of appointment after school to get him to drop it, and then he just made Rachel sing again, which was so lame. Anyway, where were you?” Quinn sniffled, wiping her nose on her sweater sleeve. She opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. “Hello? You alive?” “Santana.” Quinn could only get her name out before the tears started again, cutting her off. Santana dropped the magazine she’d been absentmindedly flipping through onto her bed, shifting her focus fully towards the phone. “Hey, you good?” “Um…” Quinn shook her head slightly, but of course Santana couldn’t see her. “Can you-can you come pick me up?” “Pick you up?” Santana repeated. It sounded like Quinn was crying, hard enough that her words bordered on unintelligible. “Where are you?” “Cherry Street. By…by my house.” Quinn was shivering, and she pulled herself into an even tighter ball, holding her knees to her chest. “Yeah, okay.” Santana pushed herself off the bed. “Am I taking you home?” Quinn couldn’t answer that. She could hardly talk, let alone get into all of it. Instead, she whispered, “Can you just come?” Santana didn’t hesitate any longer before agreeing. Something was clearly wrong. It had to be, for Quinn to be calling her like this. Usually when they talked after school it was just to complain about the latest outrageous thing from cheer or Glee. “Sure. I’m on my way.” Quinn hung up without saying anything more. Still clutching her phone, she ducked her head to her chest, resting her forehead on her knees. – – – – “Mom, I’m taking the car!” Santana called as she walked past the kitchen towards the front door. “Hold on!” her mom called back. A second later, her head popped out of the kitchen doorway. “Where are you going?” Santana shrugged slightly. “Quinn called and asked me to pick her up. She sounded really upset. I think she just needs me to take her home.” Her mom furrowed her eyebrows in concern. “Is she alright?” “I don’t know, Mom. I’m gonna go find out.” Santana gestured towards the front door. “Can I just take the car?” With a sigh, her mom nodded. “Text me when you get there and when you drop her off, alright?” “Yeah.” Santana shot her a quick thumbs up before rushing out the door and to the car. Once inside, she turned the headlights on and pulled out of the driveway, headed straight for Cherry Street. This whole thing was weird. Cherry was so close to Dudley, where Quinn lived, so why couldn’t she just walk there herself? Was she hurt or something? And, anyway, why wasn’t she home? It was almost eight and already dark, and Quinn’s parents never let her go out after sunset. Worry gradually creeping in, Santana gripped the steering wheel harder and sped up. Fifteen minutes passed before Santana turned onto Cherry. Her headlights illuminated the dim street, and she slowed down to make sure she’d be able to see Quinn waiting for her. Even so, she almost missed her. She’d been expecting to see Quinn standing on the sidewalk, maybe leaning on a lamppost, maybe waving as she got closer, so at first she didn’t recognize the person huddled on the ground. But no, that was distinctly Quinn’s sweater and Quinn’s hair, so Santana pulled over. She pushed the door open and jumped out of the car, quickly walking around the front of the car towards the sidewalk. Quinn, feeling the glow from the headlights, picked her head up. She had to squint to see Santana approaching through the glare. Any worry Santana had been feeling before paled in comparison to the sick feeling that appeared in the pit of her stomach when Quinn looked up at her. Her left cheek was black and blue with a bruise that spread across her face. Her green eyes were totally bloodshot and mascara tracks ran down beneath them, mixing with tears. She looked…small. And afraid. “Jesus, Quinn.” Santana knelt beside her. “What the hell happened to you?” Quinn blinked at her. What could she say? “I…” She shook her head. Santana’s eyes didn’t leave her face, and she knew she had to answer with something, so she mumbled, “You were right.” “What? Right about what?” Santana reached out to put her hand on Quinn’s shoulder, but Quinn instinctively flinched away. “You were right.” Quinn repeated. “About me. Being…” she stopped before saying the word. It felt dirty. At this point, though, what was there to lose? Her parents knew. Everyone at church would know. She was a disgrace. A disappointment. She was going to hell. Admitting that wouldn’t change it. So, she continued, “Being gay.” Santana sighed heavily. “No shit. I always know. But,” she gestured to Quinn, bruised and shivering and still crying a little bit, “What happened?” Quinn bit her lip, desperately trying to keep what little composure she had left. She took a shaky breath before answering. “My parents found out. I, um.” her voice broke, but she pushed on, “I can’t…go home.” Instantly, Santana’s face hardened. She didn’t need any other information to draw her own conclusions. “Your dad did this to you?” Quinn nodded, almost imperceptibly, and that was all the confirmation she needed. She shot upright, her hands balling into fists. “I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna fucking kill him right now.” As she spoke, she started walking, away from Quinn and down the street, as if she intended to march over to Quinn’s house and murder her dad that instant. “Santana, wait.” Quinn called after her. “Please.” The word tasted sour in her mouth from how much begging she’d done that night, and snot and tears dripped into her mouth as she spoke. “Can you just take me to your house? Please?” The desperation in Quinn’s voice was just enough to pull Santana back around. Anger pumped through her veins at the thought of anyone doing this to Quinn, of her dad doing this to her, let alone for the reason she knew he’d done it. How could someone be that cruel to their own kid? Her abuela had broken her heart, but this…Santana clenched her jaw. She was going to make him pay. Then, Quinn sniffled, and Santana blinked, dragged out of her revenge fantasy. Below her, still curled on the ground, was Quinn. Her friend – most of the time, anyway. She needed her. Forcing thoughts of murder out of her mind for the moment, Santana nodded. “Yeah. Okay.” She put her hand out and Quinn grabbed it, pulling herself up. “Get in the car.” Quinn stumbled towards the passenger side door. Santana bent over and picked up her backpack before following. Once they were both inside, Santana turned the car around, towards home. – – – – The ride was quiet, mostly. Quinn sniffled continuously and inhaled sharply when she went to wipe her eyes and accidentally brushed her hand up against the rapidly forming bruise, but they didn’t speak. Santana kept her eyes laser focused on the road. All she wanted to do was beat Quinn’s dad into a pulp, but she couldn’t do that. She needed to get Quinn to her house, where she’d be safe, and then she could go kick that man’s ass. He deserved to suffer for this. She would make him suffer. She gritted her teeth as she turned the car into the driveway and clicked the headlights off. “Santana.” The word broke the silence, and Santana’s head jerked over to look at Quinn. “Yeah?” Quinn swallowed, twisting her fingers together on her lap. “Your mom. She’s gonna…have questions. About-about what happened.” Her eyes darted up to meet Santana’s, then she glanced away. Under her breath, she finished, “I can’t do that right now.” “Yeah.” Santana nodded, reaching over to take the keys out of the ignition. “I know. I’ll handle it. Just go in and go to my room, okay? You know where it is.” “Okay.” Quinn nodded slightly. She cracked the door open and got out, waiting to walk up to the front door until Santana led the way. Santana opened the door and burst inside, jingling the keys loudly to signal her presence. “Mija, welcome back. Is Quinn okay? You didn’t text me.” Her mom reappeared from the kitchen, then stopped abruptly in her tracks. All her focus was pulled towards Quinn, who half-stood, half-cowered in the doorway, bruised and shaking. “Oh my God, are you-” “Quinn, can you go open a window in my room? It’s hella hot in this house.” Santana interrupted, her voice as loud as possible. Quinn ducked her head and started down the hallway, whispering, “Hi, Mrs. Lopez.” as she passed. As soon as she was out of earshot, Santana grabbed her mom’s arm and pulled her back to the kitchen. “Is she okay? What happened? Who hurt her? I’ll call her parents-” “Mom, no.” Santana shook her head firmly. “Her dad did that to her. You can’t call him.” Before her mom could interject, she continued. “She’s a lesbian. Just figured it out. Her parents are Evangelical. She’s not really talking much, but I think they kicked her out. She has to stay here, okay?” Maribel learned on the kitchen counter to steady herself. She didn’t say anything for a long while. Eventually, she exhaled; a slow, careful, breath. “She can stay as long as she needs to. We’ll take out the inflatable mattress. Has she eaten dinner?” Santana looked at her, equal parts relief and confusion showing on her face. “You’re okay with it?” “Of course I’m okay with it.” Maribel reached forward and rested her hand on Santana’s cheek. Her eyes were tinged with worry as she added, “This kind of violence is exactly what I was scared would happen to you. I just never thought…” She shook her head, “her parents, I just…” “I know.” Santana clenched her jaw, pulling back from her mom. “I’m gonna kill him. And her mom. Both of them.” “Santana-” “No, Mom. Did you see her face?” Santana leaned closer and pointed behind her, towards the bedroom where she knew Quinn was waiting. “He fucked her up. He fucked her up for being gay. I’m gonna fuck him up.” “Santana.” Maribel grabbed Santana’s hand with her own. “Mija. Listen to me. I know this is personal for you, and I know that you want to help her. And I love that about you.” Her voice was gentle, and she ran her fingers over the back of Santana’s hand. “But I think Quinn has probably had enough violence for tonight. I don’t think she needs any more. Do you understand?” Santana flared her nostrils, biting down on her tongue. As much as she hated to admit it, she could see her mom’s point. “Fine. Yeah.” She walked through the kitchen and pulled the freezer open, grabbing a couple ice packs and a hand towel from over the sink. “I’m gonna go check on her.” Then, in answer to her mom’s earlier question, “I doubt she had dinner.” “Alright.” Maribel turned towards the oven. “I’ll heat up some leftovers.” “Thanks, Mom.” Approaching her bedroom, Santana could hear the sound of quiet crying spilling out from underneath her door. Pausing for a second to wrap one of the ice packs in the towel, she then pushed open the door. “Hey.” Quinn’s head snapped up and her hand went to cover her face. “Hi.” Santana sat on the bed beside her, keeping a safe distance between them. She kept thinking about the way that Quinn had flinched away from her outside. She was so scared. “Here.” She slid the ice pack across the bed. After a beat, Quinn stretched her hand out and picked it up. She pressed it to her cheek gingerly and winced, removing it immediately. Santana traced her fingers slowly over the geometric pattern on her bedspread. “My mom’s making you dinner.” “Really?” Quinn bit her lip, glancing over to look at her. “Yeah, she’s gonna make sure you’re taken care of.” Santana offered her a slight smile. Quinn’s eyes started to well up again and she hurried to wipe the tears away. She winced again as her fingers grazed her cheek. “Hey, lemme see that.” Santana reached out and gently pushed Quinn’s hand away from her face. The bruise looked darker now, whether it was from the brighter lighting or because it was still getting worse. It covered a good part of Quinn’s left cheek and the redness around it took up most of that side of her face. The part that made Santana pause, though, was that as Quinn’s hand moved away, her sleeve rode up. Underneath, she caught a glimpse of jagged red lines running up her arm. “Hey.” Santana’s hand shot out and grabbed Quinn’s wrist. She started to roll up her sleeve and Quinn tried to jerk away, but Santana held fast. She pulled Quinn’s perfect, pink cardigan sleeve up to reveal several cuts and gashes, each in different stages of healing. “What the hell happened here?” She questioned, shaking Quinn’s arm slightly. “Your dad do this, too?” Quinn didn’t respond. She couldn’t, really, because as soon as the question left Santana’s lips, she burst into tears. Not sniffling anymore, but full blown sobs. She couldn’t catch her breath, she couldn’t stop. She flung Santana’s hand off of her, pushed herself off the bed and onto the floor. She yanked her sleeve down and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Hey, hey.” Santana threw her hands up in the air. “Quinn. Hey. I’m not gonna do anything.” Carefully, she lowered herself off the bed and onto the floor. “It’s okay.” Quinn gasped for air between sobs, her whole body jerking with the force of her meltdown. She couldn’t even tell why she was crying anymore. The whole night, the last few weeks, felt like it was slamming into her. A wall of exhaustion and fear and pain and all of the nights she’d spent praying in her bed while her parents raged outside. Quinn’s sobs got louder and louder, until Santana was sure everyone in the apartment complex could hear them. She didn’t know what to do. She’d known Quinn for years, known her through so much of the shit that had gone down in her life, but she’d never seen her like this. Ever. The most Quinn ever let slip in front of her was a few tears here and there. Gradually, Santana scooted herself closer and closer to Quinn, stopping every couple of inches so as not to overwhelm her. When they were side by side, she reached her hand out and rested it on Quinn’s knee. “Hey. Breathe, okay? You’re gonna hurl if you keep crying like that.” Right on cue, Quinn coughed, choking on her tears and spit. Then, slowly, she dropped her head onto Santana’s shoulder. Santana breathed out slowly, careful to hold her body still, careful not to scare her away again. Quinn’s sobs gradually faded back to sniffles, then to hiccups. Neither girl moved for a while. They let the silence wash over them as they sat together, head and hands resting on each other. – – – – Eventually, Santana started to speak. Quietly, wary of making everything worse, she said, “Let’s go to the bathroom and get you cleaned up.” “Okay.” Quinn didn’t try to fight it, just let Santana pull her up and lead her into the bathroom. “Sit.” Santana instructed, before disappearing back to the bedroom and reappearing a moment later with the ice pack clutched in her hand. “Here.” Quinn, now seated on the toilet lid, took the ice pack and held it to her cheek. “Give me your other arm.” Quinn complied, holding out her free arm with the sleeve pushed up. Santana tried to not react to the cuts, instead just taking the washcloth from the side of the sink and dousing it with warm water and soap. Gently, she rubbed the washcloth over Quinn’s arm, not letting up even when she winced. She thoroughly cleaned it, then had Quinn switch the ice pack to her other hand so she could get to her other arm. When both were done, Santana put her hand underneath Quinn’s chin and tipped her head back, using a fresh corner of the washcloth to wipe her face. She scrubbed the smudged mascara from underneath Quinn’s eyes, careful to not press too hard on the bruised areas. When she was satisfied that Quinn was clean again, she took her hand and led her back to the bedroom. Quinn curled herself onto Santana’s bed, still holding the ice pack to her face. Her tears had stopped by now and she was breathing more regularly. She sat quietly and watched Santana cross the room and rummage through her dresser. After a few moments, Quinn let her eyes wander around the room. She'd been here many times before, for dinner after Cheerios practice and extra work time on group projects. She hadn’t realized, though, just how much of Santana was in this room. On the wall beside the bed there was a corkboard with pictures: Santana on top of the pyramid at Cheerios nationals, Santana on stage at Glee regionals, Santana and Brittany at Breadstix, Santana and her mom, and – Quinn noted with a tiny twinge of happiness – Santana with Quinn, posing in their cheer uniforms. The rest of the walls held posters from movies Santana liked, as well as more pictures of her with Brittany. Quinn couldn’t help but compare it to her own room, with its pristine white walls, white desk, and white bedspread. The only decorations on her walls were the painting of Jesus over her bed and the framed photo her mom had picked out of her from freshman year, holding the Cheerios’ nationals trophy with a big, fake smile. A good girl’s smile. “Here ya go.” Santana shattered Quinn’s reverie by tossing a handful of clothes onto the bed. Quinn reached over and pulled them onto her lap, realizing they were a set of Santana’s pajamas. “I figure those’ll fit.” she shrugged. “And you can wear some of my stuff to school tomorrow.” Quinn held the pajamas close to her chest, staring at Santana. Thinking about everything Santana had done for her tonight made her want to start crying all over again, but instead she just clutched the fabric. “You can change. I’ll go get the food.” Santana shot her a quick smile before heading out of the room. Quinn slid off the bed once again. Quickly, she pulled her cardigan, shirt, and bra off, replacing them with Santana’s pajama top. She was sure that every pajama set Santana owned included a slutty tank top, but this one was long-sleeved and Quinn was grateful for it – she didn’t need her body to be on display any more than it already had been. She finished changing into the matching pants, then curled back onto the bed, pulling one of Santana’s pillows onto her lap and holding it tightly. The door creaked open, and Santana came through with a bowl of pasta held out in front of her. “I hope you’re hungry. My mom takes feeding people very seriously.” She plunked the bowl on the bed in front of Quinn, handing her a fork. Quinn took the fork and cautiously picked at the food for a moment before realizing that she was actually hungry. She couldn't remember the last time she’d had a full meal. Without her mom there, judging her from over her shoulder, she dug into the pasta. Santana smiled to herself as she sat on the bed beside Quinn, reaching for the magazine she’d been reading earlier. Quinn never ate much, and tonight had been such a shitshow that she was relieved to see at least one thing working out. They sat for a while, Santana reading and Quinn eating. When she could tell the bowl was almost empty, Santana set the magazine down again and turned to look at Quinn. She’d been patient, but she was never one to avoid hard conversations, so she couldn’t hold herself back from asking, “You’re the one who cut your arms up, right?” Quinn squeezed her eyes shut briefly. The last thing she wanted to do was get into all of this; the what happened, and the why, and the how, but she figured she at least owed Santana some kind of explanation. So, she nodded. “Yeah.” Santana pursed her lips and leaned back against the pillows. “I figured.” She scrubbed her hand over her mouth for a moment before asking, “Why’d you do it?” Quinn flinched, turning so that her back was to Santana and her legs dangled off the bed. “Can we please not talk about this? It’s been a long day and I’m tired and-” “No. Cut the shit.” Santana reached out and grabbed Quinn’s shoulder, forcing her to turn back around. “Clearly, you have a lot going on. And we’re friends, right?” She waited for Quinn to nod before continuing, “But you haven't told me about any of this. Any of it.” “We don’t talk like that, Santana.” Quinn interjected, making piercing eye contact. “We’re friends, sure. But we don’t tell each other things.” “Maybe, but I thought you’d at least tell me about this!” Santana crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s not like the baby or any of that stuff. I’ve done this before. And, I don’t know if you remember, but I didn’t go through all that shit just for the fun of it. I did it so I could be out and so I could be happy. And I know you also want that, so why the hell wouldn’t you come talk to me about it?” She was yelling and she didn’t want to be yelling, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “Because I don’t want that!” Quinn raised her voice to match. “I don’t want to be-be out, or whatever. I want a boyfriend. Okay? I don’t even care who, I just need a man so I can forget all of this ever happened." “Wake up! You’re gay!” Santana threw her hands up, gesticulating wildly. “You’re a goddamn lesbian, Quinn! I know it, clearly your parents know it, it’s time that you-” “Don’t talk about my parents.” Instantly, Quinn’s tone dropped. Her lip quivered as she spoke. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Okay? Your mom clearly doesn’t care that you’re…” Raising an eyebrow, Santana filled in, “A lesbian. Don’t be a coward, say the word.” “Fine! You’re a lesbian! And your mom doesn’t care! She lets you put up all these pictures on your walls of you and Brittany, and that’s great. For you.” Quinn could hear her voice starting to break, but she refused to start crying again. “I don’t have that. So I can’t-I can’t be like you. I need to like boys. Understand?” “No, I don't.” Santana shook her head, ponytail swinging. “I don’t get you. What are you so afraid of? You’ve already lost your popularity, lost your perfect body, lost your perfect boyfriend, so what the hell are you losing by admitting you wanna make out with girls?” “I don’t want to go to hell!” The words seemed to reverberate off of the walls. Even Santana didn’t have a snappy comeback at the ready. She just sat there, staring at Quinn, whose shoulders had started shaking again. Her illusion of the idyllic Quinn Fabray, the girl who only cared about her popularity and her appearance, was cracking. The girl in front of her now, sitting on her bed and wearing her pajamas, didn’t look like she cared about either of those things. She didn’t look like she cared about anything, really. She just looked so goddamn afraid. “Sorry.” Quinn took a deep breath and smoothed out her shirt. She swallowed hard, pursing her lips. “Let’s just-” “Why would you go to hell?” Quinn furrowed her eyebrows, confused. “What are you talking about?” Santana cocked her head to the side. “Why. Would you. Go. To hell?” “It’s a sin to be gay.” Quinn whispered the words. “It’s a sin.” “So?” Santana shook her head, a scowl rapidly forming on her face. “Is Kurt going to hell? Is Blaine? Is Britt?” She paused. This wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. It wasn’t a big deal. But here Quinn was, deriding her whole life, the life she’d fought so hard for. “Am I?” “I…” Quinn dropped her head into her hands, running her fingers through her hair. It felt like she was back in the choir room yesterday, staring at the couples all around her and trying to comprehend how they could possibly be sinners. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t make any sense. She could feel Santana’s stare biting into her but she couldn’t bear to meet her gaze. Quietly, under her breath, she answered, “I don’t know.” Santana pressed, “If you don’t know, then why do you think you’re going?” There were fresh tears dripping down Quinn’s cheeks by now, but she didn’t bother wiping them away. She shrugged, finally dragging her eyes up to meet Santana’s. “Because my parents told me. And my pastor. Everyone knows it’s true. It’s a sin.” “Isn’t premarital sex a sin?” Santana asked, crossing her arms again. “Yes.” Quinn nodded. “It is. See? I’ve already done enough. And I’ve been trying to fix it. I’ve been going to church every Sunday and Bible study every Wednesday since I had the baby, and my parents and my pastor were just starting to see me as a good girl again, and now…” she scoffed, shaking her head. “I ruined everything. It’s all gone. I’m going to hell.” Her voice was hollow and her tears came more quickly, and she grabbed the comforter tightly in her fists. Santana forced herself to take a deep breath. As much as she loved a fight, she could tell this wasn’t going anywhere. It was just going to make Quinn cry harder, make everything worse. As it was, she was already trembling badly enough that if Santana didn't know better, she would have thought she was going to crumble to pieces right there in front of her. But she couldn’t exactly stop, either, so instead she asked, “How’d they find out?” “What?” Quinn pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to get herself back under control. She was sick and tired of her own constant crying. “Your parents. How’d they find out?” Santana leaned back against her pillows again in an attempt to keep the atmosphere calm. “I mean, I assume you didn’t tell them.” “No. No, God no.” Quinn shook her head firmly. “They…they found a drawing I did. Of a girl.” “Oh, yeah?” Santana smirked, reaching over to elbow Quinn playfully in the ribs. “You have the hots for someone, Fabray?” Quinn rolled her eyes. “No.” Santana, not letting up, poked her harder. “Then who was the picture of? C’mon, if it was steamy enough to get you kicked out, I'm sure it's good. What's the point in drawing a horny picture if you won't even talk about it?” “Ugh.” Quinn dropped her head into her hands. “It’s stupid.” “C’monnn. You know you wanna tell me.” Santana had moved from poking to tickling, and Quinn suddenly squealed with laughter. “Okay, okay! Stop!” She wriggled free, still giggling slightly. “Okay.” Avoiding eye contact, she mumbled, “It’s Rachel.” “Sorry, what?” Santana leaned back, away from Quinn. “Did you just say, to my face, that you have a fat crush on the hobbit?” “I know.” Quinn’s voice was muffled, since she’d once again hid her face in her hands. “Trust me, I know.” “Q. What the hell? You’re getting kicked out of your house over that gremlin?” Santana’s eyes opened wide in mock horror, and she shoved Quinn’s shoulder, hard enough to make her look up. “Imagine making out with her. She’d probably make you stop kissing to lecture you about Barbara whatsherface.” At that, a smile broke onto Quinn’s face. A real smile. She tried to hide it, ducking her head, but Santana saw. So, of course, she continued, “Or no, she’ll invite you over for sex and you’ll end up filming her singing for her idiotic MySpace page. Or she’ll give you scathing criticism on your dance moves even though you’re clearly a superior dancer. Or she’ll make you wear matching animal sweaters! Wait, no, she’ll cut those fuckass bangs into your hair!” By then, they were both dying of laughter. Quinn cackled, rolling back against Santana’s pillows. “Oh my God.” she gasped for air in between bouts of giggles. “You gotta stop, oh my God.” “She’ll drag you out to New York just to stand under a Funny Girl poster!” Santana crowed, kicking her feet on the bed. “I can’t stop, it’s too fucking funny.” Quinn reached over and hit her playfully on the arm. Through her laughter, she insisted, “You have to stop, I’m gonna die.” Santana sighed, still laughing under her breath. “Yeah, okay.” She flopped back, lying next to Quinn. Her hair, come loose from her ever-present ponytail, intermixed with Quinn’s, spreading across the pillowcases. They lay there for a moment, both girls’ breathing regularly interrupted by giggles. Santana slid her hand across the bed until it met Quinn’s and squeezed it tightly. Quinn squeezed her hand back. “Can we go to bed?” Quinn whispered. “I’m really tired and we have school tomorrow. I have so much missing homework to catch up on.” “Yeah, yeah.” Santana dropped Quinn’s hand and pushed herself up and off the bed. “I’m sure Rachel would be happy to help with your homework.” Before either of them could devolve too far into laughter again, she added, “I could help, too. If you wanted. Especially for picking your make-up solo for Glee.” “Ugh, yeah.” Quinn rolled over, burying her face in the bed. “I don’t even wanna think about it.” Santana chuckled, opening her closet. “Fair enough.” She dragged the folded up inflatable mattress out of her closet and plugged it into the outlet by her bed. It blew up slowly, making loud hissing sounds the whole time. While they waited, Santana pulled the extra sheet set out of the top of the closet and tossed a pillowcase and a bare pillow to Quinn. She started dressing the pillow as Santana tugged the fitted sheet on over the inflated end of the mattress. Eventually, the bed was made, and Santana flung a couple blankets down on top of it. “Ready for bed?” Quinn nodded and tossed the pillow on top of the mattress, then moved to get off the bed. “No, stay there.” Santana clicked the light off and in the dark, Quinn could hear the sounds of her settling down onto the mattress and getting under the blankets. “Santana, come on.” Quinn protested, kicking her foot against the side of the inflatable mattress. “Sleep in your bed. You’re already letting me stay here, I don’t need to take your-” “Shut up. Go to sleep.” Santana muttered. “I don’t wanna hear it.” Quinn bit her lip. In the dark, she could just make out Santana, her head smushed into the pillow. It felt strange, this…kindness. Not that Santana wasn’t kind, she just wasn’t the type that Quinn had ever figured for picking her up late at night, cleaning her up, giving her food, letting her stay, and giving up her own bed for her. But she did. Part of Quinn wanted to thank her, wanted to slide down onto that mattress and wrap her in a huge hug. But, as usual, she couldn’t make her body do what she wanted. Instead, as she rolled over, she whispered, “Okay. Goodnight.” “Whatever.” The room was silent. Quinn breathed in deeply. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone to bed in a quiet house. No screaming outside, no glasses shattering, no mom standing in her doorway carefully avoiding everything painful. She also couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone to bed without saying her prayers. For a second she considered crawling back out of bed to do them, but she just couldn’t muster the will. After today, she just couldn’t. She closed her eyes, pulling the blankets in closer to her chest. Before the dark managed to completely overtake her, voices started playing in her mind. All fags go to hell. Those sinners must be punished. I will not have a fucking dyke living under my roof. You will not corrupt anyone else in this house. Now. Go. She tried, really tried, to stop the tears from coming. She’d cried enough tonight to last for several lifetimes, and it’s not like crying more would fix any of it. That logic didn’t help, though, and despite her best efforts, she was crying again. Crying forcefully enough that her whole body was wracked with it. She was so tired. So, so tired. All she wanted to do was sleep, but she couldn’t stop sobbing. It wasn’t the quiet kind of crying, either. Not the kind she could hide from Santana in this small bedroom. She tried to muffle it by rolling onto her side and pulling the pillow over her face, but she knew it didn’t matter. She needed to stop. She needed to shut up, be quiet, be grateful that she had somewhere to sleep at all. This wasn’t the time for mourning everything that had gone wrong. And then, the bed creaked. Slowly, Quinn registered Santana’s arm sliding over her body, wrapping around her waist. Behind her, Santana had climbed up on the bed and was now lying there, holding her. “Shhh.” she whispered, gently tracing her fingers over Quinn’s arm. “It’s okay. Go to sleep, okay? You’re okay.” Quinn whimpered, grabbing onto Santana’s hand. It felt weak, needing this. Needing her. But she did. “I know. I know.” Santana murmured. “Breathe. We’ll figure it out. Just sleep.” “I can’t.” Quinn choked out between sobs. “Yeah, you can. Just breathe.” Santana kept it up, whispering gentle words into Quinn’s ear until her crying slowed, then faded out entirely. She could feel Quinn breathing deeply against her chest, and she was almost positive she’d fallen asleep, when she heard, “Thank you.” The words were so quiet that Santana almost doubted she’d actually heard them, but no. She had. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, determined not to let the emotion get to her. It was no big deal. It was just Quinn. Just Quinn, crying on her bed. Just a quiet thank you. “Yeah.” Santana whispered back. “Anytime.” – – – – After a while, Santana was really sure Quinn was asleep. There had been no crying, no movement, for a long time. Just steady breathing. So, careful not to disturb her, Santana rolled over until she could reach her phone on her bedside table. She opened it, the light from the screen making her squint. Moving as little as possible, she opened the messages app and clicked on Mercedes’ name. She typed, > hey > youre prob asleep > and i dont wanna get into it rn > but youre christian right > quinn had a bad night > tomorrow could you like give her a talk > about how god loves everyone or whatever Santana hesitated, her fingers poised over the keys. She didn’t want to repeat her own history of coming out through rumors and whispers, but she needed to make sure Mercedes understood. After a moment, she added, > including gay people Messages sent, she clicked her phone off and slid it back onto her bedside table. She rolled over, still moving as slowly as possible, and wrapped her arm back around Quinn. A while later, when Santana herself was asleep, her phone lit up. > Yeah, of course. I’d be happy to. – – – – Quinn did her makeup in Santana’s bathroom, wearing Santana’s clothes. Her reflection in the mirror looked exhausted. Santana’s mom made them breakfast and drove them to school before she had to go to work. In the backseat of the car, Quinn stared out the window. She just needed to make it through the day. Fake her way through her classes, start on the mountain of missed work, make her apologies to Mr. Schue for missing Glee. Then go home. Well, not home. Back to Santana’s. She just had to keep it together. Beside Quinn, Santana stole glances in her direction. It was eerie, seeing Quinn this quiet. In the rearview mirror, Maribel looked back at both of them. She’d heard all the noise coming from Santana’s room last night; the yelling, the laughing, the sobbing, and the eventual silence. She hadn’t had a chance to ask Santana how it had gone, but the answer didn’t seem like it would be positive. Although, as she watched, she caught a glimpse of Santana reaching over and touching Quinn’s leg. Quinn twitched slightly, shifting to put her hand on top of Santana’s. Maribel smiled slightly. Maybe they would be alright. “Alright, girls. Have a good day. I'm working late tonight, so feel free to order pizza or go to Breadstix for dinner.” Maribel explained as she pulled the car up to the curb. “Thanks, Mom.” Santana hopped out of the car, her Cheerios skirt flying in the wind. Quinn paused by the car door. She forced a quick smile and mumbled, “Thank you, Mrs. Lopez.” “Of course, Quinn.” Maribel turned in her seat to lock eyes with her, making sure she understood. “You’re always welcome in our house.” – – – – By the time last period came around, Quinn’s emotions were already on thin ice. Her makeup had not been able to hide the bruise on her cheek and everyone had been giving her double takes all day. No one had been bold enough to actually ask about it, but the stares were bad enough. Throughout the day, she’d managed to pull herself together enough to make a list of all the homework she was missing, but not enough to get started on it. At lunch, she’d sat with Brittany and Santana again. She didn’t have to talk much – Brittany rambled on about Lord Tubbington for long enough that she didn’t seem to notice that anything was wrong. The three of them walked to the choir room together, Quinn trailing behind. Santana pushed the door open and led Brittany to their seats. As they walked up the steps, she brushed past Mercedes’ shoulder. When she looked up, Santana tipped her head in the direction of Quinn, and Mercedes nodded. She stood up, intercepting Quinn before she could sit down. “Hey.” Quinn looked up, startled. “Hi.” “Can we talk?” Mercedes asked. The first thing she noticed was the bruise on Quinn’s cheek, but she tried not to show the concern on her face. Quinn took a deep breath, conjuring up a friendly smile. “Sure, yeah. Hallway?” Once in the hallway, Mercedes made sure they were out of earshot from everyone in the choir room. The first thing out of her mouth was, “Are you okay? Not that you don’t look okay, I just-” Quinn scoffed quietly, cutting her off. “I know I look terrible, trust me. Just…a bad day. What do you want to talk about?” Mercedes scuffed the toe of her shoe against the linoleum. She’d spent most of the day trying to figure out what to say to Quinn when she saw her, and now here they were. At first, when reading Santana’s message, she’d been shocked by the implication that Quinn might be gay, but then she’d thought about it more. From the boys that Quinn dated – usually more of a status grab than anything else – to the way that she tended to sit in the back of the room staring at Brittany and Santana holding hands, it all kind of made sense. And from what Mercedes knew about her family, she could only imagine how Quinn’s sexuality would have gone over in that house. If teen sex was a big enough crime to justify evicting your pregnant daughter, then she could easily see queerness being even worse – maybe even bad enough to explain that bruise. “So.” She cleared her throat. “You’re a Christian, right?” The answer was obvious, but it was the only place she could think to start from. Quinn’s hand subconsciously flew to her cross necklace, worrying it back and forth. “Yes.” “Me too.” Mercedes flashed her a quick smile before continuing. “And I just wanted to tell you that, from my perspective, God loves everyone.” Quinn blinked rapidly, an anxious feeling rapidly forming in the pit of her stomach. “What is this about?” Did she know? How could she know? Mercedes held her hands up. “Wait, okay? Santana texted me last night.” Seeing the look of horror cross Quinn’s face, she quickly added, “She just said that you…had a hard day and you might want to talk about it with another Christian.” Quinn shook her head. She didn’t buy it. There was no reason for this conversation if Mercedes didn't know. Santana must have told her. How could she do that? “You know, don’t you.” She whispered the words, more an accusation than a question. “She told you.” “Hey.” Mercedes reached out and put her hand on Quinn’s arm. “Don’t get mad at her, okay? She’s trying to help. And I won’t tell anyone, I swear. Okay? It’s your choice, who you tell. I just…Santana thought, and I think, that it’s important that you hear it from another Christian.” “Hear what?” Quinn’s heart was racing. Mercedes knew. She knew, and Santana knew, and Kurt probably knew, and soon enough everyone would know. She would never be Quinn Fabray, perfect girl, again. “That God still loves you.” Mercedes cut right to the chase, her voice soft but direct. “He doesn’t care who you like. He doesn’t care that you’re gay.” Quinn could feel the panic rising in her chest. She tried to step away, to pull back, but Mercedes wouldn’t let her. “And I know it’s gonna be hard.” she continued, still holding onto Quinn’s arm. “But between me, and Santana, and Brittany, and Kurt, and all the people in that room,” she pointed with her free hand back towards the choir room, “there are so many people who get it. And so many people who care about you. But you have to let us in, okay?” “I…” Quinn tensed up, her eyebrows furrowed. It felt like her brain was about to explode, trying to reconcile the words she’d heard all her life with the words Mercedes was saying now. All she managed to get out was, “But…it’s a sin.” Mercedes shook her head firmly. “I don’t think it is. My family doesn’t think it is. My church doesn’t think it is.” She lifted her head so she could see Quinn’s eyes. When she was sure she was looking back at her, she continued, “It doesn’t have to be.” Quinn swallowed hard. She could feel tears welling back up in her eyes and she blinked them away. Before she could say anything else, Mercedes leaned forward and wrapped her in a hug. “It’s gonna be okay.” she whispered. Quinn, completely at a loss for words, just let it happen. The hug didn’t end, and eventually Quinn brought her arms up to hug her back. They only pulled apart once the bell rang. Quinn hurriedly brushed the last tears from her eyes and Mercedes offered her a smile. “Ready to go in?” “Yeah.” Quinn nodded. She smoothed out her shirt, just looking for something to do with her hands. Before they crossed the doorway into the choir room, she snuck a quick look at Mercedes. She mouthed, “Thank you.” and Mercedes just smiled. As they took their seats, Mercades caught Santana’s eye and nodded. Santana nodded back, her expression one of clear gratitude. – – – – Quinn took her usual seat in the back row. One row down from her, Brittany and Santana linked pinkies. On the other side of the room, Kurt and Blaine held hands. And, in the first row, front and center, sat Rachel. Quinn stared down at her. Her mind was buzzing with thoughts. Everything from the past few weeks. Everything people had been saying. Her parents, her pastor, Santana, Mercedes. Everyone had a different opinion, a different idea about how she was supposed to feel. It was too much. She couldn’t sort through it all, couldn’t figure out what she thought. What she wanted. The only thing she knew that she wanted was to look at Rachel. She was so beautiful. Even looking down at her like this, where all she could see was her sweater and her neatly combed hair, she was beautiful. It made Quinn’s stomach flutter, to look at her like that. And for the first time, she didn’t force herself to look away. She let herself watch, and she smiled. When Mr. Schue started the lesson, she closed her eyes and clasped her hands on her lap. Dear God, Please help me find a way to be okay with this. With being a lesbian. Amen	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75731301	{"authors": ["Agent_of_FANFICTION"], "language": "English", "title": "You Young, Lost, Sinner"}
Did You Notice? Did You Grieve? Rumi went missing on a rainy Thursday evening, torrential rain covering the sound of the front door slamming and then pounding footsteps sprinting down the street. Puddles splashed and car horns blared as a teenage girl, dressed in black baggy clothes and with a single backpack thrown over her back, vanished. Eighteen years old and so close to the top of her game, the peak of that glorious mountain in sight past the boulder that was so, so heavy, Rumi’s hands had trembled as she’d shoved her debit card into an ATM and punched in her code. Nobody knew she had the card, that it was in her name and not the company’s, and the sheer number of digits that appeared on her screen would have made a regular person faint just to count. But Sunlight Entertainment was worth a fortune, and Rumi’s trust fund was a beast unto itself, so nobody had noticed over the past twelve months that a few hundred dollars here and there had started to vanish. The threads and seams of a parachute hidden in taglines of ‘household expenses’ and ‘travel costs’. The escapees of Alcatraz had built their raft out of rain jackets that the guards hadn’t even noticed were going missing, and this felt so similar. Rumi withdrew as much cash as she could before the machine beeped as it reached a withdrawal limit, and she shoved the thick wad of notes into her wallet. As soon as she reached the limit, she took the card from the machine and slid it back into her pocket, and reached the first moment of no return. The skin on her arm stung inside of the sleeve of her jacket, her eyes were red, raw and bloodshot, and she could taste the cruelty on her tongue. It was enough to keep her going. Rumi pulled her phone from her pocket, placed it down on the pavement, and stomped down on it with all of her considerable strength. Under the heel of her thick boot, her phone turned into shrapnel, and she scooped the shards into her hand and poured them into a nearby trashcan. Without looking back or letting herself question, she pulled the hood of her jacket up to cover her face, and flagged down the first bus that turned the corner. Check the time on the watch. 21:09. Someone will go to check on her soon. They’ll find a wreckage where a bedroom used to be, a warzone of tear-stained pillows and shards of glass from a cruel mirror lined with polaroids she hadn’t even risked glancing at. Except for one, and the weight of it in her pocket was a burden greater than a legacy and a last name she didn’t want and the crushing load of staring eyes and cruel comparisons, but she hadn’t had the heart to leave it behind. Rumi takes it from her pocket with trembling fingers, numb from more than just the cold, and unfurls it to stare down at the three laughing girls captured in a fleeting, rare, beautiful moment where they still got to have hopes, dreams, and flaws. Where Mira’s glasses had been askew on her nose instead of wearing the contacts she had to wear in proper public appearances, and Zoey’s sweater was ratty and beloved, homeknit by a mother who missed her terribly, instead of being something shoved at her by a sponsor. And Rumi herself? That was the last time she’d smiled like that. Before Celine had caught them sneaking away the next time they had tried, and the screaming matches had begun. But never when Mira and Zoey were around, they could never know the knives Celine kept behind her teeth engraved with Rumi’s name, with broken plates and words that can’t be taken back always cleaned up and painted over by the time the other two returned for more training. Training that Rumi was ‘distracting’ them from. Infecting them with her loneliness. Chaining them with her clinginess. Grabbing onto them and holding them so tight she left bruising fingerprints imprinted on their thoughts whenever they weren’t around. The group chat was her sanctuary on the nights Celine couldn’t stand to look at her, and the silent treatment could cut deeper than ‘your mother expected better from you’ and ‘I don’t know where I failed to get through to you.’ Rumi shoves the photo back into her pocket, her jaw tight and her eyes stinging, and hits the button for the next stop without even knowing where she was. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t about going somewhere in particular, it was about just going. For the first time in her life, she doesn’t thank the bus driver when she gets off. She can’t risk eye contact, since it’d make it more likely he’d remember seeing her. It makes her feel like a rude, horrible person, like another brooding teenager instead of the picture of poise, perfection, and grace that has been trained into her muscles and sits in her skin. But it’s what she has to do. It’s so easy for someone to vanish. It happens so often that most don’t even make the news. Sometimes the night simply just swallows people and doesn’t even spit out the bones. But Rumi knows she’s going to be different. She’s not just ‘someone’. By midnight, the police will know. By lunchtime tomorrow, it’ll be on the news. The whole of Korea will be plastered with her face and name. The general public will click their tongues in concern and keep an eye out. Their young, blossoming fandom will set the internet ablaze and churn itself up into a frenzy that will make the studio’s PR team sweat. But she’ll be long gone. While she didn’t have a particular plan in mind, she didn’t need one. Her mind has played this out a thousand times, staring up at her bedroom roof and cuddling a pillow to her chest, her arms hidden in the sleeves of a hoodie that she’d stolen from Zoey a year ago. Said hoodie was now folded on the bed where Zoey slept when she stayed for their training periods, back where it belonged for her to find. Rumi had felt a peculiar kind of numbness as she’d placed it down, already dressed to leave and her backpack over one shoulder. It was the last quiet moment she’d given herself; standing in the hallway between two doors to two bedrooms, that if she’d lingered another hour would have been filled again after a few weeks of silence. Mira and Zoey went back to visit their home towns - for family in Zoey’s case and friends in Mira’s - on the same schedule like clockwork. So tightly in sync that Celine could pick them both up from the train station at the same time to bring them home. Back. Bring them back. Not home. Rumi stopped in place in the middle of the sidewalk, already soaked through from the storm that was only growing in power, and closed her eyes as the cruel, necessary correction scratched along her ribs. It would take some getting used to. Until then, however, she couldn’t let the sting nail her feet to the pavement. Movement was survival. There were a hundred ratty motels in Seoul that took cash and didn’t ask questions, some worse than others, but Rumi didn’t have the self-care to be fussy. Instead she simply shoved enough bills into the manager’s hand to stop him asking questions, and took the key that was handed over to her, the man so mesmerised staring down at the cash in numb shock that he probably hadn’t seen her face at all. The room stank of moisture and stale air, with windows that couldn’t open and a bathroom door that swung loosely on dying hinges. The mattress was ancient and rough, the blankets thin and scratchy, and the lightbulb flickered on the edge of death. But it was four walls, half a city away from where she’d been, and there was a humming, churning coffee machine down the hall. Rumi knew she was going to have to change her standard of ‘taking the little victories’, and that this would be the benchmark of them from now on. She dropped her backpack onto the floor with a soft thump and walked straight to the bathroom, kicking the door closed so it wouldn't swing open again. The mirror, chipped and filthy, was a fresh torment. But in the silence of the cheap, temporary sanctuary, she felt braver than she had in the crushing silence she had left behind. So, she looked, and she loathed. The cruelty of the past week was still visible in the hollows beneath her eyes and the tight set of her lips. She didn't look like an idol in training, didn't look like Ryu Rumi. She looked like a drowned rat who hadn't slept properly in weeks. The water ran rusty when she turned the tap, the pipes rattling in the walls and barely turning the water lukewarm. Rumi splashed it onto her face anyway, scrubbing away the grime and the rain, and let out a wretched sigh that was more like a groan. Supporting her weight on her hands on the edge of the sink, Rumi squeezed her eyes shut as, in the achieved silence, her thoughts had an opening to finally start to churn. Doubts slithered their way across her mind, trying to find weak spots to crawl in and fester, but she barely felt them over the crushing guilt that was wrapping its hands around her throat and starting to squeeze. She opened her backpack, pulling out the small pile of essentials she had packed. It was a grim ensemble; a change of clothes, a toothbrush, one of her notebooks that she hadn’t had the humility to leave behind, and the cash. All the money in the world couldn't buy her happiness, but right now, it bought her anonymity and a place to plan her next moves, and that was close enough. The first victory of her new life; taking a moment to breathe. She sat on the edge of the awful mattress, pulling her wet boots off and tossing them in the direction of the door, the thump of their landing being almost deafening in the unsettling, alien stillness of the room. Fatigue had her in a chokehold, the weight of it greater than the fear still shocking her nerves and keeping her twitchy. As the maelstrom inside her chest slowly subsided, she felt herself growing heavier. It was hard to allow her body to simply slump, it went against everything that had been seared into her bones. She could almost hear Celine's voice in the echoing silence, cold and brutal. 'Hunters don't get to rest. You always have to be ready, Rumi.	Did You Notice? Did You Grieve? Rumi went missing on a rainy Thursday evening, torrential rain covering the sound of the front door slamming and then pounding footsteps sprinting down the street. Puddles splashed and car horns blared as a teenage girl, dressed in black baggy clothes and with a single backpack thrown over her back, vanished. Eighteen years old and so close to the top of her game, the peak of that glorious mountain in sight past the boulder that was so, so heavy, Rumi’s hands had trembled as she’d shoved her debit card into an ATM and punched in her code. Nobody knew she had the card, that it was in her name and not the company’s, and the sheer number of digits that appeared on her screen would have made a regular person faint just to count. But Sunlight Entertainment was worth a fortune, and Rumi’s trust fund was a beast unto itself, so nobody had noticed over the past twelve months that a few hundred dollars here and there had started to vanish. The threads and seams of a parachute hidden in taglines of ‘household expenses’ and ‘travel costs’. The escapees of Alcatraz had built their raft out of rain jackets that the guards hadn’t even noticed were going missing, and this felt so similar. Rumi withdrew as much cash as she could before the machine beeped as it reached a withdrawal limit, and she shoved the thick wad of notes into her wallet. As soon as she reached the limit, she took the card from the machine and slid it back into her pocket, and reached the first moment of no return. The skin on her arm stung inside of the sleeve of her jacket, her eyes were red, raw and bloodshot, and she could taste the cruelty on her tongue. It was enough to keep her going. Rumi pulled her phone from her pocket, placed it down on the pavement, and stomped down on it with all of her considerable strength. Under the heel of her thick boot, her phone turned into shrapnel, and she scooped the shards into her hand and poured them into a nearby trashcan. Without looking back or letting herself question, she pulled the hood of her jacket up to cover her face, and flagged down the first bus that turned the corner. Check the time on the watch. 21:09. Someone will go to check on her soon. They’ll find a wreckage where a bedroom used to be, a warzone of tear-stained pillows and shards of glass from a cruel mirror lined with polaroids she hadn’t even risked glancing at. Except for one, and the weight of it in her pocket was a burden greater than a legacy and a last name she didn’t want and the crushing load of staring eyes and cruel comparisons, but she hadn’t had the heart to leave it behind. Rumi takes it from her pocket with trembling fingers, numb from more than just the cold, and unfurls it to stare down at the three laughing girls captured in a fleeting, rare, beautiful moment where they still got to have hopes, dreams, and flaws. Where Mira’s glasses had been askew on her nose instead of wearing the contacts she had to wear in proper public appearances, and Zoey’s sweater was ratty and beloved, homeknit by a mother who missed her terribly, instead of being something shoved at her by a sponsor. And Rumi herself? That was the last time she’d smiled like that. Before Celine had caught them sneaking away the next time they had tried, and the screaming matches had begun. But never when Mira and Zoey were around, they could never know the knives Celine kept behind her teeth engraved with Rumi’s name, with broken plates and words that can’t be taken back always cleaned up and painted over by the time the other two returned for more training. Training that Rumi was ‘distracting’ them from. Infecting them with her loneliness. Chaining them with her clinginess. Grabbing onto them and holding them so tight she left bruising fingerprints imprinted on their thoughts whenever they weren’t around. The group chat was her sanctuary on the nights Celine couldn’t stand to look at her, and the silent treatment could cut deeper than ‘your mother expected better from you’ and ‘I don’t know where I failed to get through to you.’ Rumi shoves the photo back into her pocket, her jaw tight and her eyes stinging, and hits the button for the next stop without even knowing where she was. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t about going somewhere in particular, it was about just going. For the first time in her life, she doesn’t thank the bus driver when she gets off. She can’t risk eye contact, since it’d make it more likely he’d remember seeing her. It makes her feel like a rude, horrible person, like another brooding teenager instead of the picture of poise, perfection, and grace that has been trained into her muscles and sits in her skin. But it’s what she has to do. It’s so easy for someone to vanish. It happens so often that most don’t even make the news. Sometimes the night simply just swallows people and doesn’t even spit out the bones. But Rumi knows she’s going to be different. She’s not just ‘someone’. By midnight, the police will know. By lunchtime tomorrow, it’ll be on the news. The whole of Korea will be plastered with her face and name. The general public will click their tongues in concern and keep an eye out. Their young, blossoming fandom will set the internet ablaze and churn itself up into a frenzy that will make the studio’s PR team sweat. But she’ll be long gone. While she didn’t have a particular plan in mind, she didn’t need one. Her mind has played this out a thousand times, staring up at her bedroom roof and cuddling a pillow to her chest, her arms hidden in the sleeves of a hoodie that she’d stolen from Zoey a year ago. Said hoodie was now folded on the bed where Zoey slept when she stayed for their training periods, back where it belonged for her to find. Rumi had felt a peculiar kind of numbness as she’d placed it down, already dressed to leave and her backpack over one shoulder. It was the last quiet moment she’d given herself; standing in the hallway between two doors to two bedrooms, that if she’d lingered another hour would have been filled again after a few weeks of silence. Mira and Zoey went back to visit their home towns - for family in Zoey’s case and friends in Mira’s - on the same schedule like clockwork. So tightly in sync that Celine could pick them both up from the train station at the same time to bring them home. Back. Bring them back. Not home. Rumi stopped in place in the middle of the sidewalk, already soaked through from the storm that was only growing in power, and closed her eyes as the cruel, necessary correction scratched along her ribs. It would take some getting used to. Until then, however, she couldn’t let the sting nail her feet to the pavement. Movement was survival. There were a hundred ratty motels in Seoul that took cash and didn’t ask questions, some worse than others, but Rumi didn’t have the self-care to be fussy. Instead she simply shoved enough bills into the manager’s hand to stop him asking questions, and took the key that was handed over to her, the man so mesmerised staring down at the cash in numb shock that he probably hadn’t seen her face at all. The room stank of moisture and stale air, with windows that couldn’t open and a bathroom door that swung loosely on dying hinges. The mattress was ancient and rough, the blankets thin and scratchy, and the lightbulb flickered on the edge of death. But it was four walls, half a city away from where she’d been, and there was a humming, churning coffee machine down the hall. Rumi knew she was going to have to change her standard of ‘taking the little victories’, and that this would be the benchmark of them from now on. She dropped her backpack onto the floor with a soft thump and walked straight to the bathroom, kicking the door closed so it wouldn't swing open again. The mirror, chipped and filthy, was a fresh torment. But in the silence of the cheap, temporary sanctuary, she felt braver than she had in the crushing silence she had left behind. So, she looked, and she loathed. The cruelty of the past week was still visible in the hollows beneath her eyes and the tight set of her lips. She didn't look like an idol in training, didn't look like Ryu Rumi. She looked like a drowned rat who hadn't slept properly in weeks. The water ran rusty when she turned the tap, the pipes rattling in the walls and barely turning the water lukewarm. Rumi splashed it onto her face anyway, scrubbing away the grime and the rain, and let out a wretched sigh that was more like a groan. Supporting her weight on her hands on the edge of the sink, Rumi squeezed her eyes shut as, in the achieved silence, her thoughts had an opening to finally start to churn. Doubts slithered their way across her mind, trying to find weak spots to crawl in and fester, but she barely felt them over the crushing guilt that was wrapping its hands around her throat and starting to squeeze. She opened her backpack, pulling out the small pile of essentials she had packed. It was a grim ensemble; a change of clothes, a toothbrush, one of her notebooks that she hadn’t had the humility to leave behind, and the cash. All the money in the world couldn't buy her happiness, but right now, it bought her anonymity and a place to plan her next moves, and that was close enough. The first victory of her new life; taking a moment to breathe. She sat on the edge of the awful mattress, pulling her wet boots off and tossing them in the direction of the door, the thump of their landing being almost deafening in the unsettling, alien stillness of the room. Fatigue had her in a chokehold, the weight of it greater than the fear still shocking her nerves and keeping her twitchy. As the maelstrom inside her chest slowly subsided, she felt herself growing heavier. It was hard to allow her body to simply slump, it went against everything that had been seared into her bones. She could almost hear Celine's voice in the echoing silence, cold and brutal. 'Hunters don't get to rest. You always have to be ready, Rumi. You don’t want either of them to end up like your mother, do you?.' The memory was a dull, phantom pain, a residual ache that had somehow been replaced by sharper lessons delivered with crueller words. Or worse. Even at eighteen years old, the prime of her life, she already had aches that roused sometimes when it rained. ‘Training’ it had been called. To make her strong. To turn pain from a warning system, to a muffled nuisance. Or maybe it had been a punishment for sins Rumi hadn’t been able to help but do and cause. Thirteen years old, her arm encased in a bright white cast that felt heavy and suffocating from the elbow down. The memory of the crack echoing was still clear even all these years later. Celine had swept her leg with brutal efficiency during a spar, a move she’d been taught to block but hadn't been fast enough to counter. She had hit the ground hard, the air knocked from her lungs, and a searing spike of pain shooting up her arm. Celine had apologised, but Rumi had long suspected that she remembered the words as kinder than they had been. It had been a lesson, sharp and unforgiving, and the plaster had felt like a permanent reminder of her failure to be faster, stronger, better. To not be…herself. Nine years old, the sterile smell of the clinic and the dull, rhythmic pull of the needle against her skin. She had been running an agility drill across the interconnected planks, rope swings, and shaky platforms around the backyard, and missed a narrow jump. Something she could have caught on a better day, but her foot had slipped on the dew-slicked wood and she’d been in empty space, a twelve foot fall that felt like from the atmosphere. She hadn't screamed, only bitten down hard on her lip once she’d hit the pavement, but the gash on her inner thigh was deep. It took too many stitches to close. There was no scar. There should have been a scar. Sixteen years old, staring into the bathroom mirror under the harsh fluorescent light, a knot of cold dread tightening in her stomach as she stared. It started subtly, faint lines like intricate, swirling lace emerging from beneath her right shoulder blade. Now, the patterns had darkened, and almost reached her elbow. She ran her fingers over them, and she wondered why not even the thick, dull scar tissue from her years at Celine’s hand could cover them. Eighteen years old, the air in her room thick with desperation. She was trembling, with great, silent sobs wracking her chest, her hands slick with sweat. In her grasp, a shard of a broken mirror. Sharp, jagged, and reflecting her distorted face. She brought the glass to the delicate skin on her marked bicep, pressing down, the sting a sharp, momentary focus. Maybe, a voice cooed in her mind, if she carved them out, if she destroyed the canvas, Celine would finally let her fucking breathe. And perhaps, just perhaps, she wouldn't have to face the worst agony of all; the deep, heartbroken sadness she saw in the eyes of Zoey and Mira whenever she flinched, instinctively retracting from their small, innocent touches. Their attempts to reach out. And it broke their hearts, because they didn’t know. They thought it was them that were doing wrong, and Rumi couldn’t stand it any longer. The cuts were rough and panicked, clumsy, and they had bled freely. And they hadn’t worked. All they had done was provide a cruel, resigned clarity; there was no fixing this. There was no escaping it. Now the bandage under the sleeve of her jacket was a thick, stained thing she’d wrapped herself, all first-aid training flying out the window in her hurry to leave, to get out, to get away. To set them free. To set Celine free. To be free herself. Rumi reached for her backpack again, pulling out a faded, dog-eared notebook. The one with the stiff spine, and a dollar-store cover that Zoey had doodled a mural over in her constant need to fidget during writing sessions. It was warm to the touch, a grounding weight in her numb fingers. She didn't open it. Instead, she let it rest in her lap, a reassuring weight. She needed to think, but her brain was static. The heavy rain continued outside, a constant white noise that was somehow both soothing and maddeningly monotonous. What now? First, sleep. A deep, dreamless sleep that would chase away the redness in her eyes and the lethargy slowing her muscles. Tomorrow, the world would catch fire with her name, and she needed to be ready. Ready to be gone for good. Rumi curled up on the scratchy mattress, not bothering to change out of her wet clothes. She didn't pull the thin blanket over her, instead she just lay there, the notebook clutched against her chest, listening to the rain and the distant, muffled sounds of the city. She didn't pray for forgiveness or for safety. She just closed her eyes and waited for the night to swallow her. Beneath her, rippling across the carpet of her cheap sanctuary, the Honmoon pulsed white, its windchime calling for her. Normally it would be enough for her to open her eyes, because she knew this sound. The sound of her girls reaching for her, thinking of her, pulling. So, they were home. Would Celine let them rush out into the night to try to find her, or would she tell them to wait until morning and ‘let her clear her head’? There was no way of knowing for sure. But regardless, Rumi rolled over, and numbly pulled the blanket up over her head to block out the sound. The Honmoon didn’t stop singing until close to dawn, fading away, but Rumi was already asleep. Rumi awoke to a silence that felt heavier than the rain of the night before. It was a sterile, unnerving quiet, broken only by the persistent, frantic chirping of a bird outside the grimy window. She blinked, the sleep gritty and reluctant to leave her eyes, and the first thing she noticed was the unfamiliar smell of stale cigarette smoke and damp carpet. The motel. A wave of nausea hit her as she remembered the night before. As it became real. The slamming door, the storm ripping at her and trying to make her uncomfortable enough she would turn back, and the crushing exhaustion that followed. She was still in her wet clothes, stiff and uncomfortable, the notebook digging into her side. Because it had been real. It had been real, and she was out. But things were just beginning. She sat up on the edge of the mattress, running a hand over her face. The room was bathed in dull light, and she checked her watch, only for her eyes to widen at how it was almost noon. Sleep had taken her hostage, and whatever ground she’d made was surely lost. Shit. Who knows yet? The thought was a cold spike of dread, a chilling promise of the chaos she had unleashed. She reached for her backpack, pulling out the small, cheap tablet she had purchased weeks ago. Because for such an impulsive decision, preparations for it had certainly grown over time, turning a daydream that had gotten her through bruised nights and shouting matches into something that would wash her out of a churning ocean and onto the shore. It had festered less like a temptation, and more like an infection, and now…now she was here. She forced herself to ignore the reflection of her face in the cheap screen as she unlocked it, tapping in the code; 019903. The three years that each of them were born. Nausea licked a slow line along her gut, and she clenched her jaw and ignored it. Her fingers were slow and clumsy as she navigated the clunky interface, the screen a stark contrast to the sleek devices she was used to. God, she didn't even need to type in a search query, the front page of every major news outlet was already plastered with her face. RYU RUMI MISSING: SUNLIGHT ENTERTAINMENT IDOL VANISHES Police Launch High-Profile Search for Eighteen-Year-Old Trainee Chaos and Concern Grips The Public After Disappearance The photo used was a familiar one; a studio headshot, professionally lit, showing her with a manufactured, gentle smile, her eyes wide and luminous. The perfect image of a rising star, not the drowned rat staring back from the cracked motel mirror the previous night, or the wreck she was today. It wasn’t possible to tell from the photo that Zoey had been trying her absolute damndest to make Rumi crack and laugh just off-camera, and had managed to ruin almost a dozen shots before Celine’s glare had made the maknae wilt and behave. Rumi’s thumb hovered over a video link, the thumbnail giving her pause. A news report featuring a nondescript spokesperson of Sunlight Entertainment instead of Celine herself. The woman’s face was grave and concerned, but her words were certainly carefully chosen by Celine while Celine herself was likely out looking for her physically. That thought was enough for Rumi to suck in a breath, nervous, and she clicked it. "...We are working tirelessly with law enforcement and Rumi’s loved ones to ensure her safe return," the spokesperson’s voice soothed. "Rumi is a beloved member of the Sunlight family and a bright light in the industry. We urge anyone with information, no matter how small, to please come forward." The phrase ‘Rumi's loved ones’ was a cold jab. Celine would only have picked that phrase if she’d known that Rumi would hear it. To plant the memory of Mira and Zoey into her mind, to sow seeds of her mother’s grave, and the Honmoon that needed the three of them together. So, Celine had put two-and-two together, and this was her yanking the chain. Because Mira and Zoey needed her, no matter what that meant Rumi had to go through to be there with them. The guilt, momentarily subdued by exhaustion, returned. Rumi numbly scrolled further, and her throat tightened as she saw the way the internet had frenzied itself just as she had expected and dreaded in equal measure; fan accounts, usually cheerful and filled with clips of their group, were now filled with fear, and drowning in theories and rumours. Hashtags trended globally. Prayers and desperate pleas for her safe return filled the screen. Zoey and Mira hadn’t posted anything on either their official or their personal accounts. Because Rumi knew, she knew, that they were too busy out in the city, looking for her. Rumi’s breath hitched. They would be terrified. They would be heartbroken, thinking something terrible had happened, or worse, that she had abandoned them without a word. Because they didn't know. And the thought that they might blame themselves, that Celine might be twisting this into a narrative of Rumi’s 'selfishness’, made her feel sick. It hurt like fire, and she cried out and clutched her bandaged arm as it seared downwards in radiating pulses, her patterns pushing through ripped skin in order to spread a few more inches. It buckled her over, pulling her screaming arm to her chest as all the air rushed out of her lungs in a desperate, broken wheeze. Once the trembling had stopped, the pain lightening up enough her teeth were no longer chattering, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the crumpled polaroid. The three girls, laughing. With any hope, they would remember her like that, meanwhile…in her mind, something crueller was painted with messy paintstrokes. The image of their likely tear-stained faces, watching the news reports, silenced her. After failing to find her in an initial sweep of the city, it would take the two of them to figure out what their next move should be. After all, that sort of thing had been her job. Adaptability was a skill they’d never had to really learn, because she had always been there for them, to make the hard calls and keep them on their feet. Without her, they would be lost. For a time, at least. Hopefully just long enough for her to get away. She hadn't been able to leave them a note, hadn't been able to risk a call or a message that could be traced by a woman who knew her too well because of the personality and habits she had personally carved into Rumi’s bones. Celine was a paranoid woman, so it also wasn’t impossible she’d suspect them of helping or enabling her, and Rumi knew the woman’s wrath and suspicion intimately. Celine needed to trust Mira and Zoey, so that she would do her best to get them ready and make them strong. Hopefully with a gentler hand than Celine had ever given her. So Rumi’s safety was their safety, and her silence was her only shield for them. She shoved the photo back into her pocket, the warmth of the notebook in her lap a small comfort. The fear was still there, but beneath it, a new, harder edge was forming. The world was looking for Ryu Rumi, the starlet in training. Mira and Zoey were looking for Rumi their friend and fellow hunter. And Celine was looking for Rumi the apprentice and half-demon. That was good. That was useful. Because the girl who was going to walk out of this motel room, the one who hadn't slept properly for weeks and was wearing clothes stinking of rain and desperation, wasn't going to be that person. But she only had a few hours before the search expanded, as the initial shock wore off and the police began tracking more thoroughly. They would find her on CCTV and track her to the ATM. Her emergency account would be tracked from here on out, so if she really did need to take out any more or used her debit card to pay for a single thing she had better be either already on the move somewhere else or equipped to bolt. They would try and track her on cameras through the winding path of sidestreets she’d taken, only to lose her a few streets away from where she’d caught the second bus. But even if they’d lost track of her for now, the longer she stayed still the tighter the jaws would close. She had to move. Rumi stood up, the rough mattress springs groaning in protest. Speed was survival. She needed to vanish into the deeper anonymity of the city and bunker down somewhere properly until the initial heat died down, and then she needed a plan to stay gone for good. If she stopped, she would start to doubt. If she doubted, she might go back. And if she went back, things would only get worse. The first step was camouflage. Quickly making her way to the bathroom and grabbing her backpack as she went, Rumi thumped her bag onto the counter and stripped off her soaked, heavy clothes, the material stiff with rainwater and stale motel air. Making the mental note to toss them into the first dumpster she found, she dropped them onto the floor into a damp pile, and grabbed the single change of clothes from her backpack. A plain, cheap gray t-shirt and loose-fitting, dark blue jeans. Nothing that screamed ‘idol trainee’ or ‘wealthy runaway.’ Just background noise. She pulled on the clothes in silence, her face blank and her eyes dull in her reflection as she buttoned up the bland jeans and shifted them so they were sitting properly on her hips. She stood in front of the chipped mirror again, studying her reflection with a cold, objective eye. The girl looking back was still too pale, her cheekbones too sharp, her eyes too large and haunted. But there was another glaring problem, more of a threat to her plans than rich clothes or expensive makeup could ever hope to be; Rumi bit her lip as she reached back and ran her fingers through her lavender hair, tracing the length of the still damp braid down to her lower back, and she closed her eyes in resignation as she wrapped the strands around her fingers in an old habit that would have no choice but to die. Playing with her hair had always been a surefire way to make her melt, ever since she was younger and Celine had used to braid her hair by her mother’s grave or before training, and then later when Mira had once ran her fingers through it during a movie night without thinking much of it and Rumi had slumped into her side. But now… Rumi began searching through the drawers and cabinets under the bathroom sink, and found what she’d been hoping for in a squeaky drawer; a pair of scissors, small and bland, likely not even particularly sharp. But they didn’t have to do the job well, they just had to do it, and Rumi grabbed them out and cradled them in the palm of her hand for a long moment. There was no way back from this, if she did it. Even if she ended up back at the compound, they would see from the fact she’d done it that, in the moment at least, she really had been serious. But the bandage around her bicep was visible now that she was in short sleeves, and there were deep bags under her eyes. A throat still slightly hoarse from screaming into her pillow after Celine had left to pick up the other two, the words the older woman had hissed to break her once again, like routine, still echoing in her head. It was enough. So without hesitation, she pulled her hair forward, gathering a thick section into her trembling, desperate fist. The sound of the half-dulled blades crunching through the heavy strands was loud in the sterile silence. She didn’t let herself stop, didn’t let the first bundle shock her into slowness. Instead, her movements and cuts became aggressive. Angry. She wasn’t cutting her hair so much as she was attacking it, moisture beading in the corners of her eyes as she left a pile of lavender strands on the tiles beneath her. Once there was nothing left to cut, she tossed the scissors down into the sink and let her head drop, tears of frustration, fear, and grief trickling down her cheeks. Sobs crunched her lungs as she tried to stop them coming out, breaking through her barriers, and she hid her mouth in the crook of her elbow as she wept. When she managed to open her eyes and look up into the mirror, the long, beautiful braid was gone, the heavy strands falling in uneven clumps on the yellowed tiles. She had given herself a choppy, above-the-shoulder bob, messy and violent. It wasn't flattering, but it was different. It was a solid start, combined with the loose, bland clothes, but it wasn’t going to be enough. She needed to look like every other stressed, sleep-deprived student or low-paid worker in Seoul, invisible on the streets. The thick wad of cash was still heavy in her backpack, and she quickly wrote a mental checklist of supplies she needed to buy as quickly as she could. But where to go afterwards? She couldn’t stay at the motel. The police would sweep all the dodgy ones that asked no questions. No, she needed temporary, reliable shelter, something that required minimal interaction and was close enough to public transport she could bolt on a dime if she felt the net closing on her. A place to hide for the next month while the initial fervor of the search died down. It didn’t have to be much. But that was the easy part. Because she also needed a path out of Seoul. Out of Celine's reach for good. Time was burning away, her watch beeping as the hour turned, and it was a starting gun to get her moving again. She shoved the clumps of hair and the wet clothes into the motel room’s bin and tied the bag to take with her and dump as soon as she could, then scooped up the rest of her meagre belongings to put into her backpack. Though really, it was just the notebook, a polaroid in her pocket, and her wallet. Quickly leaving the motel room and bringing the trash bag with her, she hurried down the stairs and past reception, dropping the key as she went but not stopping. The first dumpster she passed by on the street, she tossed in the trash bag, and sped up in her walking, keeping an eye out for what she needed. The first pharmacy she passed, she ducked inside, already pulling the money from her pocket for a box of hair dye. Something so utterly ordinary she’d blend in. And when she passed a box of the exact same shade of midnight black as Zoey’s natural colour, she grabbed it without pause or doubt. Then, from another aisle, a basic, cheap pallet of makeup. Rumi knew her face was well known. But while she may not be able to make herself look completely like a stranger, she could alter enough for people to have trouble clocking her in a crowd or from a distance. If the cashier recognised her, even on the periphery of his mind, Rumi didn’t give him time to think about it, shoving her purchases into her backpack and moving on. No buses or public transport, not during the day and absolutely not while her disappearance was so fresh. So instead she ducked down a side street, and vanished into the labyrinth of Seoul’s alleys and quieter districts. Finding the right kind of anonymity was key. It wasn't about luxury; luxury was traceable, memorable, and often required IDs. It was about blending into the city's vast, forgettable masses. Somewhere that was cash-only, had high turnover, and, most importantly, was far enough from the beaten path to escape the initial, frantic police sweeps of the known runaway hotspots and also the more luxurious hotels that a runaway rich girl might be drawn to if she was naive. Rumi kept walking, the rhythmic slap of her wet, cheap boots on the pavement a steady pulse against the frantic drum of her heart. Every alleyway was a potential trap, every passing face a potential witness. Her mind, despite the exhaustion, was clicking into the hyper-aware state Celine had trained her into with blood, sweat, sleepless nights in the city, and disappointed scorn for each mercilessly punished slip. But she wasn’t looking out for demons, right now. She wasn’t feeling out for tears in the Honmoon. Right now, the stakes were her freedom, and the threat was the entire city. She finally spotted a sign that gave her hope; Goshiwon, tucked away above a dimly lit convenience store. Tiny, nondescript, and always so busy that they rarely asked their patrons questions or bothered to be curious about their stories. Perfect. With a final look over her shoulder, casting her gaze over the street to make sure nobody was watching her, Rumi opened the basic door and climbed the narrow, concrete staircase, the air growing thick with the smell of instant ramyeon and old laundry. Being just past noon, most of the residents were out in the city doing their business, so she blessedly didn’t pass anyone on the stairs as she headed to the manager’s office. The office was a small, cluttered space at the end of the hall, the door ajar on loose hinges, and Rumi knocked a single time as she entered without breaking stride. The man behind the desk barely glanced up, engrossed in a small TV screen showing a flickering soap opera. To Rumi’s relief, he was middle-aged, tired, and mercifully unobservant. The exact demographic who wouldn’t stand a chance of recognising her. A second stroke of luck, and Rumi’s next breath came easier. She kept her head down, her shorn, uneven hair partially covering her face. "A room," she managed, her voice deliberately flat, and slightly hoarse. "For one month. Cash." She didn't haggle, she just counted out the thick stack of bills - enough to cover a month with a significant excess, and placed them on the counter. The manager's eyes finally left the screen, widening slightly at the thickness of the bundle, and he grabbed it up greedily. He counted it slowly, his gaze still avoiding her face. "The rules are on the door," Satisfied, he grunted, shoving a thin, numbered key across the counter and turning back to his show. "Room 304. Don't bother anyone. Don't cause trouble." Rumi didn't respond, simply took the key and left the office as swiftly and silently as she entered, and kept her head down as she counted room numbers. Within minutes, she was inside Room 304. It was barely larger than the twin bed crammed against one wall. A small desk with a lamp, a tiny closet, and a shared bathroom down the hall. No windows, just a narrow vent near the ceiling that offered no light but let in the muffled sounds of her temporary neighbours' lives. It was a sealed concrete box, but it was safe. Hopefully. Rumi locked the door behind her, leaning her forehead against the cool, thin wood, and let out a shuddering breath. Each step of her nonexistent plan that was completed simply fed her another fresh type of exhaustion, but she couldn’t stop just yet. The next order of business was the dye. She pulled the box from her backpack and stared down at it, the exhaustion in her body winning out for one blessed moment and grinding her to a standstill as she looked down at the crumpled cardboard. Slowly, her legs gave out in their tiredness, and she slid down the door and hit the ground with a thump she barely noted, instead letting her head fall back and closing her eyes as she took a needle and thread to her mind and tried to stitch her thoughts and feelings back into something cohesive. Underneath her, the Honmoon rippled, briefly appearing in pale blue threads that hummed to her as they licked at her boots and the denim of her jeans like the tide of the ocean. Each chime vibrated with intent and hope, an attempt to gently coax her and get her back onto her feet. But not to help her. ‘Go home. They need you. I need you.’ ‘You can survive what she does to you. It won’t be for much longer until you’re out.’ ‘You may not have deserved any of it, but they need you more than you need to be okay. Which is better; for you to be safe, or the world to be?’ ‘Go home.’ ‘Go home.’ ‘They miss you. They’re so scared. Go home!’ Rumi dropped the box between her legs and clamped her hands over her ears, squeezing her eyes shut to block out the rippling glow, and snarled like the wounded animal she was. Every fresh chime that made it through the muffling, she felt her pulse quicken, a unique, deep panic that wasn’t solely hers rooting in her chest as the Honmoon started to grow more urgent, more desperate to get through to her. But no more words chimed inside her head, just the feeling, and she clenched her jaw and held herself steady until she felt it fade away. Finally opening her eyes again when she felt the silence around her, she let out a huff of relief at the absence of loud, bright light. The skin on her arm tingled underneath the bandage. Rumi pulled herself up to her feet and scooped the box up from the ground, and yanked open the door to head down the hall to the washroom. It was thankfully empty, but Rumi still worked quickly, methodically, letting the chemicals saturate the newly uneven strands. While she had of course never dyed her own hair, far too fond of her unique natural shade, she and Zoey had occasionally taken turns helping Mira touch up her own. So she knew enough of the process to be able to do it even with a pounding headache leftover from the Honmoon’s pleading, and shakiness in her legs from the panic still chirping inside her bones. When she finally rinsed it out, the water running inky down the drain, the girl who looked back from the small, cheap mirror was a stranger. Her skin still shone faintly, her features still too fine, but the shocking, defining colour was gone. The dark, messy bob framed a face that looked drawn and unmemorable. She was background noise. She was gone. Stains lingered in the sink when she turned away and walked back to her room and sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress protesting with a weak squeak. Damp hair clung to her cheeks, leaving trace streaks of black, but she didn’t have it in herself to care, too numb to even be uncomfortable at the sensation. Instead, she pulled out the polaroid again, and looked at the three laughing girls. One with bright lavender hair and an infinite future, painted gold by destiny and her smile stretched wide from the sloppy, dramatic kiss Zoey had been pressing to her cheek with a squeal. It was then and only then that the sorrow hit her. But she couldn't afford grief. She needed a plan. Rumi grabbed her notebook and a small, blunt pencil she had brought, and quickly flicked through the pages, passing over pages of lyrics, logo designs, and random doodling faster than her eyes would be able to make out any of them. On the first blank page, she wrote three columns; ‘Name.’ ‘Age.’ ‘Background.’ To stay hidden, to be able to evade someone with Celine’s tenacity and Sunlight Entertainment’s resources, she needed more than a haphazard physical disguise. She needed a history, a reason to exist in the world without a paper trail going back too far. She needed a new name and a believable lie. A new self. Someone who wasn’t a Hunter, built out of empty walls, scarred wrists, and bags under her eyes covered by skillfully applied makeup. The demon in her blood answered to her despair, but it wasn’t itself the cause of it. The nights it had burned across her skin as it had grown, alone in her room and clutching her arm with tears pouring down her cheeks at the pain, had only been after long days of worse. Far, far worse. Because it was all her fault. Because Celine’s generation, her mother’s generation, might have succeeded if she hadn’t killed her mother on the way out of her. Her mother had been better than she was, Celine always said so, and Rumi couldn’t seem to stop ruining their chances. Mira and Zoey were utterly, dangerously ‘distracted’ by her presence. Every hour she stole when they should have been training, every night spent sprawled together instead of rehearsing, pulled their focus from what was coming. It was a luxury none of them could afford, least of all the two of them, who needed every ounce of their concentration to survive the brutal reality that was about to descend. And she, in her aching, pathetic need, had been actively enabling it. She’d clung to them with greedy, desperate hands, a heart so starved for connection, for someone to treat her like everything wasn’t her fault, that it blinded her. Ryu Rumi was a selfish, desperate thing. She hadn’t always been that way. When she was younger, she’d been the perfect student. Cold, pragmatic, her vision narrow as she focused on what was coming. But then she’d met them, and something in her had changed. And Celine had never forgiven her for it. It was her duty to protect the Honmoon. To turn it gold. Her responsibility and obligation, the destiny on her shoulders. But that didn’t have to mean fighting for it. Maybe the best thing she could do to protect it was to disappear and get out of Zoey’s way, Mira’s way, and Celine’s way. And she was too much of a coward to do it with a blade to her skin. Because it was killing her, going through this, and she knew it. Drowning in empty air, shivering in the cold. The training, the punishments, the way she wanted to be close. The way they looked at her like things weren’t entirely her fault because of what she was. To stay would have been suicide too, of a different kind. Rumi closed her eyes with her pencil pausing on the page, and let out a wavering sigh. People disappeared every day. And sometimes, they disappeared inside of themselves. It was better than death. Sometimes the best thing a person could do was get out of everyone else’s way, including their own. She kept writing. Ryu Rumi, beloved idol in training, died on a cloudy Friday afternoon, and nobody was there to notice.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75726761/chapters/198062516	{"authors": ["PrimalInfinity"], "language": "English", "title": "Did You Notice? Did You Grieve?"}
In the Gaze of a Wolf Twice Starved Gods. I really have gone soft. I can’t even remember the last time I was so anxious. Look at yourself, woman. Heart all fluttery, breath short, blood beatin’ in your ears. Shoot, it’s loud enough to almost drown out all these drunken halfwits. I’m a mess. Am I really so desperate just to see this woman? Just to get a look at a woman I’ve got no business fantasizin’ about anyhow? So stupid. You’ve gotten yellow, Weak. Spineless. Ugh…. Alright, come on now. Enough lollygaggin’, damn it. You’re a worker. You’re doing a job. Take a breath. Do your job. One foot in front of the other, yeah? Yeah. Good…. And I suppose I’m havin’ to reassure myself just to walk up a flight of stairs and deliver a pot of water and a hot rag, so that’s real good. Where’d all this damn desperation come from? Almost makes me miss being young and shameless again. Or maybe not almost. I certainly would like my youth back. Enough of it at least that my knees wouldn’t protest me every time I got up the gall to brave these damn stairs. And to think it’s supposed to get worse by the time I’m a proper old crone. Shit. The shamelessness, though? Naw. That’s a different story. It’d make this next minute or so a cakewalk for sure, but the trouble that comes with it? Naw, I’m more than happy to leave my home-wreckin’ days behind me. I’d take a few rusted joints over all that mess any day. Bein’ soft ain’t too bad. I don’t think I ever stopped to realize how stressed I was all the time then. And I’m far much happier rackin’ up fewer regrets. Gods, how long has it been now? Thirteen years or that? And I can still recall that night like it was yesterday. That look Corina shot me. Biggest of all my regrets, that night. Stupid of me that I didn’t realize just how big a piece of me she had before she took it away. And the fear. Hoo-wee. I was damn scared, too. And even after all this time I can’t pin down what it was I was so afraid of. She was always unpredictable, but not so wild as to kill me right then and there. I don’t think, anyway. Must’ve just been the kind of power she held over me. Over everybody. Dangerous woman, that one, to have the wherewithal to even think she could tame me back then. And that’s sayin’ nothin’ of the fact that she did. Hells. Whatever charms she had on me were more thorough than they got any business bein’. Look at you. Still thinkin’ of her all this time later. It’d take nothing short of Tymora’s personal blessin’ to get another shot at a woman like that. I ain’t got that kind of luck and I got sense enough to know I don’t deserve to ask for it. Better to count the blessings ya got. Stability. Community. Peace. In truth, I’d prolly be either behind bars again or fighting for scraps enough to survive a few weeks more had I not bungled that all up. But… it’s hard not to think maybe I’d be with her still. In bed. Drunk in love with the feel of her skin and the scent of that jasmine perfume she always wore. Huh. Perfume. I’d never made the connection ‘till just now, but I guess I got that from her, didn’t it? Funny. Must mean her charms are still at work. I may just never escape her, eh? Haunting. And somehow I still dread that less than knockin’ on this here door. Shit…. I hope I ain’t been standin’ here too long. And I wish my stomach would stop tyin’ itself up in knots at that. You’re hopeless, Tziga, y’know that? You’re pathetic. This is an opportunity. So take it. Focus up, woman. She’s just a guest, alright? A customer. So quit your pussy footin’ around. Put down the water, knock, we’ll be servin’ dinner soon. That simple. Put down the water, knock, we’ll be servin’ dinner soon. “We’ll be servin’ dinner soon. Got your hot water and rag.” …. Damn. Nothin’. Again. What’s that, four days in a row now? Ain’t like she do too much all day but come down for dinner and walk about town when the mood takes her, but even this is strange. Real strange. Suspicious. It’s suspicious. He could have hurt her. Or she could just be under the weather or she don’t want to be bothered none. Don’t make crazy assumptions, old girl. You know good and well that Julian wouldn’t do a thing to harm that woman. Ain’t no point getting’ all worked up just ‘cause you wanna see her. It’s another blessin’, if anythin’. You get to make it away without makin’ a damn fool out of yourself. You ought to just leave the water and the rag next to the door again, but…. well, there could be something wrong. And it may be irresponsible for me to just carry on if I feel that way, right? And… ugh. No. No. I’m just tryin’ to find any justification to act up. It ain’t like I have any reason to honestly think that way. You love sick puppy, you. Get yourself on up out of here, yeah? Yeah. “UGH-HUH! AUGH!” … One of them just fell off the pillar. Again. Idiots. All the better, I guess. They’re easier to deal with then whatever trance I got myself worked up in. “Excuse me?” Shoot. I think my heart skipped a beat. I didn’t even hear her movin’. Didn’t hear the door, didn’t hear nothin’. Ain’t as sharp as I used to be. Not like her. She looks sharp as a dagger right about now. “Uhm… yeah, could you just bring it in? Please? It’s kind of heavy for me.” “…. Mhm.” Shoot. I’m glad she ain’t cuttin’ her eyes at me like that. I need my blood right where it is. She got my heart poundin’ again, even now. Different than what Corina did to me, but familiar. Different than anything anybody’s made me feel. It’s gotta be the stuff that gets artists paintin’ and poets writin’ I think. Things they go nutty tryin’ to capture. Somethin’ I sure as shit ain’t got the words for. I still can’t figure out what it is about her. Pretty little thing as she is, she ain’t nowhere near the full. I always preferred full. Must be deeper than her looks. And I been around enough tieflings to know it ain’t just some perverted curiosity neither. Naw, she’s got somethin’ more. Somethin’ like what Corina had, but different. Somethin’ you can’t see or touch that tames people. Reigns them in. Like me. Maybe like that bear-ape man of hers, too. Whatever it is, I just pray it didn’t let her catch the crack in my composure. Don’t think I gotta worry too much about that, though. She don’t seem to be payin’ me much mind. Looks a hundred miles away to me. Somethin’s wrong. “Thanks.” “Ain’t no thang.” Strange hearin’ that real curt sort of city talk comin’ out of her. Sharp. To the point. Harsh to be comin’ from such a delicate-lookin’ woman like her. Even more so now that she’s rounded out a bit. Glad our food’s doin’ its work. Her cheeks have filled out real nice over the months. Her hips, too. Tragic. Her chest ought to get more of that. Temerity. What makes a woman choose that to define herself, I wonder? Of all the virtue names you could choose. Temerity. Must’ve lived a hard life. She carries herself like she’s my age. And how she fits all that fierceness into that tiny little frame of hers is anybody’s guess. She got baggage, no doubt. The type of bumps and bruises that don’t show up on the skin. Reminds me of me when I was younger in some ways. That learned caution and awareness that’s got her keepin’ that door between us like a shield. Like she’d happily bust me with it if I made a wrong move. I still got my bet on prostitute. Former prostitute, anyway. Whenever she gets to singin’ late at night that Julian of hers is howlin’ right alongside her. She definitely ain’t doin’ no business with the other guests. But she don’t strike me as no domestic type neither. Or a romantic, for that matter. I guess it ain’t really my business. I hardly know nothin’ ‘bout the woman anyhow. “We got oyster talyth laid out downstairs. It’s goin’ fast,so you’ll have to be quick if you want any.” Though some fool prolly just broke his arm, so that’s one less person to compete with. “I think I’ll just stay up here.” “Onion soup and vedbread for dinner tonight. Should be plenty to go around.” “Thanks.” “Glenys found some spare time, too. So there’s molasses nutbread if you’re in the mood for somethin’ sweet.” “Sounds great.” “Mhm.” Hoo, boy. I can’t get out of here fast enough. Whatever this is, it’s got the hair on the back of my neck standin’ up. Coiled up like a spring, she is. Ready and waitin’ to strike. And I ain’t about to stick around and let it find a reason to strike me. No, ma’am. So comfortable acceptin’ defeat these days. Coward. Funny to be defeated by that pixie of a woman. Shoot, she hardly comes up to my shoulders and she got me all tense. Like I walked into a lion’s den and a dragon done walked in instead. Dangerous woman. I fear for that man of hers when he gets back. This might be the only time I can say I don’t envy him. I’m almost grateful to be back in the main hall. And look at that. Just as predicted. Hopefully he learns somethin’ after manglin’ up his arm like that. Fat chance. Seems like Ahriel’s takin’ fine enough care of him for now. I don’t know how that girl does it with all this racket. Never knew too much about the magicks myself, but it can’t be easy gettin’ an arm bendin’ back the right way with all this hootin’ and hollerin’. She got more patience than I could muster. I’d have knocked that boy out for all that squirmin’ if I were her. Mercenaries ain’t built like they used to be. Ought to take her place in the kitchen while she’s busy here. “Hold a moment, would you?” Oh, here we go. Break his wrist. “If I’m not intruding, I wanted to extend my personal thanks to yourself and your fellows for putting food and ale in the bellies of my men. Might I have your name, love?” “…. Tziga.” “Tziga. My, my. An artful name, carved from marble for display in the art halls of Neverwinter. That’s marvelous. What an astounding thing it is to come across a creature such as yourself in such a modest environment.” Please. If I was twenty years younger, maybe. But even then I knew an empty compliment when I heard it. It don’t help that his breath reeks like piss.	In the Gaze of a Wolf Twice Starved Gods. I really have gone soft. I can’t even remember the last time I was so anxious. Look at yourself, woman. Heart all fluttery, breath short, blood beatin’ in your ears. Shoot, it’s loud enough to almost drown out all these drunken halfwits. I’m a mess. Am I really so desperate just to see this woman? Just to get a look at a woman I’ve got no business fantasizin’ about anyhow? So stupid. You’ve gotten yellow, Weak. Spineless. Ugh…. Alright, come on now. Enough lollygaggin’, damn it. You’re a worker. You’re doing a job. Take a breath. Do your job. One foot in front of the other, yeah? Yeah. Good…. And I suppose I’m havin’ to reassure myself just to walk up a flight of stairs and deliver a pot of water and a hot rag, so that’s real good. Where’d all this damn desperation come from? Almost makes me miss being young and shameless again. Or maybe not almost. I certainly would like my youth back. Enough of it at least that my knees wouldn’t protest me every time I got up the gall to brave these damn stairs. And to think it’s supposed to get worse by the time I’m a proper old crone. Shit. The shamelessness, though? Naw. That’s a different story. It’d make this next minute or so a cakewalk for sure, but the trouble that comes with it? Naw, I’m more than happy to leave my home-wreckin’ days behind me. I’d take a few rusted joints over all that mess any day. Bein’ soft ain’t too bad. I don’t think I ever stopped to realize how stressed I was all the time then. And I’m far much happier rackin’ up fewer regrets. Gods, how long has it been now? Thirteen years or that? And I can still recall that night like it was yesterday. That look Corina shot me. Biggest of all my regrets, that night. Stupid of me that I didn’t realize just how big a piece of me she had before she took it away. And the fear. Hoo-wee. I was damn scared, too. And even after all this time I can’t pin down what it was I was so afraid of. She was always unpredictable, but not so wild as to kill me right then and there. I don’t think, anyway. Must’ve just been the kind of power she held over me. Over everybody. Dangerous woman, that one, to have the wherewithal to even think she could tame me back then. And that’s sayin’ nothin’ of the fact that she did. Hells. Whatever charms she had on me were more thorough than they got any business bein’. Look at you. Still thinkin’ of her all this time later. It’d take nothing short of Tymora’s personal blessin’ to get another shot at a woman like that. I ain’t got that kind of luck and I got sense enough to know I don’t deserve to ask for it. Better to count the blessings ya got. Stability. Community. Peace. In truth, I’d prolly be either behind bars again or fighting for scraps enough to survive a few weeks more had I not bungled that all up. But… it’s hard not to think maybe I’d be with her still. In bed. Drunk in love with the feel of her skin and the scent of that jasmine perfume she always wore. Huh. Perfume. I’d never made the connection ‘till just now, but I guess I got that from her, didn’t it? Funny. Must mean her charms are still at work. I may just never escape her, eh? Haunting. And somehow I still dread that less than knockin’ on this here door. Shit…. I hope I ain’t been standin’ here too long. And I wish my stomach would stop tyin’ itself up in knots at that. You’re hopeless, Tziga, y’know that? You’re pathetic. This is an opportunity. So take it. Focus up, woman. She’s just a guest, alright? A customer. So quit your pussy footin’ around. Put down the water, knock, we’ll be servin’ dinner soon. That simple. Put down the water, knock, we’ll be servin’ dinner soon. “We’ll be servin’ dinner soon. Got your hot water and rag.” …. Damn. Nothin’. Again. What’s that, four days in a row now? Ain’t like she do too much all day but come down for dinner and walk about town when the mood takes her, but even this is strange. Real strange. Suspicious. It’s suspicious. He could have hurt her. Or she could just be under the weather or she don’t want to be bothered none. Don’t make crazy assumptions, old girl. You know good and well that Julian wouldn’t do a thing to harm that woman. Ain’t no point getting’ all worked up just ‘cause you wanna see her. It’s another blessin’, if anythin’. You get to make it away without makin’ a damn fool out of yourself. You ought to just leave the water and the rag next to the door again, but…. well, there could be something wrong. And it may be irresponsible for me to just carry on if I feel that way, right? And… ugh. No. No. I’m just tryin’ to find any justification to act up. It ain’t like I have any reason to honestly think that way. You love sick puppy, you. Get yourself on up out of here, yeah? Yeah. “UGH-HUH! AUGH!” … One of them just fell off the pillar. Again. Idiots. All the better, I guess. They’re easier to deal with then whatever trance I got myself worked up in. “Excuse me?” Shoot. I think my heart skipped a beat. I didn’t even hear her movin’. Didn’t hear the door, didn’t hear nothin’. Ain’t as sharp as I used to be. Not like her. She looks sharp as a dagger right about now. “Uhm… yeah, could you just bring it in? Please? It’s kind of heavy for me.” “…. Mhm.” Shoot. I’m glad she ain’t cuttin’ her eyes at me like that. I need my blood right where it is. She got my heart poundin’ again, even now. Different than what Corina did to me, but familiar. Different than anything anybody’s made me feel. It’s gotta be the stuff that gets artists paintin’ and poets writin’ I think. Things they go nutty tryin’ to capture. Somethin’ I sure as shit ain’t got the words for. I still can’t figure out what it is about her. Pretty little thing as she is, she ain’t nowhere near the full. I always preferred full. Must be deeper than her looks. And I been around enough tieflings to know it ain’t just some perverted curiosity neither. Naw, she’s got somethin’ more. Somethin’ like what Corina had, but different. Somethin’ you can’t see or touch that tames people. Reigns them in. Like me. Maybe like that bear-ape man of hers, too. Whatever it is, I just pray it didn’t let her catch the crack in my composure. Don’t think I gotta worry too much about that, though. She don’t seem to be payin’ me much mind. Looks a hundred miles away to me. Somethin’s wrong. “Thanks.” “Ain’t no thang.” Strange hearin’ that real curt sort of city talk comin’ out of her. Sharp. To the point. Harsh to be comin’ from such a delicate-lookin’ woman like her. Even more so now that she’s rounded out a bit. Glad our food’s doin’ its work. Her cheeks have filled out real nice over the months. Her hips, too. Tragic. Her chest ought to get more of that. Temerity. What makes a woman choose that to define herself, I wonder? Of all the virtue names you could choose. Temerity. Must’ve lived a hard life. She carries herself like she’s my age. And how she fits all that fierceness into that tiny little frame of hers is anybody’s guess. She got baggage, no doubt. The type of bumps and bruises that don’t show up on the skin. Reminds me of me when I was younger in some ways. That learned caution and awareness that’s got her keepin’ that door between us like a shield. Like she’d happily bust me with it if I made a wrong move. I still got my bet on prostitute. Former prostitute, anyway. Whenever she gets to singin’ late at night that Julian of hers is howlin’ right alongside her. She definitely ain’t doin’ no business with the other guests. But she don’t strike me as no domestic type neither. Or a romantic, for that matter. I guess it ain’t really my business. I hardly know nothin’ ‘bout the woman anyhow. “We got oyster talyth laid out downstairs. It’s goin’ fast,so you’ll have to be quick if you want any.” Though some fool prolly just broke his arm, so that’s one less person to compete with. “I think I’ll just stay up here.” “Onion soup and vedbread for dinner tonight. Should be plenty to go around.” “Thanks.” “Glenys found some spare time, too. So there’s molasses nutbread if you’re in the mood for somethin’ sweet.” “Sounds great.” “Mhm.” Hoo, boy. I can’t get out of here fast enough. Whatever this is, it’s got the hair on the back of my neck standin’ up. Coiled up like a spring, she is. Ready and waitin’ to strike. And I ain’t about to stick around and let it find a reason to strike me. No, ma’am. So comfortable acceptin’ defeat these days. Coward. Funny to be defeated by that pixie of a woman. Shoot, she hardly comes up to my shoulders and she got me all tense. Like I walked into a lion’s den and a dragon done walked in instead. Dangerous woman. I fear for that man of hers when he gets back. This might be the only time I can say I don’t envy him. I’m almost grateful to be back in the main hall. And look at that. Just as predicted. Hopefully he learns somethin’ after manglin’ up his arm like that. Fat chance. Seems like Ahriel’s takin’ fine enough care of him for now. I don’t know how that girl does it with all this racket. Never knew too much about the magicks myself, but it can’t be easy gettin’ an arm bendin’ back the right way with all this hootin’ and hollerin’. She got more patience than I could muster. I’d have knocked that boy out for all that squirmin’ if I were her. Mercenaries ain’t built like they used to be. Ought to take her place in the kitchen while she’s busy here. “Hold a moment, would you?” Oh, here we go. Break his wrist. “If I’m not intruding, I wanted to extend my personal thanks to yourself and your fellows for putting food and ale in the bellies of my men. Might I have your name, love?” “…. Tziga.” “Tziga. My, my. An artful name, carved from marble for display in the art halls of Neverwinter. That’s marvelous. What an astounding thing it is to come across a creature such as yourself in such a modest environment.” Please. If I was twenty years younger, maybe. But even then I knew an empty compliment when I heard it. It don’t help that his breath reeks like piss. And he’s clung to my wrist like a starving dog. “Well, Tziga, my name is Dhaven Vesker of the Crimson Hawks. Second Commander of Third Company. Swordsman, strategist, and soon-to-be renowned general.” Second of Third. I’m sure he finds that mighty impressive. “Now it’s come to my attention that this establishment of yours seconds as a shrine to Tymora, yes? I’ve never been a very pious man myself, but as we are all on our way to lend our blades to the Order of the Gauntlet and I’m admittedly unsure of what sorts of oaths we may be put under I feel taken by the feeling that a favorable wind blows my way. So, should you be amicable…” Oh, yes please. Closer. What a privilege it is, gettin’ to smell your whole trip up to now. “… I would very much like to explore the full depth of your... hospitality.” On second thought, break his jaw. Boy, I don’t know where you think that hand of yours is headed. Nowhere productive if a long, healthy life is in your plans. Sad state of affairs that his boys seem to think he really said somethin’. “Ya’ll read, don’t ya? The sign says ‘No Dogs Allowed”. So either put this thing out or get in on a leash.” Laughter. Good. They got a sense of humor. Damn good thing, that. I really ought to keep that old bravado in check. I usually do. Must be agitated. But why? I didn’t never let what nobody thought of me affect me before. Then again, that only happened so often ‘fore word got ‘round about the fools who talked to me sideways gettin’ their faces caved in for it. Or cut if Corina was around. Guess I can’t just go shuttin’ people up when they tick me off like that no more. I don’t think I much mind that, but I would like if men would stop treatin’ me like I’m easy. Feels like these are the only types that’ve come my way over the last year; Pushy little boys who get to feelin’ themselves and, for one reason or another, think I’m desperate enough for a lay to be the one to come along and teach ‘em their asses from their pricks. I’m a grown woman, damn it. I ain’t got that kind of time. I am getting older, though, and I don’t much like the prospect of spendin’ my late years all on my lonesome. Don’t much care for the prospect of bein’ in the pocket of some dumb little boy neither, but who knows when or if somethin’ better may come along. Beggars can’t be choosers. Better take what you can. Alright, now. Let’s not be dramatic. Plenty of folk come and go around here. There’ll be a chance. Just not tonight. And certainly not with her. So behave yourself, would you? “How’s our favorite guest?” That ain’t the tone anybody wants to hear two steps into the kitchen. She’s got her face all scrunched up in that smirk of hers too, the old crone. She’s in the mood to be a bother and I’m stuck choppin’ mushrooms with her until Ahriel gets back. “She’s alright, Glenys.” “Is she?” “Yes ma’am.” “Still pretty or are we gon’ have to teach that boy Julian a lesson?” Prettier if anythin’. “Still pretty, ma’am.” “She gon’ be joinin’ us for dinner?” “Don’t sound like it.” “Huh. That’s too bad. She don’t like us no more?” “Didn’t think to ask, ma’am.” “Nothin’ to be done about it, I suppose. It just don’t seem right to me, stayin’ all cooped up like that all the time. She ought to be more sociable with the people takin’ care of her, I’d think.” “Could be the company.” “Maybe tonight, but it ain’t like we got rowdy boys like them every day. People around here know to mind their manners. She’d do good to meet a few folks. Suppose that’s what it’s like in the city. Oh well. Far be it from me to tell a grown woman how to live her life.” As much as you’d like to. “Best leave it alone. Anyhow, them boys ain’t makin’ themselves too much of a nuisance?” “No ma’am.” “You sure? Sounded like you was givin’ ‘em a tongue-lashing.” “It wasn’t that bad.” “Anybody else and I might just agree with you. You been here what, nearly a year now? And I ain’t never seen you snap like that on nobody. So? What’s eatin’ you?” ”I’m fine, ma’am.” “I know you’re fine. But something’s botherin’ you.” “Nothin’ I want to talk about, Glenys.” “Just listen, then. It ain’t like I don’t already know.” Pitti and Von aren’t gonna help me here, are they?. Please save me, Ahriel. “Ma’am, I really don-.” “You know, you’re pretty cooped up yourself. You hardly go nowhere or do nothin’ and if you ain’t workin’ you’re on your own. Now I can’t tell you nothin’ about orcs, so I won’t. But I know whether we’re talkin’ that part of you or your human part, ain’t nobody get on well without havin’ others close. And the fact that you got no family and you ain’t really made no friends got me thinkin’ you been deprivin’ yourself. Couldn’t say why, but you are. And the cravin’ don’t go nowhere, do it? So, far as I’m concerned, it’s only natural that when some pretty little thing comes walkin’ up in here you might start fixin’ to stir up a whole mess of trou-” Can’t say I’ve ever been happier to hear that squeaky old door hinge. “I gotta tend the bar, ma’am.” A new battle on every front. Let me get a breath, woman. Damn. If there’s one thing I hope don’t rub off on me in my old age it’s all that damn gossip. It seems like old folks always got it in their heads that they’re entitled to stick their noses in everybody’s business. All just to lecture you over what they think they know about you. Like somehow they think they can open you up like a book and tell you about yourself. Please. People are entitled to keep whatever they want to themselves, far as I’m concerned. And I thought we were all on the same page. I ought to whup Pitti and Von later, hangin’ me out to dry like that. I’ve always had their backs when she starts goin’ off on them. When they didn’t deserve it, anyhow. When… when they didn’t deserve it…. Shoot. She’s right, ain’t she? Damn it. Is that what I been doin’? Deprivin’ myself? I guess I do be keepin’ myself busy. Even when I got nothin’ I need to be doin’. But that’s just right, ain’t it? Doing good by the people who do good by you. It’s bein’ hospitable. But is that really what I’m doin’? Could be I’m excusin’ myself. Or maybe I’m just... comfortable? Doing what’s easy. Shoot, maybe I’m just givin’ myself a new set of bars to live behind. Ain’t like it’s doin’ me a lick of good. I would like to have somebody before I get too old. I’d like somebody to have me. And I ain’t been doin’ nothin’ to get after that for damn near a year now. Ugh. And that’s prolly why I haven’t been able get that Temerity off my mind. I hate to admit it, but that old battleaxe may have a point. “Evening, Tziga.” Shoot. Is it that time already? “Julian.” “Smells good. Vedbread tonight?” “Onion soup, too. And molasses nutbread if you want somethin’ sweet.” I feel like I rediscover how tall Julian is every time I see him. Makes me wonder how folks feel bein’ around me. I sure ain’t used to feelin’ small. “Sounds good. We always appreciate you, you know.” “You ought to.” “You smell nice too. What is that?” “Violet, agarwood, and somethin’ else I don’t remember.” “It’s nice.” “It is.” “Special occasion?” “Felt like it.” “I see.” “Mhm.” He’s stallin’. He must know he’s in hot water, else he’d be long gone already. Poor thing. I can hardly believe how a man like him, built like an ox and just as strong by the looks of it, can look so much like a puppy left out in the rain. Whole room got real cautious when he walked in, too. Funny. Gentle as a mouse, this one. Him and Temerity make for a strange couple. Messes of contradiction, both of ‘em. Even more so as a pair. “Have you seen Temerity? Is she okay? Has she come out at all?” “….” Never seen him deflate like that. “Okay. I’ll check on her and get cleaned up. Tell Glyneth I said thank you for cooking.” Hope them ain’t famous last words. “Tell her yourself when you come down.” “I will.” He got more of them merc boys’ eyes than I did coming through. Sizin’ him up, no doubt. Best they don’t stir up no trouble. Even I could prolly still fold half these fools, but an angry Julian? I don’t want no part of that. Can’t say I blame ‘em for thinkin’ about it, though. I still remember thinkin’ how I might take him down if he turned out to be trouble. How wrong I was. Makes you wonder how a sweetheart like him gets a body like that. All that muscle and them scars. Ain’t no farmer muscle, neither. Too sculpted to be just for workin’. And it ain’t no average person that’s got tattoos like that. Warnings. Not just fashion. The sort of thing I just might’ve been drooling over once upon a time. Now that I’m thinkin’ about it, he’s much more my type of man than Temerity is my type of woman. Maybe my tastes are changin’. Or maybe men just don’t quite spark that sort of passion in me. Can’t say I remember it ever happenin’ before. It’s too bad. I wouldn’t mind being tended to by some man as I get older. Kinda hard to picture, though. I must be too used to providin’ for myself. Go figure. “Excuse me, ma’am. I’d like another round if you’d be so kind.” Ah. Mild-mannered merc boy. But of course, you polite young man. I’d be more than happy to oblige you, sweetheart. “Thank you.” “Mhm.” “I also wanted to apologize on behalf of the Commander. He can be belligerent when he’s drunk. We haven’t had drink like this in nearly thirty days, so he may be overdoing it a tad.” “You ain’t do nothin’.” “You’re right. I didn’t. But that may be worth apologizing for as well. I just don’t want you to be under the impression that you’re housing a band of senseless brutes. That’s all.” “Ya’ll got coin, we got beds. Wouldn’t much matter if you’re polite or not.” “That’s prudent of you. Do you not prefer when your guests show some decorum?” “I do.” “Just given up on trying to enforce it?” “Mhm.” “You’re a woman of few words, aren’t you?” “My mouth gets me in trouble.” “I see. That’s unfortunate. You seem like a fascinating woman.” “What gives you that impression?” “The way you carry yourself, mostly. The tattoos, too. You come off… worldly, I suppose.” “Worldly. That’s a new one.” “Is it?” “That’s what I said, ain’t it?” “It is.” “Then yes. It’s a new one.” “It sounds like you don’t get compliments often.” “Only from little boys who don’t know no better.” “Sounds tiresome.” “Mhm.” “Well, they say there’s a first time for everything. Because I can assure you, I’m no boy and I’ve got more than just compliments. I think together, the two of us could make some beautiful poetry together.” …. “I think you ought to take a few cues from me.” “You think so?” “I just said so.” “Anything in particular?” “To mind your mouth ‘fore it gets your ass in trouble.” “My mouth was made for trouble, I’m afraid.” “Boy, if you don’t get your ass on-” “I DON’T BELONG TO YOU, JULIAN! NOT YOU, AND NOT ANYBODY! DO YOU GET THAT?! YOU THINK I LIKE JUST SITTING AROUND ALL DAY WAITING FOR YOU TO COME HOME?! YOU THINK I DON’T HAVE THINGS THAT I WANT?! DO YOU EVEN CARE?! YOU THINK I CAME ALL THIS WAY JUST SO I COULD BE AN ORNAMENT IN YOUR PERFECT LITTLE FUCKING DREAM LIFE?! ARE YOU STUPID?! I DON’T NEED YOU! I WOULD BE JUST FINE WITHOUT YOU! BUT YOU! WITHOUT ME, YOU WOULD BE FUCKING NOTHING!” …. Breathe, woman. Shit. That must be what them authors be talkin’ about with their blood runnin’ cold. Poor thing. The walls are thin around here, but damn was she hollerin’. That man may not survive the night. And here she comes. Cuttin’ right through them boys, too. Like a hot knife through butter. Glad they got sense enough to keep their mouths shut ‘till she’s on her way. Not that that’s much credit to ‘em. Just means they got the sense not to play with an angry viper. Dangerous woman. “Tziga!” “Augh!” I know damn well this woman did not just snap that towel on the back of my head! She done caught the back of my ear, too! Shit! “Damn it, woman! Why the hells you whuppin’ on me for?!” “’Cause I done called you three times and you ain’t hear me!” “I ain’t but five feet away from that damn window! You ain’t called nothin’!” “I did! You just got your head in the clouds.” “I swear, woman-” “Oh, quit yer fussin’’. You ready to listen or not?” “What is it, then?!” “We’re nearly done back here. Go on. Take your smoke before we get servin’.” “What are you on about, woman? I smoke after we serve.” “And today you smoke right now.” “That don’t make no sense.” “It don’t gotta make sense. It’s what I’m tellin’ you. Now gimme your pipe.” Unbelievable, this woman! First she wants to lecture me like I’m some unruly teenager, now she wants to smack me around. Got the back of my head burnin’ like I got lit up by that tinder bundle of hers. You hag. If you were anybody else I’d yank your ass right out that window. “Ahriel can tend the bar until you’re done. Now go on.” “You’re a sadistic old witch. Ain’t no reason for all that mess. None.” “I said git.” “I’m gittin’, damn it.” “It don’t sound like it to me.” “I’m gittin’!” “Then git!” Always needin’ the last word, the salty old bat. Fine. You need this victory so bad? Take it you coot. I don’t know where she gets off testin’ me like that. Like she ain’t got nothin’ better to do. Just gossip and instigatin’ shit. I swear, whatever it takes to make sure of it, I ain’t never gonna grow to be such a miserable old bitch as her. What sense is there in me smellin’ like smoke before I serve up food? Don’t make a damn lick of…. … aw, hells. Temerity. “Look, I’m sure you heard plenty of that, okay? I appreciate what you all do and everything, but I don’t need your help. Alright?” Shit. That sly old fox. She delegated me. And she made sure to get me all heated so I’d forget to protest, too. I can’t stand her. Why me of all people, anyhow? I feel like anybody back in that kitchen would be better for this than me. Pitti’s got siblings, don’t he? Von’s always been a people person. Ahriel is… alright, Ahriel’s maybe the only one less equipped for this than I am. But this sort of thing is meant to be handled by the elderly, ain’t it? Gods, what a mess. Look at her, too. All that shakin’ and tail flickin’. Where she even got the room to keep that kind of fury? And what do I even say? I ain’t never had a fight like that before. Maybe… maybe she smokes? “… Tabac?” “Just pipeweed.” “I’m fine.” Was worth a try. Damn it. I’m lost here. I’d like to help, but I feel like anythin’ I say will just make it worse. I mean, she already done told me to get lost before I even said a word. All that, that was… a lot. She’s volatile. She’s vulnerable. This really ain’t even my business no how. And with this pipeweed kickin’ in, I’m liable to say somethin’ I regret. Best just keep my trap shut. And quit starin’. I could just take up space for now, I think. She don’t gotta say nothin’ if she don’t want to, I ain’t gotta get myself in no trouble, and at least she won’t be alone. That enough, right? That’s what I would want. That’s what Corina would’ve did. Too bad she ain’t here. She’d know exactly what to do. “Gods damn it…. I…. I don’t know what I’m doing.” …. I guess now this is my business. Shoot. “… What are you doin’?” Ain’t no humor in that chuckle. “… I’m… leaving behind my whole life. Again. All for some guy I barely know who, for some reason, I thought was gonna… I don’t know. Save me? Like I needed him for that. I had a place to stay and I had work and I had friends and I had a plan and now I’m in a whole new place and I sit around all day reading and rereading the same three books. And I’m bored and I’m confused and I’m so fucking frustrated all the time. And I’m sick of it. I don’t know how I let myself get swept up in this.” Vulnerable. Yours for the takin’. So take her. “… Swept up in what?” “In him! It’s like I duped myself into thinking I was in love with him just because he was, what? Sweet? The bare fucking minimum?! It’s so stupid! And now I’m miles away from anything and anybody I know and it’s the same shit every day. I barely even get to be with him and it seems like all he’s good for is fucking me good every now and then, and he wouldn’t even be worth a damn at that if it weren’t for me. I didn’t sign up to be a piece of furniture he warms his cock in every so often.” Glenys, you really threw me to the wolves on this one. That is a lot. I’m out of my depth here. This is an opportunity. Take it. “It just feels like I’m along for the ride. Like what I want doesn’t matter.” “… And what do you want?” “I don’t know. Not this. I guess… I guess I don’t really know what I want anymore. I just feel stuck.” Damn…. Stuck, huh? I ain’t got too much for stuck. I always forced my way out of stuck ‘till I couldn’t no more. Wouldn’t be no good to tell her to do what I did. So what do I say, then. Shoot. Do I even have an angle here? I’m stumped. That seems to be happenin’ an awful lot more these days. Breakin’ all your problems is just easier, I guess. This must be some kind of comeuppance. “…. I hit him.” …. She hit him? Guess that would take some temerity. “What he do?” “He yelled at me. He’s never yelled at me. It made me mad, so….” “…. What he do about it?” “Nothing. He just crumbled and looked at me I was an actual devil.” “…. Did he deserve it?” “….” He didn’t. “I don’t know. I mean, we started arguing when he came in and I got scared and angry. So I slapped him. And I screamed at him.” But he didn’t start it, I bet. She was ready for a fight long before he got back. She would’ve fought me if I’d stuck around too long. I gotta figure out what to do here. Jump on the moment. This could be your only chance. Make her yours before she knows what hit her. Ugh…. I’m disgusted I’m even thnkin’ about it. But I ain’t doin’ none of that. Get yourself together, woman. Alright? This woman needs a helpin’ hand and you’re her elder. She’s puttin’ her trust in you by talkin’ at all. So think. She’s upset and she’s prolly in the wrong and she prolly knows that, too. But she needs somebody to get her there and you’re the only one here. So be delicate and don’t accuse her of nothin’. Just let her get where she needs to go. “You talk to him? ‘Bout how you feel?” ‘I… I mean... No. Not really. But nobody wants to just sit around doing nothing all the time, right? Isn’t it obvious?” “Is it?” “Yeah. I think…. Probably….” “He ever hurt you?” “No, but... that’s not really the point. I feel like a doll more than I feel like his fiancé.” “And what makes you feel that way?” “Okay, you know what? Is there a reason you’re drilling me right now? Do you have a point to make here?” One last drag. Could be my last. “Mind if I tell you what I see?” “… Go ahead.” Deep breath. “… I see two people who showed up on our doorstep lookin’ like they’d been through the Hells and back together and were ready to start somethin’ new. And they were glowin’ with hope because of it. I see a man who, despite what mistakes he may have made before, made a commitment to securin’ a future for the two of you and I see him beat the sun out of bed every mornin’ and make the decision to stick to that same commitment every day. I see him eat the same breakfast and walk out that door and come back covered in dust and sweat and the moment he comes back every evenin’ he still runs straight up them stairs ‘cause there ain’t a thing that man wants more than to be with you.” “So, what? I should just fucking worship him? ‘Cause he’s so damn perfect?” “I didn’t say all that. But I ain’t finished. ‘Cause I see you, too.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “I’m sayin’ I see you.” “I don’t really care what you think you see. You don’t know shit about me.” Tch. I guess I’m the one doin’ the lecturin’ now. “You’re right. I don’t. But I can still see. And I know I only see you when you need food or somethin’ to drink. And I see that you hardly do nothin’ when he ain’t around. And I see you wearin’ a new dress while he’s still in the same rags ya’ll got here in. And I see that he’s still got that same glow I talked about. But it’s dimmed for you, ain’t it?” Alright. The fire behind them amber eyes of hers died down a bit. We’re gettin’ somewhere. Damn, is she pretty in this dusk light. Especially when she ain’t tryin’ to kill me dead dead with a look. Like a chunk of sapphire. “Listen, I ain’t claimin’ to know nothin’ ‘bout nothin’. But it seems to me like you got yourself a damn good man up there. And he’s tryin’. Damn, is he tryin’. Maybe you feel neglected or scared and that’s alright. And you ought to tell him. But even though I been drillin’ you like you said, you still can’t tell me what the man did. Seems to me he listens to you. Tends to you. He tries to make sure you’re comfortable. Shit, men don’t learn nothin’ they don’t want to, so if you managed to bedroom train him then don’t that show that he cares how you feel?” There we go. A real laugh. That’s nice. Her laugh is real nice. “Look, I’m just afraid for you that you may be ruinin’ a good thing for no good reason. Or just ‘cause it’s hard. I did that once. Never stopped regretting it, neither. And if I’m wrong then you ain’t gotta mind nothin’ I say. I’m just tryin’ to help if I can. But, let me tell you, when I see that man of yours I see a man capable of so, so much and he’s puttin’ all he’s got into providin’ for you and makin’ a life for the two of you.” “… Yeah. I know. And it is hard, but… I don’t know. I don’t know why it’s hard. It’s not like I really have to do anything. I guess it feels like I’m just waiting for something to go wrong. Y’know, for him to not be the same guy one of these days. I don’t know…. Fuck. Am I an idiot?” “We all are. You just get better at maintainin’ it.” “Yeah, sure…. Sorry, uhm. Can I hit that?” …. Damn. She’s got some lungs on her. Can’t be her first time. “… I guess I spent so much time thinking about what could go wrong that I freaked myself out. And I may have just ruined everything.” “I don’t think so. That man’s obsessed with you, you know.” “I know.” “You will have to apologize to him, though.” “Fu-uck…. That’s gonna suck. What am I supposed to say?” “You’ll know.” “Tch. Great.” “Naw, I mean it. In the moment, when you’re in it, you’ll know. You ain’t gotta plan everythin’. Sometimes you just gotta follow the feelin'. You said so yourself. You did what you did ‘cause you spent too much time in your head. Next time try listenin’ to what’s in your gut.” “Fuck. I swear, all you country bumpkins think you’re poets or something…. But you could be right.” “I am right. I try not to say nothin’ ‘less I’m sure of it.” “You sure that’s not just the pipeweed?” “I am.” “Good. Then I’ll know who to complain to when things go tits up.” “Mhm. Now come on. We got dinner to serve soon and there’s prolly still work to do.” “We?” “You said you was bored and that sittin’ around gotcha thinkin’ too hard. So come on. Stick with me for now and if these boys say somethin’ sideways to ya, I’ll put ‘em in their place.” “I’ve… I’ve never done anything in a kitchen.” “Good. Then you’ll learn somethin’ too. And you can start puttin’ away some coin for yourself, too.” “….” “… And it’ll give you time to calm your nerves before goin’ up and talkin’ to Julian.” “… Yeah…. Yeah, alright.” “Good. Now come on.” Suppose that’s my good deed for the day. Way to keep a leash on it, old girl. If only barely. Shoot, I really ought to do somethin’ about that. Deprivin’ myself…. …. Maybe I ought to take up on o’ them merc boys after all. Just for tonight. Fuck. This sucks. I really thought I’d be more ready for this after getting it off my mind for a little bit. Gods, this feels like shit. Being a heartless bitch surrounded by horny assholes was so much easier. But this is what it is now. I made my choice. And I did what I did. And I’m in the wrong. Gotta make it right. Even if I have no fucking clue how to do that…. Gods. No getting out of it, I guess. Let’s get this thing over with…. …. Shit, I’m making a mess. I didn’t think carrying a tray of food up stairs would be this hard. Tziga makes it look so easy. Not like she couldn’t pick me up and toss me all the way back to Waterdeep if she wanted to, though. ‘Listen to your gut’, she said. Yeah. Great. What the Hells am I supposed to do with that? It feels like some of these rubes just say whatever they think sounds smart or profound or whatever and expect you to be grateful. I’m just as lost as I was an hour ago. Total non-advice bullshit. But what am I gonna say? ‘Hey, sorry I tore your throat out. Let me just put that back where it goes and let’s act like this never happened. Fireworks, hugs and kisses, let’s have sex.’ Like that would be enough. I don’t even know if an apology could fix this at this point. I mean… Gods, the things I said to him. What the fuck is my problem? He would’ve never said anything like that to me, but for some reason in the moment I just really wanted to hurt him. ‘Cause that’s what I do. A real heartless bitch. And he might just see that now. After tonight, he may not want anything to do with me anymore. Shit, I wouldn’t after getting reamed over nothing like that. Would he… would he just up and leave? He could if he wanted to. It’s his coin we’ve been living off of for the past few months and he’s been working. He really could go wherever he wanted and never have to see me again. And then what? I just go back to swinging? Being under somebody’s thumb again? I’d be right back to square one and who knows if I’d ever get out again. He’s the only reason I got out in the first place. Gods, I don’t fucking want that…. But if that’s what he decided, could I really blame him? Fuck…. …. The lamp is on in there, so he probably didn’t crawl out of the window or something. Gods, I feel like I’m gonna throw up… but there’s no turning back now. I gotta figure this out. “Julian.” …. “Julian, I have dinner. I can’t open the door.” …. Oh, come on baby. “… Could you open it for me? …. Please…?” …. …. There he is. Good. I don’t know how much longer I could even hold this tray. “…. Hey, um. I… I kind of made a mess, but it should still be good. We should enjoy it while it’s still hot. Er, what’s left of it, anyway.” Oof. Finally, I get to put this thing down. Shit. Okay. We’re in it. Now what? I still have no idea where to even start here. And he’s not saying anything. Gods, was he just up here sulking? This whole time? Fuck…. I’ll at least take the bowl I spilled the most from. And hopefully not spill any on the bed. Not that it really matters right now in the grand scheme of things. This buys me a little time, though. So come on, no more fucking around. I gotta apologize to him. How am I gonna do this? Do I really just open on sorry? What then? How do I not fuck this up? He deserves a real apology, but I just don’t know how to do that. I sure as Hells have never gotten one. Shit, how do they do this in those sappy books, again? I wish I had a couple of those on me. I might’ve had something fresh in my mind to pull from. …! …. He’s…. not gonna sit next to me…. And he’s not even gonna eat? Just keep looking off into nothing? Damn it. Maybe he really does hate me? Would anything I say even be able to reverse that? It’s not like I can just take it all back. As much as I wish I could. I really fucked up…. Maybe… maybe it’s better if I just don’t say anything? At least I wouldn’t make things any worse, then. Or maybe it’d be better to let him start. Knock me down a peg or two. It’d give him a chance to get things off his chest. I don’t think he’s ever done that, so maybe we could just get it out there and go from there? Ugh. Be real, though. He wouldn’t do that. I kind of wish he would. Fuck, fuck, what do I do…. “…. Temerity.” “…. Yeah?” “…. Temerity, I… I never meant to make you to feel like I own you. You’re right. I should’ve asked you what you wanted for us. I dragged you so far from Waterdeep to play out my ideal for our future and… I guess I had an idea in my head that I was saving you. But you’re not just a prize to me, Temerity. I love you so, so much and I am so sorry that I made you fee-” “Shut up, Julian.” Damn it, you big dumb ass. What the Hells are you apologizing for? “I really don’t want to hear your apologies right now. I started it and I freaked out at you. I’m the one who should be apologizing. You didn’t do anything wrong. Okay?” “….” “….” This is fucking agonizing. Please say something, baby. “….” “….” …. Ugh, Hells with it. Come here, big guy. See? I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to be so far away. I still care about you. I still love you. You’re stuck with me, y’know? Yeah…. Man, he’s still tense. And trembling, too. He’d usually melt in my arms when I kiss his neck like that. Poor guy…. “…. I’m an idiot, baby. I don’t know how to do this. Any of it. Never been away from the city, never stayed in a place like this. Never been with a guy like you. It’s all new to me. I’m… I’m trying to get used to it. Really. But it’s a lot. I don’t regret any of it, though.” “….” “…. Y’know, if I had the chance to do it all again, I still would’ve said yes that night. Before you, I never really had anybody I could depend on. I mean, I had some friends. But nobody I’d really expect to help me if ever really need someone. Getting used and stabbed in the back enough does that to you, I guess. But then you came along.” …. Gods, it’s like trying to cheer up a boulder. Come on. Move. Touch me. Do something. Please…. “You’re the sweetest, most considerate and trustworthy guy I’ve ever met. I know you’d never do anything to hurt me. I’m happy with you, baby. I trust you. I just…. I just got scared. You wouldn’t, I know, but I just kept thinking that maybe one of these days you would turn out to be like everybody else. I got all in my head and said a bunch of things I didn’t mean and… and….” …. Fuck. Is that… that really is what I was thinking, wasn’t it? What the fuck is wrong with me? Julian…. “… and I thought… I thought maybe if I pushed you you’d show me something that’d give me an excuse to leave.” “…. Is that what you want?” “No! I don’t want to leave and I don’t want you to go away.” Gods, of all the times for me to cry. Like I deserve to. “I want what you want, Julian. I want to be here with you and I want to start something of our own. But I’m fucking scared,. I don’t know how to be a good wife for you and I’m scared to fuck it up. And I’m scared that one of these days you’ll just stop loving me and I don’t know what I would do.” “Temerity-” “And I’m scared of what’ll happen if Prator comes looking for you!” “Temerity!” Julian…I was scared you might never touch me again. Or look at me again. Gods, your eyes are so red. You were crying up here by yourself, weren’t you? Because of me. I hate that I’m putting you through this. I’m so fucking sorry…. “Temerity, that won’t happen.” “It’s the Zhentarim, Julian. They could find us if they wanted to and then what are we-” “It won’t happen.” “How do you know?” “Because I wasn’t anybody important.” His hands are so hot. And even after what I did he’s trying to take care of me. I’m sorry I’m such a mess, baby. “Tem. They won’t look for me. I wasn’t valuable enough for that.” “You can’t be sure of that, Julian. And even if you’re right, Prator might still show-” “He wouldn’t be able to take me if he did!” Julian…. “Temerity. Nobody can take me from you. I’m not going back. I’m not. I won’t. They can’t take me and he can’t stop me. Not anymore. Temerity, you are everything to me. I don’t want a future without you in it and as long as you want me there is nothing that could take me from you. ” …. How does he do it? I feel like I shouldn't believe him, but… but I do. I really, really do. You really make me want to believe you can do anything, Julian. Like it’s okay to hope for once. To dream. It’s like you gave me a little bit of your fire and I tried to stomp it out. Fuck…. Hold me, baby. Please. “Julian! Of course I want you, baby. I’m so sorry for making you doubt that. I’m sorry for being so shitty to you. I’m sorry for being fucked up. I love you so fucking much, Julian. Please… please don’t fucking leave me, baby. I swear to the Gods I didn’t mean it and I wish so bad I could take everything I said back. I promise I’ll never hurt you like that again, okay? I promise….” I swear I’ll be better to you from now on. Please, Gods, just hold me. Squeeze me tighter. Don’t let me go. I’m begging you. “I’m… I’m so happy to hear you say that, Tem…. Thank you. I love you so much.” “I love you too, baby. I love you too.”	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75722611	{"authors": ["CandyBoyDeathParade"], "language": "English", "title": "In the Gaze of a Wolf Twice Starved"}
If I Woke Up Next To You Things in life don’t always turn out the way a man expects them to. He grows up with two loving parents, goes to school, elementary, middle, and high school, meets the love of his life, starts a band, gets successful, marries his high school sweetheart, and has a beautiful kid together, surrounded by friends and more than enough money to raise their kid. A great normal life. Until it breaks. His wife says she doesn’t love him anymore, for no discernible reason, but she starts dating this guy named Chet with a brain as tiny as a pea upon separation and brags about how much of a better lover he is. Life with no meaning. Well, some meaning. His son’s still there. Brilliant and bright, but with no understanding of what happened between his mother and father. He just knows he gets two Christmases and stays with his father every other week when he’s available. Patrick’s week has already started. Carter was watching some cartoons on the TV in the living room, wrapped in a blanket like it was exceptionally cold outside but it wasn’t. It was the middle of spring and, while the thermostat was set on Cool, it was maybe sixty-eight degrees inside compared to the seventy-five outside. Patrick was in the middle of preparing his son a snack when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out and checked the messages, expecting his ex-wife to be bothering him about money or making sure Carter wasn’t watching anything too violent. Instead, it was Pete. Well, more than just Pete. Pete: There’s this bar that just refreshed its entire menu. We should go! He sent a website attached to the message. Joe: Been for fucking ever since we’ve all gone out for drinks. Andy: Looks pretty cool. It looks like they have some local bands performing tonight. Patrick clicked on the link and quickly looked through the drink menu and some pictures of the bar. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it looked nice. As good as any respectable dive bar could be. He set a plate of sliced fruit by the couch next to Carter so he could nibble on it whenever he liked as he typed a response. Patrick: I don’t know, guys. I got Carter this week. I wanna hang out with him. His phone blew up as soon as he sent that text. Pete: Bitch, you have a babysitter, don’t you? Call them! Andy: Don’t you wanna hang out with your best friends outside of being forced to for work? Joe: C’mon, Patty! Be a guy’s guy tonight! Patrick felt a pang of uneasiness roll down his spine. Both at the use of that childish nickname—he was fucking forty years old—and the clear peer pressure that was definitely getting to him as much as he didn’t want to admit it. He hated being the only rule follower in a band of anarchists. Well, Andy wasn’t really one either but he sure looked like it. So, he called his babysitter and got ready to go out around six in the evening. Rian came a few minutes early and greeted Carter with a high-five at the door. “Hey, little guy!” They smiled down at him and ruffled his hair. Carter smiled brightly in return. “Hi, Rian!” “Do you want to put on a movie? I’ll let you pick, I just gotta talk to your dad for a second.” Rian crouched down before him. Their voice was soft and sweet. “Yes!” Carter pumped his fist in the air and ran off into the living room. Patrick’s lips quirked up before he regarded Rian more seriously. “I just want you to watch him until he goes to sleep. I’ll even pay you more because this is so last-minute.” He wrung his hands together. “No, it’s okay, Mr. Stump. I love the little guy.” Rian shook their head, waving him off. “How many times have I told you to call me Patrick?” He sighed. Rian just laughed in response. “Never going to happen. Glad you’re still holding out hope, though.” They walked deeper into the house and turned around momentarily just to say, “Don’t you have somewhere else to be, Mr. Stump?” Patrick watched them disappear behind a wall into the living room, faintly listening to the beginning of Paranormal Activity. God bless Carter. He’s not going to sleep tonight. Patrick shook his head and headed outside to his car. Patrick didn’t live too far outside the city, but it always felt like another world as soon as he entered the inner city limits. The lights shone differently. Or that was an astigmatism he needed to get checked out. The air was different. Probably all the smog. Still, he breathed it in like fresh air. He parked on the edge of the road by the sidewalk, a street away from the bar, and checked his phone. Pete, Joe, and Andy were already there. He took his time walking. Thinking. Of all the embarrassing memories he’d ever had. His faults. The possible reasons his wife decided to check out of their marriage. His faults. He had a lot of time to do that lately. A lot more than usual. He didn’t want to think anymore. So, a bar was the best way to forget. Just for a moment. But he’d forget. Inside, the bar was packed with bodies. He could feel the heat emitting from them, and yet, the atmosphere felt cool. Cold. Comforting, he thought. Some band played on a makeshift stage that wasn’t much higher than the ground floor. They looked like an echo of Chicago bands from a past time with low-rise, baggy jeans and floppy hair that looked just a little off. His eyes scanned the crowd as they chatted amongst one another and found his friends quite easily. Andy was likely the only ginger in a ten-mile radius. It was how he was able to pick out his bandmates in a crowd most of the time. He’d never admit it. When Patrick got closer, Pete patted him on the back. “Hey, man. Glad you could make time for us.” He teased. “It’s not like I—” Patrick tried. “We already got you a beer.” Joe interrupted as he offered a dark bottle to Patrick. Andy had a glass of water and a root beer that sat on the bar top. “The bands so far have been good.” He smiled. “I heard the next one is even better.” He was the one most plugged into the Chicago music scene nowadays, though they all still lived in and around the city. The band still onstage continued with their set. The original songs weren’t bad at all, just not that good. Something was up with the lyrics and the technique the lead singer had, sounding out the vowels weirdly. A little too whiny. Patrick could see splashes of white every single time the singer opened his mouth. Not good. He tried his best to tune it out in favor of alcohol. Beers. IPAs—he usually hated those but he made his mission to get, if not drunk, tipsy. Cocktails. Shots of liquor he didn’t know, but Pete got them, so it must’ve been fine. They slid down his throat, burning a path into his stomach. It worked. At a cost. “I just don’t get what Chet has that I don’t. He’s taller, sure. A six-pack or something,” Patrick hiccuped. “But his dick can’t be that big to make up for his lack of brain.” He huffed, hunched over the bar as he stared at the remaining drops of amber liquid in his glass. “And we all know who has the biggest dick in Fall Out Boy.” Joe nudged Patrick’s shoulder. He pouted, flushed, then turned bashful like he appreciated the compliment. Joe glanced at Pete. “And the smallest.” “Hey!” Pete said with mock offense. “It’s average, thank you very much.” The band onstage thanked the crowd at the end of their set, causing an uproar in some cheers and bodies congregating at the bar. Patrick was happy that voice was no longer on a microphone but it caused a lull in conversation. And another round. Some local beer that tasted much better than a Miller, so that was good. Not so piss-tasting. “Look,” Pete’s voice softened, “Mina wasn’t the best. You can’t blame Chet or yourself for everything. Pretty sure she cheated.” He shrugged. That did not make Patrick feel better. He slapped his hands against his face, making a weak noise, half-tempted to bang his head against the countertop. That would end his suffering. He hoped. Give himself a concussion so good that he wouldn’t remember the last twenty years. “Good job. Now he’s even more depressed.” Andy rolled his eyes. “Wasn’t the whole point of this to not make him depressed?” He punched Pete’s shoulder. “Good afternoon, my name is Wren and this is Lily. We are 2Crows and we’re going to sing a few songs if you don’t mind.” Great. Another singer Patrick was gonna have to tune out. Soft guitar began to play. Gentle, simple notes so different from the previous band. “I, I wouldn’t fare well, And I, I couldn't fare well, Hedgehog under a van wheel kind of wouldn't fare well, Out here tryna feel good again,” Patrick lifted his head. He blinked at the sound of the voice. Raspy yet soft. Deep and gentle. Splotches of a deep chocolate exploded behind his eyes. Drums that reminded him of some sort of cultural dance began. “And I, I wouldn't fare well, A kitten cozy in the engine type of wouldn't fare well, A dog deep into the chocolate kind of wouldn't fare well, Out here tryna feel good again,” He tried to get a good look at the stage but there were too many people in the way and he was unfortunately too short. He caught glimpses of tattoos, dark hair, and piercings that glinted in the light. “She’s got a nice voice.” Joe commented, a mildly impressed look on his face. “Bro, look at Patrick.” Pete whispered not as subtly as he thought. “Bro, look at Andy.” Joe nudged Pete’s elbow and pointed towards the redhead. Pete chuckled. “Of course he’s looking at the drummer.” “I'll take any high, Any glazing of the eyes, Any solitary pleasure that was sorrow in disguise, Let the sun only shine on me through a falling sky, I'll be alright, Joy, disaster, come unbound here, I'll deny me none while I'm allowed, With all things above the ground,” Sunlight seemed to rise over the horizon in Patrick’s mind, sobering him up as if splashed by cold water. He couldn’t breathe when he finally got an unobstructed view of the singer. She had honey skin that was washed out by the stark lighting above her. Dark raven hair, a piece of silver framed the side of her face, and bangs were cut to	If I Woke Up Next To You Things in life don’t always turn out the way a man expects them to. He grows up with two loving parents, goes to school, elementary, middle, and high school, meets the love of his life, starts a band, gets successful, marries his high school sweetheart, and has a beautiful kid together, surrounded by friends and more than enough money to raise their kid. A great normal life. Until it breaks. His wife says she doesn’t love him anymore, for no discernible reason, but she starts dating this guy named Chet with a brain as tiny as a pea upon separation and brags about how much of a better lover he is. Life with no meaning. Well, some meaning. His son’s still there. Brilliant and bright, but with no understanding of what happened between his mother and father. He just knows he gets two Christmases and stays with his father every other week when he’s available. Patrick’s week has already started. Carter was watching some cartoons on the TV in the living room, wrapped in a blanket like it was exceptionally cold outside but it wasn’t. It was the middle of spring and, while the thermostat was set on Cool, it was maybe sixty-eight degrees inside compared to the seventy-five outside. Patrick was in the middle of preparing his son a snack when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out and checked the messages, expecting his ex-wife to be bothering him about money or making sure Carter wasn’t watching anything too violent. Instead, it was Pete. Well, more than just Pete. Pete: There’s this bar that just refreshed its entire menu. We should go! He sent a website attached to the message. Joe: Been for fucking ever since we’ve all gone out for drinks. Andy: Looks pretty cool. It looks like they have some local bands performing tonight. Patrick clicked on the link and quickly looked through the drink menu and some pictures of the bar. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it looked nice. As good as any respectable dive bar could be. He set a plate of sliced fruit by the couch next to Carter so he could nibble on it whenever he liked as he typed a response. Patrick: I don’t know, guys. I got Carter this week. I wanna hang out with him. His phone blew up as soon as he sent that text. Pete: Bitch, you have a babysitter, don’t you? Call them! Andy: Don’t you wanna hang out with your best friends outside of being forced to for work? Joe: C’mon, Patty! Be a guy’s guy tonight! Patrick felt a pang of uneasiness roll down his spine. Both at the use of that childish nickname—he was fucking forty years old—and the clear peer pressure that was definitely getting to him as much as he didn’t want to admit it. He hated being the only rule follower in a band of anarchists. Well, Andy wasn’t really one either but he sure looked like it. So, he called his babysitter and got ready to go out around six in the evening. Rian came a few minutes early and greeted Carter with a high-five at the door. “Hey, little guy!” They smiled down at him and ruffled his hair. Carter smiled brightly in return. “Hi, Rian!” “Do you want to put on a movie? I’ll let you pick, I just gotta talk to your dad for a second.” Rian crouched down before him. Their voice was soft and sweet. “Yes!” Carter pumped his fist in the air and ran off into the living room. Patrick’s lips quirked up before he regarded Rian more seriously. “I just want you to watch him until he goes to sleep. I’ll even pay you more because this is so last-minute.” He wrung his hands together. “No, it’s okay, Mr. Stump. I love the little guy.” Rian shook their head, waving him off. “How many times have I told you to call me Patrick?” He sighed. Rian just laughed in response. “Never going to happen. Glad you’re still holding out hope, though.” They walked deeper into the house and turned around momentarily just to say, “Don’t you have somewhere else to be, Mr. Stump?” Patrick watched them disappear behind a wall into the living room, faintly listening to the beginning of Paranormal Activity. God bless Carter. He’s not going to sleep tonight. Patrick shook his head and headed outside to his car. Patrick didn’t live too far outside the city, but it always felt like another world as soon as he entered the inner city limits. The lights shone differently. Or that was an astigmatism he needed to get checked out. The air was different. Probably all the smog. Still, he breathed it in like fresh air. He parked on the edge of the road by the sidewalk, a street away from the bar, and checked his phone. Pete, Joe, and Andy were already there. He took his time walking. Thinking. Of all the embarrassing memories he’d ever had. His faults. The possible reasons his wife decided to check out of their marriage. His faults. He had a lot of time to do that lately. A lot more than usual. He didn’t want to think anymore. So, a bar was the best way to forget. Just for a moment. But he’d forget. Inside, the bar was packed with bodies. He could feel the heat emitting from them, and yet, the atmosphere felt cool. Cold. Comforting, he thought. Some band played on a makeshift stage that wasn’t much higher than the ground floor. They looked like an echo of Chicago bands from a past time with low-rise, baggy jeans and floppy hair that looked just a little off. His eyes scanned the crowd as they chatted amongst one another and found his friends quite easily. Andy was likely the only ginger in a ten-mile radius. It was how he was able to pick out his bandmates in a crowd most of the time. He’d never admit it. When Patrick got closer, Pete patted him on the back. “Hey, man. Glad you could make time for us.” He teased. “It’s not like I—” Patrick tried. “We already got you a beer.” Joe interrupted as he offered a dark bottle to Patrick. Andy had a glass of water and a root beer that sat on the bar top. “The bands so far have been good.” He smiled. “I heard the next one is even better.” He was the one most plugged into the Chicago music scene nowadays, though they all still lived in and around the city. The band still onstage continued with their set. The original songs weren’t bad at all, just not that good. Something was up with the lyrics and the technique the lead singer had, sounding out the vowels weirdly. A little too whiny. Patrick could see splashes of white every single time the singer opened his mouth. Not good. He tried his best to tune it out in favor of alcohol. Beers. IPAs—he usually hated those but he made his mission to get, if not drunk, tipsy. Cocktails. Shots of liquor he didn’t know, but Pete got them, so it must’ve been fine. They slid down his throat, burning a path into his stomach. It worked. At a cost. “I just don’t get what Chet has that I don’t. He’s taller, sure. A six-pack or something,” Patrick hiccuped. “But his dick can’t be that big to make up for his lack of brain.” He huffed, hunched over the bar as he stared at the remaining drops of amber liquid in his glass. “And we all know who has the biggest dick in Fall Out Boy.” Joe nudged Patrick’s shoulder. He pouted, flushed, then turned bashful like he appreciated the compliment. Joe glanced at Pete. “And the smallest.” “Hey!” Pete said with mock offense. “It’s average, thank you very much.” The band onstage thanked the crowd at the end of their set, causing an uproar in some cheers and bodies congregating at the bar. Patrick was happy that voice was no longer on a microphone but it caused a lull in conversation. And another round. Some local beer that tasted much better than a Miller, so that was good. Not so piss-tasting. “Look,” Pete’s voice softened, “Mina wasn’t the best. You can’t blame Chet or yourself for everything. Pretty sure she cheated.” He shrugged. That did not make Patrick feel better. He slapped his hands against his face, making a weak noise, half-tempted to bang his head against the countertop. That would end his suffering. He hoped. Give himself a concussion so good that he wouldn’t remember the last twenty years. “Good job. Now he’s even more depressed.” Andy rolled his eyes. “Wasn’t the whole point of this to not make him depressed?” He punched Pete’s shoulder. “Good afternoon, my name is Wren and this is Lily. We are 2Crows and we’re going to sing a few songs if you don’t mind.” Great. Another singer Patrick was gonna have to tune out. Soft guitar began to play. Gentle, simple notes so different from the previous band. “I, I wouldn’t fare well, And I, I couldn't fare well, Hedgehog under a van wheel kind of wouldn't fare well, Out here tryna feel good again,” Patrick lifted his head. He blinked at the sound of the voice. Raspy yet soft. Deep and gentle. Splotches of a deep chocolate exploded behind his eyes. Drums that reminded him of some sort of cultural dance began. “And I, I wouldn't fare well, A kitten cozy in the engine type of wouldn't fare well, A dog deep into the chocolate kind of wouldn't fare well, Out here tryna feel good again,” He tried to get a good look at the stage but there were too many people in the way and he was unfortunately too short. He caught glimpses of tattoos, dark hair, and piercings that glinted in the light. “She’s got a nice voice.” Joe commented, a mildly impressed look on his face. “Bro, look at Patrick.” Pete whispered not as subtly as he thought. “Bro, look at Andy.” Joe nudged Pete’s elbow and pointed towards the redhead. Pete chuckled. “Of course he’s looking at the drummer.” “I'll take any high, Any glazing of the eyes, Any solitary pleasure that was sorrow in disguise, Let the sun only shine on me through a falling sky, I'll be alright, Joy, disaster, come unbound here, I'll deny me none while I'm allowed, With all things above the ground,” Sunlight seemed to rise over the horizon in Patrick’s mind, sobering him up as if splashed by cold water. He couldn’t breathe when he finally got an unobstructed view of the singer. She had honey skin that was washed out by the stark lighting above her. Dark raven hair, a piece of silver framed the side of her face, and bangs were cut to a point. A smattering of tattoos across her arms, up her neck, and what other skin he could see uncovered by her sleeveless shirt. She had spikes in her nose bridge and along her brow, a ring in her septum, and lobes decorated in silver. Her lips, which sang such beautiful notes, were painted a deep wine color. The guitar sitting on her lap was black but clearly loved and used with scratches at the edges, old stickers that peeled at the sides, and painted vines swirling up the neck. He stared at her hands. Her fingers were thick, strong, a little calloused as all good guitar players are, and her nails were painted black with some sort of silver shimmering over it, easily strumming the notes of the song he assumed she wrote. “And I, I wouldn't fare well, A whale swimming up Sumida Gawa wouldn't fare well, Critic hoping to be remembered wouldn't fare well, Out here tryna feel good again, I'll take any high, Any glazing of the eyes, Any solitary pleasure that was sorrow in disguise, Let the sun only shine on me through a falling sky, I'll be alright, Joy, disaster, come unbound here, I'll deny me none while I'm allowed, With all things above the ground.” The last note of the song rang out, resonating within the packed bar. The drunk crowd appeared to genuinely enjoy the music rather than just idly dancing along to whatever the band onstage would play, finding the rhythm and the beat just to move. “Patrick, c’mon, this is the perfect opportunity to dust off those flirting skills.” Joe squeezed the shorter man’s shoulders. “I don’t think I have those.” Patrick said weakly. Mina caught him. Not the other way around. Somehow, amongst all the nervous stuttering and tight smiles between and during classes, he endeared himself to her and the rest was history. Now, Patrick was entering his forties, divorced, single, with one child. He could get back in the dating game, but had no real experience in it. He wasn’t like Pete, who could charm his way into anyone's pants if he tried hard enough. He was the complete opposite and he hated it sometimes. Too strict on himself. One-night stands seemed great until he thought of all the logistics and hoops he would have to jump through. One might call that responsible. Another, uptight. “Where’d Andy go?” Pete suddenly asked, glancing around the bar. Joe laughed. “Chatting up that drummer.” He nodded in the direction of the stage. The band seemed to be setting up for another song, so Andy took the opportunity lying in front of him. Was that Lily? Or was that Wren? Patrick remembered they introduced themselves but he couldn’t remember who was who. He wasn’t paying enough attention. Regardless, the drummer was less metal than the singer. She had deep brown hair pulled into twin buns and side-swept bangs. Less tattoos which were also more gray than black, piercings in her septum like the singer, but she had a labret, her skin a shade or two lighter, and wore a cozy oversized sweater. She and Andy laughed at something, clearly into whatever he was saying. Andy was so soft-spoken and mild-mannered that Patrick forgot that he, too, had more game than he did. He just wasn’t one to brag about it like Joe or Pete. As the night wound down, Patrick found himself thinking about that singer as he drove home. Her voice felt ethereal. Aged. Like she had been through a lot, but still held onto hope and happiness. She couldn’t be that old, though. She looked like she was in her twenties, maybe? He couldn’t get her voice out of his head. He attempted to copy it. “I’ll take any high. Any glazing of the eyes. Any solitary pleasure that was sorrow in disguise. Let the sun only shine on me through a falling sky. I’ll be alright.” Patrick drummed on his steering wheel, imagining it as the guitar riff. His voice was a little too clear. Not dirty enough. Not rough enough to match the song. The colors weren’t the same. Her voice was a sweet golden color. When he sang it, it turned to a nasty green. A dead pumpkin rotting on a porch, slimy and wrong. When he came home, a lamp in the living room was still on. Patrick turned it off. He went upstairs and checked in on Carter, nudging the door open a crack. He was wrapped tightly in his bed, head restlessly jerking around. His mother did warn him against watching horror movies. Patrick closed the door as softly as possible and retreated to his own bedroom. Getting ready for bed was its own sort of torture. He couldn’t stop thinking about those hands. Those hands around the neck of that guitar. That voice. That voice coming from those painted lips. He was painfully hard against his will. So, as any other man would do, Patrick did something about it. However, he was smart. He used it as an excuse to shower at the same time. More convenient that way. All he needed was to imagine her voice and he knew he’d get there. Hand pumping his cock, huffing softly, even whining, Patrick replayed her performance over and over in his mind. His head fell back, water cascading down his body, hair smoothed over the curve of his face. As clear as day, her voice echoed in his ears. “Joy, disaster, come unbound here. I'll deny me none while I'm allowed. With all things above the ground.” He didn’t deny himself anything at that moment, chasing after a pleasure he knew was to satisfy some base need that he wished he was above. It didn’t matter. He’d never see that girl again. A shame, really, she was so talented. He knew the struggles of being a hometown band that couldn’t make it out of the city. It was a stroke of pure luck that he and his friends got as famous as they did. Going to bed that night, Patrick actually felt refreshed. Unburdened. Not so lonely in his king-sized bed and no one to share it with. He felt warm. Could have been the alcohol. Could have been something else. He slept better that night than any other since separating from his wife. Out like a light and no longer restless. More like a bear in hibernation.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75731271/chapters/198075456	{"authors": ["pickledpascal"], "language": "English", "title": "If I Woke Up Next To You"}
The Dragonic melodies, Saya’s hourglass. (First book) As you walk into a tavern, the barkeeper offers you a menu of alcohol and food. As you dig through your coin pouch, they begin telling you some crazy stories. One stuck out especially… one of shapeshifting dragons, gods, and reality. After you order they leave and come back with the order. You slowly drift to sleep, eating the warm food and drink. They continue their story, not noticing or caring that you fell asleep. (Transition to Falkor) Falkor woke up with a stretch, spreading her wings out. That felt good, she wandered into the front room of the clay house. She glided down to the kitchen where Motu was making some breakfast for them, berries and fish. He cut the fish’s head off and took the spines out. Motu had celandine weaved between his horns. Koklo came down stairs after Falkor with a grumpy tired expression. She grabbed a fish and ate it without a word. Motu stared at her with awe and disgust. Motu: “hey, I’m making breakfast. It’s raw” Koklo: “we don’t cook the fish unless someone has good news…?” Motu smiles in the same way he always does whenever keeping a secret. A good secret. Falkor looked up, tilting her head. Falkor: “Motu, what’s the news?” Motu starts a fire under the stone panel to cook the fish on top of it. The fish sizzle. Koklo’s ear flicks when she heard it sizzle. Motu: “I got a letter from mom and dad’s leader. I haven’t read it yet. But I’m guessing it’s good news” Motu places the fish and berries at the talons of his siblings. They dig in while he got the letter. He opened it and read it. His scales seemed to get duller, his eyes darken. Falkor was too busy eating to notice Motu. She was enjoying how sweet the berries were. Motu: “Falkor… can you go collect more berries with Galasi and Tasuma? I used the rest for breakfast.” Koklo: “Motu… what’s in that letter” Falkor looked up, she looked scared. She wiped the mess from her snout. Falkor: “I’ll go collect berries…” She got up, moving toward Motu and the door. She made a small detour to try and see what was the letter about. The only words she could see was their names, but Motu hid it quickly. She headed out to collect her friends, Galasi and Tasuma. She always felt happy near them. She didn’t know it was a crush yet. But she often dreamt about them all being goddesses in a wonderful land with lots of food. But now was very good too. They weren’t goddesses, but they did have a secret area just for them, where the berries grew the sweetest and biggest. As if they were forever ripe. Galasi was sick but Tasuma wasn’t. So Tasuma and Falkor went to their secret garden. The garden had flowers and black berries growing all around, with a giant hourglass in the middle. The hourglass had a small bowl that was cracked and weathered from time. Tasuma and Falkor collected berries. They had berry baskets decorated with flowers they had chosen to represent one of them each. Tasuma was a gladiolus flower, Galasi was a purple iris, and Falkor was a globe amaranth.	The Dragonic melodies, Saya’s hourglass. (First book) As you walk into a tavern, the barkeeper offers you a menu of alcohol and food. As you dig through your coin pouch, they begin telling you some crazy stories. One stuck out especially… one of shapeshifting dragons, gods, and reality. After you order they leave and come back with the order. You slowly drift to sleep, eating the warm food and drink. They continue their story, not noticing or caring that you fell asleep. (Transition to Falkor) Falkor woke up with a stretch, spreading her wings out. That felt good, she wandered into the front room of the clay house. She glided down to the kitchen where Motu was making some breakfast for them, berries and fish. He cut the fish’s head off and took the spines out. Motu had celandine weaved between his horns. Koklo came down stairs after Falkor with a grumpy tired expression. She grabbed a fish and ate it without a word. Motu stared at her with awe and disgust. Motu: “hey, I’m making breakfast. It’s raw” Koklo: “we don’t cook the fish unless someone has good news…?” Motu smiles in the same way he always does whenever keeping a secret. A good secret. Falkor looked up, tilting her head. Falkor: “Motu, what’s the news?” Motu starts a fire under the stone panel to cook the fish on top of it. The fish sizzle. Koklo’s ear flicks when she heard it sizzle. Motu: “I got a letter from mom and dad’s leader. I haven’t read it yet. But I’m guessing it’s good news” Motu places the fish and berries at the talons of his siblings. They dig in while he got the letter. He opened it and read it. His scales seemed to get duller, his eyes darken. Falkor was too busy eating to notice Motu. She was enjoying how sweet the berries were. Motu: “Falkor… can you go collect more berries with Galasi and Tasuma? I used the rest for breakfast.” Koklo: “Motu… what’s in that letter” Falkor looked up, she looked scared. She wiped the mess from her snout. Falkor: “I’ll go collect berries…” She got up, moving toward Motu and the door. She made a small detour to try and see what was the letter about. The only words she could see was their names, but Motu hid it quickly. She headed out to collect her friends, Galasi and Tasuma. She always felt happy near them. She didn’t know it was a crush yet. But she often dreamt about them all being goddesses in a wonderful land with lots of food. But now was very good too. They weren’t goddesses, but they did have a secret area just for them, where the berries grew the sweetest and biggest. As if they were forever ripe. Galasi was sick but Tasuma wasn’t. So Tasuma and Falkor went to their secret garden. The garden had flowers and black berries growing all around, with a giant hourglass in the middle. The hourglass had a small bowl that was cracked and weathered from time. Tasuma and Falkor collected berries. They had berry baskets decorated with flowers they had chosen to represent one of them each. Tasuma was a gladiolus flower, Galasi was a purple iris, and Falkor was a globe amaranth.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75731276/chapters/198075476	{"authors": ["Averyhumanyes"], "language": "English", "title": "The Dragonic melodies, Saya’s hourglass. (First book)"}
Bad Judgement- Sex Boots Todie squeezed his large body through the tight crowds, eager to get his eyes on the promised hot girls in G-strings swinging from poles. The queue had been longer than he’d expected, and for some reason there were a lot of women here. Guess pole dancing attracts a diverse crowd these days. He didn’t care who was in the crowd. He just knew that insane, gravity-defying moves were happening, and he was missing them. Todie clutched the flyer in his hand tighter. Maybe missing her. He and his uni classmate Steve had almost got close enough to see the stage when there was a tug on Todie’s tank-top. Todie looked behind to see a pretty brunette smiling up at him. “Are you part of the show?” She asked, running her nails over the tank that clung tightly to Todie’s muscled chest. “I’d love to see you on stage out of your clothes.” “Or in my room.” Her giggling friend added. “Yeah, I guess it’d be nice to be on stage with them,” Todie grinned politely, before dashing to catch up with Steve, who didn’t seem to be having any issues with random women groping him. Todie didn’t mind the attention. He’d worked hard to make his body look good. As a swimmer, his stunningly smooth and muscled chest was often on display. It was only natural that women would be drawn to him. But it was strange that she thought I’d be part of a women’s pole dancing show. Todie shrugged as he moved to a spot in view of the stage. A man, almost as muscled as Todie, hung upside down on a pole. Every inch of his skin not covered by the white-fringed, assless chaps or the tiny white G-string was on display for the cheering crowd as he waved his matching white cowboy hat in the air. That’s not a sexy lady “Are you sure you read that flyer right?” Steve yelled up into Todie’s ear. “Cause it sure as shit looks like you just dragged me into a men's strip club?” “Nah, it says pole dancing show.” Todie unclenched his fist and showed Steve the crumpled flyer. “See. There’s a picture of a woman’s sexy pink boots and it says, Ladies’ pole night, featuring The Funnel-Web Spinners.” “Todie.” Steve groaned. “This is clearly an ad for a lady’s pole-dancing night.” “Yeah. A lady pole-dancing night. That’s what I said.” “No, the dancers aren’t the ladies. It’s a pole-dancing show for women. With male strippers like this guy.” Steve pointed at the cowboy, who dropped from the pole and did the splits. “These Funnel-Web Spinners must be some male strip group.” “But why would they have these sexy lady legs on the flyer if there are no female dancers?” “Todie, you’re one of my best mates, and I love you, but you've got to stop being so gullible. The image in the ad is probably just some stock image or AI-generated slop.” “She’s not AI slop. She’s real,” Todie said, holding the flyer to his chest. “I’ve been waiting all week to meet the girl with these boots.” He’d been having dreams of Miss Sexy Boots from the flyer since he’d picked it up at the campus coffee shop. He’d lost sleep imagining her wearing those boots and spinning around a pole in nothing but a G-string. Maybe if he could catch her eye, she’d want to meet Todie too. And most girls who met him wanted to sleep with him. Although one night with Miss Sexy Boots might not be enough. Maybe she’d even want to be my girlfriend? “And he can ride off into my sunset any day,” a voice boomed over the loudspeakers. “Ladies, let's hear it for the Sundown Cowboy.” Whoops and yells filled the room as the women hollered for more. Steve tapped his arm. “Mate, I think I’ve had my fill of gyrating cocks in my face, you wanna go find that bar and get an overpriced drink with me?” “Yeah, I guess we should go—” “And lady’s now it’s time for the key ingredient in every Yummy, Yummy, Fruit Salad,” the booming voice yelled, drowning out Todie’s reply. “Give it up for Summer Berry.” A tall figure in a pink leotard backflipped onto the stage. Her long neon-pink hair flipped in a perfect arch behind her. A roar erupted as she blew pink-lipped kisses to the crowd. Todie’s eye went straight to her long legs and the neon pink thigh-high leather boots that covered them. “Holy shit.” A grin spread across Todie's face as he held up the flyer. “That’s her. She’s the legs from the flyer!” Summer Berries. The beautiful name suited the pink dancer, who launched herself onto the pole. With one long leg around it, she spun, her head leaning back, those pink locks falling just above the floor as she circled the pole. Damn, she’s even hotter than I imagined. Another scream as Summer hung by one arm at the top of the pole, doing the splits as she blew more kisses to the crowd. “Fuck, did you see that?” Todie yelled to Steve. “Isn’t she incredible?” Steve groaned. “This is what I mean about you being too gullible.” “What do you mean?” Steve rolled his eyes. “Todie, Summer Berry is a man.” Todie looked back at the beautiful figure spinning down the pole. No, she couldn’t be a man. Men didn’t dance as sexy as that. Men didn’t look hot in boots like that. And Men didn’t make Todie’s heart race like it was going to rip from his muscled chest. “That doesn’t make any sense. How can she be a guy?” “These guys are an all-male entertainment group. Even the pretty pink ones in thigh-high fuck-me boots are men.” Summer flipped upside down, tore off their top and tossed it to the floor. A pale white and very flat chest stared back at Todie. Well, bare except for the two pink heart-shaped stickers covering his nipples. Oh… He is a guy… Todie kept his eyes on Summer as he continued to defy gravity. His leg spinning outstretched wide above him. His glittering body sparkled under the stage lights. But he’s also really pretty... Even his butt in those tight pink hot pants that clung to the curves of his firm cheeks looked good. I mean, dating a pretty man like him would kinda be like dating a girl…wouldn’t it? The screams rose again as Summer dismounted the pole and strutted down the runway. I need to get closer to get a better look at him. “Todie, did you hear me?” Steve's voice pulled Todie away from Summer’s gaze. “Hm? What?” “I’m going out to the bar. You coming?” Summer waved, urging the crowd closer. “You go. I am going to thank Summer Berries.” “Why?” Steve's cries were lost in the sea of women cheering for Summer as Todie pushed to the front of the elevated runway. Now, closer, he could see the glittered heart shapes that sat under the man’s eyes. The pink highlights above them matched his bright pink lips. “You're really pretty.” Todie yelled up at Summer as he caught his eye. The man narrowed his eyes and held a hand to his ear. “I said, you're really pretty.” Todie yelled louder. The beautiful man winked at him as he pushed his pink hair from his face and reached out to Todie. Does he want me to come join him? Well, Todie didn’t need to be asked twice. He grabbed the edge of the runway and hoisted himself up next to Summer, who was even taller than he had seemed from afar. His mascara line deep green eyes stared wide-eyed at Todie. “Hi.” Todie said, grinning as he waved at him. “You’re really tall.” “Yeah—I am wearing six-inch heels.” Summer said slowly as he took a step back. “What are you doing on my stage?” “You invited me up here.” Todie said, shaking his hips to the beat of the techno song playing. “No, I didn’t. I was asking for tips.” Summer said through his teeth while still smiling to the crowd. “I don’t do audience participation, like the other hacks in this group.” Summer turned on his heel, his pink hair hitting Todie’s face, as he crossed the stage to a woman who put a twenty-dollar note into his underwear. He thanked her before glaring over his shoulder at Todie. “Well… hurr…and…get off.” “Off?” Todie struggled to hear him over the surrounding screams. He grabbed the bottom of his shirt. “You mean get my shirt off?” “Take it off,” a voice in the crowd yelled. “Yeah, come on. Take your shirt off, big boy,” came another yell. Todie shrugged and pulled his shirt over his head. The room filled with more screams. He grinned back at Summer. “I see why you do this. It’s really fun.” “What the hell are you doing?” Summer snapped at him. “You said to get my shirt off.” “Are you really this dumb? I said, to get off my stage.” “Oh, sorry, I” —a hand jutted forward and handed Todie a twenty—“Thanks,” Todie said, nodding at her before turning back to find Summer had already moved across the stage. Todie went to follow, but a woman in the crowd tugged on his pants. “Hey, I have two pineapples for you if you take off your pants.” She yelled up at Todie, waving two yellow fifty-dollar notes. A chant began around the room. “Take them off. Take them off.” Todie didn’t want to upset a room full of women. He ran his hand down his stomach and unzipped the fly of his jeans. Todie swung his hips in time with the music as he pressed his jeans down his thighs and to the floor, leaving him in only his bright red briefs and sneakers. A sea of hands pulled at Todie’s legs as they reached up to shove blue, yellow and pink notes into his underwear. Todie waved the notes to show the cash to Summer, but he was already walking off stage. The music stopped, and the PA voice came back. “Let's thank Summer Berry and Mr Audience Participation. We once again wish to remind patrons that our performers at Funnel Web Spinners are professionals. The Arch club and its staff do not endorse or take responsibility for patrons who are hurt or injured on stage. Now let's hear it again for Summer Berry.” “Wait. Mr Berries,” Todie yelled after Summer as the women grabbed at his legs. “Sorry, ladies, I have to go.” Todie pried himself from their grasp, scooped up his pants and shirt from the floor, and hurried after Summer. “Now I hope you ladies have all been on your best behaviour, because here comes Officer McDickington to crack the case.” The PA voice yelled. “Sorry, Officer,” Todie yelled as he narrowly avoided colliding with Officer McDickington. Todie	Bad Judgement- Sex Boots Todie squeezed his large body through the tight crowds, eager to get his eyes on the promised hot girls in G-strings swinging from poles. The queue had been longer than he’d expected, and for some reason there were a lot of women here. Guess pole dancing attracts a diverse crowd these days. He didn’t care who was in the crowd. He just knew that insane, gravity-defying moves were happening, and he was missing them. Todie clutched the flyer in his hand tighter. Maybe missing her. He and his uni classmate Steve had almost got close enough to see the stage when there was a tug on Todie’s tank-top. Todie looked behind to see a pretty brunette smiling up at him. “Are you part of the show?” She asked, running her nails over the tank that clung tightly to Todie’s muscled chest. “I’d love to see you on stage out of your clothes.” “Or in my room.” Her giggling friend added. “Yeah, I guess it’d be nice to be on stage with them,” Todie grinned politely, before dashing to catch up with Steve, who didn’t seem to be having any issues with random women groping him. Todie didn’t mind the attention. He’d worked hard to make his body look good. As a swimmer, his stunningly smooth and muscled chest was often on display. It was only natural that women would be drawn to him. But it was strange that she thought I’d be part of a women’s pole dancing show. Todie shrugged as he moved to a spot in view of the stage. A man, almost as muscled as Todie, hung upside down on a pole. Every inch of his skin not covered by the white-fringed, assless chaps or the tiny white G-string was on display for the cheering crowd as he waved his matching white cowboy hat in the air. That’s not a sexy lady “Are you sure you read that flyer right?” Steve yelled up into Todie’s ear. “Cause it sure as shit looks like you just dragged me into a men's strip club?” “Nah, it says pole dancing show.” Todie unclenched his fist and showed Steve the crumpled flyer. “See. There’s a picture of a woman’s sexy pink boots and it says, Ladies’ pole night, featuring The Funnel-Web Spinners.” “Todie.” Steve groaned. “This is clearly an ad for a lady’s pole-dancing night.” “Yeah. A lady pole-dancing night. That’s what I said.” “No, the dancers aren’t the ladies. It’s a pole-dancing show for women. With male strippers like this guy.” Steve pointed at the cowboy, who dropped from the pole and did the splits. “These Funnel-Web Spinners must be some male strip group.” “But why would they have these sexy lady legs on the flyer if there are no female dancers?” “Todie, you’re one of my best mates, and I love you, but you've got to stop being so gullible. The image in the ad is probably just some stock image or AI-generated slop.” “She’s not AI slop. She’s real,” Todie said, holding the flyer to his chest. “I’ve been waiting all week to meet the girl with these boots.” He’d been having dreams of Miss Sexy Boots from the flyer since he’d picked it up at the campus coffee shop. He’d lost sleep imagining her wearing those boots and spinning around a pole in nothing but a G-string. Maybe if he could catch her eye, she’d want to meet Todie too. And most girls who met him wanted to sleep with him. Although one night with Miss Sexy Boots might not be enough. Maybe she’d even want to be my girlfriend? “And he can ride off into my sunset any day,” a voice boomed over the loudspeakers. “Ladies, let's hear it for the Sundown Cowboy.” Whoops and yells filled the room as the women hollered for more. Steve tapped his arm. “Mate, I think I’ve had my fill of gyrating cocks in my face, you wanna go find that bar and get an overpriced drink with me?” “Yeah, I guess we should go—” “And lady’s now it’s time for the key ingredient in every Yummy, Yummy, Fruit Salad,” the booming voice yelled, drowning out Todie’s reply. “Give it up for Summer Berry.” A tall figure in a pink leotard backflipped onto the stage. Her long neon-pink hair flipped in a perfect arch behind her. A roar erupted as she blew pink-lipped kisses to the crowd. Todie’s eye went straight to her long legs and the neon pink thigh-high leather boots that covered them. “Holy shit.” A grin spread across Todie's face as he held up the flyer. “That’s her. She’s the legs from the flyer!” Summer Berries. The beautiful name suited the pink dancer, who launched herself onto the pole. With one long leg around it, she spun, her head leaning back, those pink locks falling just above the floor as she circled the pole. Damn, she’s even hotter than I imagined. Another scream as Summer hung by one arm at the top of the pole, doing the splits as she blew more kisses to the crowd. “Fuck, did you see that?” Todie yelled to Steve. “Isn’t she incredible?” Steve groaned. “This is what I mean about you being too gullible.” “What do you mean?” Steve rolled his eyes. “Todie, Summer Berry is a man.” Todie looked back at the beautiful figure spinning down the pole. No, she couldn’t be a man. Men didn’t dance as sexy as that. Men didn’t look hot in boots like that. And Men didn’t make Todie’s heart race like it was going to rip from his muscled chest. “That doesn’t make any sense. How can she be a guy?” “These guys are an all-male entertainment group. Even the pretty pink ones in thigh-high fuck-me boots are men.” Summer flipped upside down, tore off their top and tossed it to the floor. A pale white and very flat chest stared back at Todie. Well, bare except for the two pink heart-shaped stickers covering his nipples. Oh… He is a guy… Todie kept his eyes on Summer as he continued to defy gravity. His leg spinning outstretched wide above him. His glittering body sparkled under the stage lights. But he’s also really pretty... Even his butt in those tight pink hot pants that clung to the curves of his firm cheeks looked good. I mean, dating a pretty man like him would kinda be like dating a girl…wouldn’t it? The screams rose again as Summer dismounted the pole and strutted down the runway. I need to get closer to get a better look at him. “Todie, did you hear me?” Steve's voice pulled Todie away from Summer’s gaze. “Hm? What?” “I’m going out to the bar. You coming?” Summer waved, urging the crowd closer. “You go. I am going to thank Summer Berries.” “Why?” Steve's cries were lost in the sea of women cheering for Summer as Todie pushed to the front of the elevated runway. Now, closer, he could see the glittered heart shapes that sat under the man’s eyes. The pink highlights above them matched his bright pink lips. “You're really pretty.” Todie yelled up at Summer as he caught his eye. The man narrowed his eyes and held a hand to his ear. “I said, you're really pretty.” Todie yelled louder. The beautiful man winked at him as he pushed his pink hair from his face and reached out to Todie. Does he want me to come join him? Well, Todie didn’t need to be asked twice. He grabbed the edge of the runway and hoisted himself up next to Summer, who was even taller than he had seemed from afar. His mascara line deep green eyes stared wide-eyed at Todie. “Hi.” Todie said, grinning as he waved at him. “You’re really tall.” “Yeah—I am wearing six-inch heels.” Summer said slowly as he took a step back. “What are you doing on my stage?” “You invited me up here.” Todie said, shaking his hips to the beat of the techno song playing. “No, I didn’t. I was asking for tips.” Summer said through his teeth while still smiling to the crowd. “I don’t do audience participation, like the other hacks in this group.” Summer turned on his heel, his pink hair hitting Todie’s face, as he crossed the stage to a woman who put a twenty-dollar note into his underwear. He thanked her before glaring over his shoulder at Todie. “Well… hurr…and…get off.” “Off?” Todie struggled to hear him over the surrounding screams. He grabbed the bottom of his shirt. “You mean get my shirt off?” “Take it off,” a voice in the crowd yelled. “Yeah, come on. Take your shirt off, big boy,” came another yell. Todie shrugged and pulled his shirt over his head. The room filled with more screams. He grinned back at Summer. “I see why you do this. It’s really fun.” “What the hell are you doing?” Summer snapped at him. “You said to get my shirt off.” “Are you really this dumb? I said, to get off my stage.” “Oh, sorry, I” —a hand jutted forward and handed Todie a twenty—“Thanks,” Todie said, nodding at her before turning back to find Summer had already moved across the stage. Todie went to follow, but a woman in the crowd tugged on his pants. “Hey, I have two pineapples for you if you take off your pants.” She yelled up at Todie, waving two yellow fifty-dollar notes. A chant began around the room. “Take them off. Take them off.” Todie didn’t want to upset a room full of women. He ran his hand down his stomach and unzipped the fly of his jeans. Todie swung his hips in time with the music as he pressed his jeans down his thighs and to the floor, leaving him in only his bright red briefs and sneakers. A sea of hands pulled at Todie’s legs as they reached up to shove blue, yellow and pink notes into his underwear. Todie waved the notes to show the cash to Summer, but he was already walking off stage. The music stopped, and the PA voice came back. “Let's thank Summer Berry and Mr Audience Participation. We once again wish to remind patrons that our performers at Funnel Web Spinners are professionals. The Arch club and its staff do not endorse or take responsibility for patrons who are hurt or injured on stage. Now let's hear it again for Summer Berry.” “Wait. Mr Berries,” Todie yelled after Summer as the women grabbed at his legs. “Sorry, ladies, I have to go.” Todie pried himself from their grasp, scooped up his pants and shirt from the floor, and hurried after Summer. “Now I hope you ladies have all been on your best behaviour, because here comes Officer McDickington to crack the case.” The PA voice yelled. “Sorry, Officer,” Todie yelled as he narrowly avoided colliding with Officer McDickington. Todie followed the corridor behind the stage. A fireman and cowboy were standing in their underwear having a smoke out an open fire exit door, but there was no sign of Summer with them. Todie continued along the hall when a security guard stopped him at a red door. “This area is restricted.” “But I need to see Mr Berries,” Todie grabbed at his cash-stuffed underpants. “I have something for him.” The older man shifted awkwardly. “Look, son, just keep it in your pants. It's performers only back here.” “For God’s sake, Gary,” Summers said, as the door opened. “You didn’t stop him from getting on stage. You may as well let him come in to put on his pants.” “Hey, I told Phil to add that warning over the PA, didn’t I?” “Yeah, real great job.” Summer sighed as he eyed Todie. “You'd better come inside, Muscle boy. They’ll eat you alive if you go back out there in your underwear.” Todie followed him into a room that was filled with costumes and event posters. It reminded Todie of the aquatic centre change rooms, but instead of chlorine it smelt of cigarettes and mothballs. “Thanks for letting me back here, Mr Berries,” Todie said, staring at Summer’s arse as he was still only dressed in those tiny pink hot pants. “It is Mister, right?” “Yes, I am a man. He, him, they. I just happen to like pink and look hot as fuck in these boots. Why?” Summer flicked his hair over his shoulder. “You disappointed?” “No, I just didn’t know men could pole dance like that. Or be so glittery.” “Right,” Summer snorted and dropped into a chair. “The others are going to be out there smoking and bitching for a while, so you can dress without interruption. Although I’m guessing you’re not the shy type.” “Nah, this body’s too good to be shy about.” Instead of cooing or asking to touch him, Summer ignored him and started flicking through his phone. Todie stood holding his clothes, unsure what he should say to the beautiful man to get his attention. Normally, women came to him, and he didn’t have to talk much or think of things to say. But Summer wasn’t a woman. He was a man. A really, really pretty man. This was all so new and confusing. Oh, shit, I haven’t even introduced myself! “I’m Anthony Marshall, by the way.” Todie said, stepping closer to Summer. “But everyone calls me Todie.” “Todie?” Summer’s brow rose, but he didn’t look up from his phone. “Like the guy on Neighbours?” “Actually, my little sister couldn’t say Tony when she was learning to talk, and the nickname just kinda stuck.” Todie scratched the back of his neck. “Um, Summer Berries is a pretty name. Is that a family name?” “It’s Summer Berry, and it’s not my real name.” Summer rolled his eyes. “It's a stage name my arsehole ex came up with.” “Your ex?” Todie’s heart skipped a beat. “So… you’re not seeing anyone right now?” Summer put his phone down on the table and glared at Todie. “Look, you don’t need to keep pretending to make small talk. There’s a room in the back where you can put your clothes on if you don’t want to dress in front of me.” “Nah, I get undressed in front of people all the time at the pool.” Todie put his foot through his jean leg before remembering his underpants were still full of cash. “I’m a swimmer on the uni team,” Todie added, fishing out the notes and piling them onto a nearby side table. “Explains the muscles.” Summer put down his phone and folded his arms as he looked Todie up and down. Todie pressed out his chest so his pecks could be appreciated in all their glory. Summer only shook his head. “I supposed jumping into a pool requires more brawn than brains.” “Thanks.” Todie smiled and flexed his arm to show him more of his best muscles. “You really just hear and do whatever you want, don’t you?” “Yes?” Todie said, not sure how to answer. Todie pulled out the last ten-dollar note hiding behind his butt and adjusted his underwear so he could put on his jeans. “This isn’t a very comfortable way to store money, Mr Berries.” “For fuck’s sake,” Summer snapped as he got to his feet. “It’s Summer Berry. Not Summer Berries.” “That's what I said.” Todie zipped up his jeans. “Summer Berries.” “No, not Berries. Berry. There is no S.” Todie cocked his head. “But…Summer starts with an S?” Summer rubbed his forehead. “Look, just call me Summer. You're making me feel old with all that mister bullshit.” “You don’t look old. You look my age, twenty.” Todie said, tugging his tank over his shoulders. “Twenty-one. My birthday was last week.” “Oh, happy birthday.” Todie smiled. “You must be a Pisces. That’s a water sign, like me. I’m a Cancer, which is why Mum says I am so good at swimming.” “Are you kidding me?” Summer tapped his boot on the lino. “I’ve been trying to be nice to you, but this bullshit innocent act of yours is driving me insane.” Todie tilted his head to the side. “Act?” “My god. You seriously are just going to keep up this whole cute bit after ruining my set, aren’t you?” “No, I wasn’t trying to ruin any—” “Listen, I get it.” Summer poked Todie’s chest with his long pink nails. “You, Muscle Boy, are far from the first man to get an inferiority complex from a feminine-looking man stealing the female gaze away from them.” Todie only understood half the words Summer said, but his eyes went all fiery with green sparks that made him look even prettier. Or maybe that’s just the glittery makeup adding to how pretty he looked? “Hey,” Summer snapped his fingers. “Are you even listening?” “Sorry, your eyes are really glittery. I got distracted.” “So sorry I’m boring you. I guess your carefree life of laying about a uni campus all day must be so hard for you.” “Actually, I’m usually at the pool, or the uni gym.” Summer narrowed his eyes. “This naïve act of yours isn't as cute as you think it is.” “But I’m not act—” “Let me make this simple for you,” Summer said, grabbing a fistful of Todie’s top. “I rely on the tips I make from pole dancing to keep a roof over my head. You, you musclebound idiot, have stolen that money from me tonight.” “Stolen? No.” Todie grabbed the stack of money and pushed it into Summer’s hands. “That’s why I chased after you. To give this back.” Summer flicked through the notes and looked at Todie. “There must be almost four hundred dollars here. You’re really not going to take this?” “You did all the work out there. I just took off my top and pants.” Todie shrugged. “I would have done that for free.” Todie was torn between wanting to slap Summer on the back or pulling him into a giant bear hug. He settled for patting him on his shoulders. “Anyway, you were really pretty up there. That’s all I wanted to say.” Todie pulled his hands back. “Wow. Steve’s probably wondering where I went. I should go find him, but it was nice meeting you, Summer.” “Shit.” Summer grabbed Todie’s arm and pulled him back from the door. “Wait, come with me, so I can apologise”. “Apologise?” Todie said as the beautiful man led him into a change room. “What do you need to apologise for?” “This cute dumb thing truly is the real deal, isn’t it?” Summer asked, pushing Todie down onto the bench seat in the furthest room, shutting the curtain behind them. “Um, yes? I think?” Todie said, again not sure what Summer meant. “Look, I’m sorry for being such an arsehole. Most guys I meet doing this job want something from me.” Summer tousled Todie’s hair. “And they don’t even offer to pay half as much as you just gave me.” Todie’s heart jumped as Summer stepped forward and placed his foot up next to him. The leather boot rubbing against his thigh. Oh God, there are so fucking hot on him. Neon hair fell like a curtain around Summer’s face as he leaned over Todie and pressed his palms to Todie’s cheeks. “I think a generous tip deserves a very special private show, don't you think, Muscle Boy?” Todie nodded as Summer took his hand and guided it around the heart-shaped sticker that covered his nipples. Sweet rose-scented perfume filled Todie’s nose as Summer began to sway his hips. Todie’s eyes glanced at the boot on his left. Summer’s leather-clad knee was level with his face. If Todie turned, he could probably lick it. A hand twisted Todie’s chin back into Summer's deep green gaze. “Hey, my eyes are up here, cutie.” Summer smiled. “Are my boots distracting you? I can take them off if you—” “No!” Todie yelled, jumping up, and knocking Summer backward. Todie grabbed his waist to stop him from falling. “Shit, sorry,” Todie said, placing the startled Summer onto the bench seat he’d been sitting on. “You didn’t hurt anything, did you?” “No, I’m fine. I…” Summers’ brow rose. “You wouldn’t happen to be one of those guys who’s really into leather boots?” “How did you know?” Todie asked. Could Summer read minds? Todie swallowed. I hope he hasn’t seen the other thoughts I’ve had about him. “It was just a guess.” Summer laughed. Todie gave a sigh of relief as he dropped to his knees in front of Summer’s legs, those sexy boots in his face. “Can I touch them?” “My boots?” “Yes.” Todie moved between Summer’s legs and pressed his face against the inside of Summer’s left boot. The leather was warm against his cheek. “I’ve been dreaming about these boots forever.” “Knock yourself out.” Summer shrugged, leaning back and spreading his legs, allowing Todie to kneel closer between them. Todie ran his hands down the backs of Summer’s boots, taking his time to slide his fingers along every bend and bump in the leather, as if trying to commit the map of Summer’s leg to memory. “You have really sexy legs,” Todie said, tracing the zip on the inside of the boot. “They are so long and delicate, like a deer.” “Are you saying I have deer legs?” “Yeah, but not a normal deer. A sexy deer, one that’s powerful and beautiful.” “Somehow not the weirdest compliment I’ve ever—” Summer shivered as Todie’s fingers slid over the white skin of his thighs. Todie pulled his hand away. “Oops, I didn’t mean to touch past the top of your boots.” “No, um, it’s okay,” Summer bit his lip. “You can touch my legs.” Todie placed a hand on each of Summer's thighs. They were so soft and smooth. Did he shave or wax? His hands wandered to the edges of those pink pants in search of any sign of hair. His heart jumped as his thumb brushed the semi-hard cock hidden behind those pants. A reminder that it wasn’t some woman he was feeling up. This was a man. The thought didn’t seem to dull the desire to touch him more. To know what his cock looked like. What it would feel like. I’ll just touch it quickly to see. Curious, Todie slid his fingers beneath the pink pants. Still no sign of hair, but his fingers found the velvety length hidden inside. His dick feels nice. Todie ran his fingers to the tip, and Summer moaned above him. “You don’t need to touch me there. Most guys avoid my dick.” “But it’s okay if I do? Touch it, I mean.” Todie asked, glancing up at Summer, who was chewing his lip. Summer’s eye narrowed as if considering. “I haven’t been able to stop you from doing whatever you wanted so far, so why try now?” Todie scooted back as Summer slid his pants off and over his boots as if he’d done that move a hundred times before. Todie took a breath as he took in the sight of Summer, completely naked save for those hot as fuck boots, as he sat there waiting for him. Waiting for Todie. Those sparkly eyes beckoned Todie closer. He shuffled on his knees, getting as close as he could to the goddess before him and the erect cock between his legs. I think I want him more now than I did before. Todie wrapped his hand around that beautiful cock, exploring from its tip, down to the base and where it met the curves of Summer’s thighs. Does he like his dick touched the way I like mine? His fingers rubbed up and down its length with bolder and more confident strokes. Summer gave a short gasp as Todie pressed around the head of his cock. “Was that good or bad?” Todie asked. “I’ve never touched another guy’s dick before.” “Yeah, well if you don’t stop rubbing it like that, you’re going to have the first dick you touched come in your face.” Todie looked back at the cock he’d been massaging. His fingers sticky with the pre-come leaking from its head. “If you come, you’ll make a mess on your boots. Let me help.” “There're some tissues—” Todie put his lips over the cock to stop it from making a mess. “Fuck...I guess that works too, ahhhh—” Summer's words were lost in a moan as Todie slipped the cock fully inside his mouth. He licked his tongue around it before letting it press further inside until he could feel it hit the back of his throat. It wasn’t unpleasant. Kind of just like sucking on a woman’s fingers, just wider. Summer was shaking above him as Todie explored Summer's balls, circling them between his fingers. He heard him moan, but Summer must have covered his mouth, because it was cut off abruptly. “You’re… going ta get… meee in trooouble…. Muscle Boy,” Summer hissed. Todie pulled back until the tip of Summer’s cock was at his lips. “Should I stop?” “Don’t you fucking dare.” Summer gripped Todie's hair, his nails pressing into the back of Todie’s head, urging him back onto Summer’s cock. Todie obliged happily, taking the cock deeper down his throat, thankful that swimming had taught him circular breathing and it didn’t cause him to gag. “Yes. You..are…really go….ooood at this,” Summer panted, his hip grinding towards Todie. Todie sped up. Sucking harder as Summer shook, yanking at Todie’s hair. This is the hottest fucking thing I have ever done. “Ahh… No… wait… I’m going to come.” Todie grabbed tight to Summer's hips, holding him to stop him squirming away. A burst of hot liquid rushed down Todie’s throat. He gulped it down until he was sure nothing was left to spill. Summer's fingers ran down his cheek and pulled his head up. His reddened face looked down at him. “Fucking hell. Did you just swallow?” “Was I not meant to?” Todie wiped his mouth. He must have done it wrong after all. “I just didn’t want to ruin your boots.” “You sucked my cock to save a mess? Fuck. You’re something else, Muscle Boy.” Summer raised a brow. “You sure you haven’t done this before?” “Not with a guy. I’ve never wanted to do that with any guy before.” “Well, you just sucked me off like a goddamn pro,” Summer grinned, running his hand through Todie’s hair. “Yeah, but you're different,” Todie said. He’d happily suck Summer’s cock again if he asked. He'd do almost anything the man asked if he kept looking at him with that coy smile. “I—I really like you, Summer Berries.” “That’s not my—never mind.” Summer shook his head. “Look, Todie, was it? Summer Berry isn’t real. It’s just a dumb persona I use to make money.” Summer tugged off his pink wig and pulled off the hair net underneath. Messy locks of shoulder-length strawberry blond hair spilled down his face. “Who you think you like isn’t real. It’s all a show.” “I’m not completely stupid. I know the sparkly makeup and hot sexy boots,”—Todie slid a hand up Summer’s boot—“is all a costume.” Todie reached up to Summer’s cheek and brushed the hair behind his ear so he could see his green eyes. “Your eyes are real. The cute way you smile at me is real. And that cock in my mouth was very real.” Summer snorted out a laugh. Todie pulled the flyer out of his pocket and put it on the bench next to Summer. “I wanted to meet you because I saw this flyer and fell in love with your sexy boots. But now I’ve met you, I want to know all of you.” Todie leaned up until his lips brushed Summer’s. “I like all of you, Summer.” He pressed in for the kiss, but Summer pulled away, pushing Todie back as he jumped to his feet. “Right, um, let’s get you out of here before I get a lecture from the boss about entertaining guests in the change rooms again.” Summer said, face as pink as his boots. Summer slid his pants back on and offered his hand to Todie to help him up before leading him back to the red door. “I can’t leave yet, Todie said, pausing at the door, a pout on his lips. “You still haven’t told me if you like me or not?” Summer smiled and patted Todie’s cheek. “Well, for a man who’s mostly just muscle, I guess you’re alright, Todie.” Todie grinned. “So, does that mean you’d want to be my girl—I mean, boyfriend?” Summer laughed as he leaned on the door frame. “Wow, you sure move fast, don’t you? Shouldn’t you at least take me out for a meal? Or ask what my actual name is?” “Oh, what is your—” “It’s Nicholas Berry. Nicky for short.” “Nicky,” Todie repeated. “That's a pretty name too.” “Here.” Summer pulled a card from his boots and pressed it into Todie’s hands. “Call me after the show. We can continue this Hallmark meet cute over coffee at my place.” “But I don’t drink coffee.” “And I don’t own any,” Summer said with a wide smile. “But—” Wait, is this one of those double-meaning things? Todie’s eyes went wide. “Do you mean sex?” Summer winked. “But who gets to be the top? Cause you're really tall, but I’m—” Summer kissed him on the lips before shoving him out the door. “See you around, Muscle boy.” The door closed, and Todie stood there grinning as he stared at the card in his hand. He had to go find Steve and tell him he’d scored Summer Berries’ number. He really is the girl of my dreams.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75726356	{"authors": ["sbboots"], "language": "English", "title": "Bad Judgement- Sex Boots"}
Gunnr, gym rat in the streets, valkyrie in the sheets. Hi, I just want to say before you read this that I have not written anything similar to a story since I was in school. The extent of what I know about writing currently is not a lot so this isn't going to be the best I imagine but I've been wanting to get some of the ideas I've had written down and published for hopefully someone else to enjoy. I'd appreciate if you could comment and tell me how I've done, whether it's good or bad. I'd love to know what to do better to maybe turn this into a little bit of a hobby. So, thank you for giving my story a chance, it may be short but I'm hoping that it's at least passable. Enjoy. Her silhouette appears in the dimly lit doorway, giving only a glimpse at her form. A well trained machine, honed for years. "You are real lucky I set eyes on you at the gym, you know that? Not just anyone gets to break a bed with me~." She slowly walks over to the bed, her hips swaying with allure as the dim lighting begins to catch on her body, showing each contour of muscle. She stops short of the bed, leaning over you, giving you an amazing view of her breasts and chiseled abs. She notices your wandering eyes and gives you a lustful smile. "Like what you see? Then you're gonna love what comes next~." She steps back slightly, the light now catching something new, her cock, as it slowly starts to rise. The veins start to become visible as more and more blood races down her cock, getting her as hard as steel. She grabs a hold of it and gives it a few strokes before slowly pulling back the skin to reveal her twitching tip. She closes some distance again, her hand still gently running up and down her shift, keeping all eight inches ready to go. She gives you the smile of a woman in heat. "You ever sucked a cock before?" She purrs with a slight catch in her voice, holding back from moaning. "U-um... no. No I haven't..." you respond shakily, not from fear or intimidation from the woman or hunk of meat she holds, but from awe and a growing heat within you as you fantasise about what comes next. Her smile widens, apparently pleased with your answer. "You're lucky that im the one taking your oral virginity, I like to take my time when it comes to lips on my cock~". She motions for you to sit up, and you comply. You get up and sit on the edge of the bed as she comes right up to you. Her dick now mere inches from your face, you get a good view of her tip, already with a large, clear bead of precum there. "You ready?" She purrs, moving even closer, closing those last few inches until it's almost ready to breach your lips. You feel the heat emanating from it and get a slight whiff of her, slightly sweaty with another smell lurking, perhaps the smell of lust if that's even a thing. As her hand gently lands on your head it breaks you free of the hold her cock had on you. You look up at her and she has a comforting look even through all of the lust running through her. "Go at your own pace, I'm sure you'll get used to it quick~." You take a deep breath, "thanks, I'll try to make it as good as I can" You lean forward, your heart thundering as the heat in your body comes to its peak, your lips part as the tip of her cock brushes against them. You take it slow, just the tip to start with. Your lips wrap around the tip, getting an appreciative quiet moan from her as her hand slightly tightens it's grip in your hair. Thankfully you have at least an idea of where to go from this so you send your tongue slowly up her tip, collecting a bead of her pre, getting a taste of the hot, sticky and salty bounty that awaits you if you do well. "G-gods... you're off to a good start for someone new to this" she just about gets out. You keep lapping at her tip and keeping a gentle suction going when you feel her gently pull at your head, telling you that she wants you to go further with her actions. Feeling ready, you oblige, you slowly slide further down her shaft, feeling her veins on your lips and tongue. Her small pants of pleasure turn to shaky moans. You feel the pull on your head stop about halfway down her shaft, with this you pull your head back, bringing your lips back to her tip before sliding back down, then back up and down again, settling into a rhythm as you bob up and down on her cock. "How are you so good? Gods... I'm not gonna be able to control myself if you carry on like this..." As you carry on her moans start having hushed curses mixed into them, but you notice something else, her grip on your head and hair has become tighter, much tighter. Tight enough that should she want to, your head would be under her control. All of a sudden she stops your head, and she's panting as you look up at her. She looks at you, the levels of lust evident on her face. You foreshadowed exactly what was gonna happen just before it happened as she says to you through shaky, lust filled words "I was holding back because it's your first time but... you're too fucking good... I can't hold back, I just need to... use that fucking mouth~." Not a second later she starts thrusting into your mouth, the veins on her cock feeling more pronounced then ever as they run over your tongue, a nearly constant stream of precum being smeared in your mouth by her as her pace only quickens. She puffs and pants like a wild animal as she uses your mouth, occasionally bumping her tip into your throat causing you to gag slightly which only seems to get her closer and closer. That's when you feel it, she begins to throb. Hard. Her pace picks up even more, her grip on your head tightens and she moans, loudly. "F-Fuuuckkk! I cumming!* At her warning you brace yourself, ready for her. Then it happens, a hot, thick shot of cum directly across your tongue and the back of your throat, followed by another, and another and another. Her pace doesn't slow, hammering away as her cum floods your mouth. You try to swallow down all of her thick, salty bounty but the volume of it catches up too fast and the floodgates open. Cum starts to leak from your mouth, dripping down your chin and coating her cock. Noticing this she swiftly pulls her throbbing meat from your mouth and sends the last few ropes towards your face and lolling mouth. Thankfully you were at least there enough to close your eyes before her final torrent. Wiping some still hot cum from around your eyes, you see her cock softening, still dripping cum. She pants as she looks down at you. "You are way better at that than you should be~, I tried my hardest to not go all out on you but gods, that mouth is heaven~." You gulp down the remaining cum in your mouth before responding, "that was... amazing." Her cock twitches at your words and she gives you a seductive look, "then how about round two? But this time I'm not using your mouth, and I won't go easy on you~." You gulp. This will be a long but pleasurable night. You can tell.	Gunnr, gym rat in the streets, valkyrie in the sheets. Hi, I just want to say before you read this that I have not written anything similar to a story since I was in school. The extent of what I know about writing currently is not a lot so this isn't going to be the best I imagine but I've been wanting to get some of the ideas I've had written down and published for hopefully someone else to enjoy. I'd appreciate if you could comment and tell me how I've done, whether it's good or bad. I'd love to know what to do better to maybe turn this into a little bit of a hobby. So, thank you for giving my story a chance, it may be short but I'm hoping that it's at least passable. Enjoy. Her silhouette appears in the dimly lit doorway, giving only a glimpse at her form. A well trained machine, honed for years. "You are real lucky I set eyes on you at the gym, you know that? Not just anyone gets to break a bed with me~." She slowly walks over to the bed, her hips swaying with allure as the dim lighting begins to catch on her body, showing each contour of muscle. She stops short of the bed, leaning over you, giving you an amazing view of her breasts and chiseled abs. She notices your wandering eyes and gives you a lustful smile. "Like what you see? Then you're gonna love what comes next~." She steps back slightly, the light now catching something new, her cock, as it slowly starts to rise. The veins start to become visible as more and more blood races down her cock, getting her as hard as steel. She grabs a hold of it and gives it a few strokes before slowly pulling back the skin to reveal her twitching tip. She closes some distance again, her hand still gently running up and down her shift, keeping all eight inches ready to go. She gives you the smile of a woman in heat. "You ever sucked a cock before?" She purrs with a slight catch in her voice, holding back from moaning. "U-um... no. No I haven't..." you respond shakily, not from fear or intimidation from the woman or hunk of meat she holds, but from awe and a growing heat within you as you fantasise about what comes next. Her smile widens, apparently pleased with your answer. "You're lucky that im the one taking your oral virginity, I like to take my time when it comes to lips on my cock~". She motions for you to sit up, and you comply. You get up and sit on the edge of the bed as she comes right up to you. Her dick now mere inches from your face, you get a good view of her tip, already with a large, clear bead of precum there. "You ready?" She purrs, moving even closer, closing those last few inches until it's almost ready to breach your lips. You feel the heat emanating from it and get a slight whiff of her, slightly sweaty with another smell lurking, perhaps the smell of lust if that's even a thing. As her hand gently lands on your head it breaks you free of the hold her cock had on you. You look up at her and she has a comforting look even through all of the lust running through her. "Go at your own pace, I'm sure you'll get used to it quick~." You take a deep breath, "thanks, I'll try to make it as good as I can" You lean forward, your heart thundering as the heat in your body comes to its peak, your lips part as the tip of her cock brushes against them. You take it slow, just the tip to start with. Your lips wrap around the tip, getting an appreciative quiet moan from her as her hand slightly tightens it's grip in your hair. Thankfully you have at least an idea of where to go from this so you send your tongue slowly up her tip, collecting a bead of her pre, getting a taste of the hot, sticky and salty bounty that awaits you if you do well. "G-gods... you're off to a good start for someone new to this" she just about gets out. You keep lapping at her tip and keeping a gentle suction going when you feel her gently pull at your head, telling you that she wants you to go further with her actions. Feeling ready, you oblige, you slowly slide further down her shaft, feeling her veins on your lips and tongue. Her small pants of pleasure turn to shaky moans. You feel the pull on your head stop about halfway down her shaft, with this you pull your head back, bringing your lips back to her tip before sliding back down, then back up and down again, settling into a rhythm as you bob up and down on her cock. "How are you so good? Gods... I'm not gonna be able to control myself if you carry on like this..." As you carry on her moans start having hushed curses mixed into them, but you notice something else, her grip on your head and hair has become tighter, much tighter. Tight enough that should she want to, your head would be under her control. All of a sudden she stops your head, and she's panting as you look up at her. She looks at you, the levels of lust evident on her face. You foreshadowed exactly what was gonna happen just before it happened as she says to you through shaky, lust filled words "I was holding back because it's your first time but... you're too fucking good... I can't hold back, I just need to... use that fucking mouth~." Not a second later she starts thrusting into your mouth, the veins on her cock feeling more pronounced then ever as they run over your tongue, a nearly constant stream of precum being smeared in your mouth by her as her pace only quickens. She puffs and pants like a wild animal as she uses your mouth, occasionally bumping her tip into your throat causing you to gag slightly which only seems to get her closer and closer. That's when you feel it, she begins to throb. Hard. Her pace picks up even more, her grip on your head tightens and she moans, loudly. "F-Fuuuckkk! I cumming!* At her warning you brace yourself, ready for her. Then it happens, a hot, thick shot of cum directly across your tongue and the back of your throat, followed by another, and another and another. Her pace doesn't slow, hammering away as her cum floods your mouth. You try to swallow down all of her thick, salty bounty but the volume of it catches up too fast and the floodgates open. Cum starts to leak from your mouth, dripping down your chin and coating her cock. Noticing this she swiftly pulls her throbbing meat from your mouth and sends the last few ropes towards your face and lolling mouth. Thankfully you were at least there enough to close your eyes before her final torrent. Wiping some still hot cum from around your eyes, you see her cock softening, still dripping cum. She pants as she looks down at you. "You are way better at that than you should be~, I tried my hardest to not go all out on you but gods, that mouth is heaven~." You gulp down the remaining cum in your mouth before responding, "that was... amazing." Her cock twitches at your words and she gives you a seductive look, "then how about round two? But this time I'm not using your mouth, and I won't go easy on you~." You gulp. This will be a long but pleasurable night. You can tell.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75726366	{"authors": ["FutaProphet"], "language": "English", "title": "Gunnr, gym rat in the streets, valkyrie in the sheets."}
someone holds me safe and warm December 1975 The sirens are loud and Eddie is terrified. His Uncle Wayne is on his way to pick him up and let him stay with him for a while, or at least that’s what the nice lady in the purple dress said. She’s talking to the cops who put his dad in the back of their car. He can’t really see him from here, but he was yelling and cussin’ a lot. No one’s paying much attention to him right now. He runs. He doesn’t make it that far. He realizes it’s really dark and he doesn’t have shoes on, just socks. He also remembers his mom always telling him not to be on the street at night. By the time he realizes he needs to head back, he’s in someone else’s yard. There’s three bikes in the grass and the trash bin is piled high. Maybe a lot of people live here. There’s a trailer near Uncle Wayne that has nine people living in it. He doesn’t think he’d like sharing a bedroom with anyone, let alone a few people. There’s a light dusting of snow on the grass, too. A reminder that he’s not dressed for being outside this close to Christmas. “Is that house on fire?” A boy asks from the window Eddie’s standing in front of. He looks a little younger than Eddie, and he should definitely be in bed. So should Eddie. “Just a little bit. They’re putting it out,” Eddie shrugs. Sometimes it’s easier to pretend he’s just watching a story happen rather than being the character in the story. “My dad says shit happens.” “Isn’t shit a bad word?” The kid asks. His hair is a mess, and curly like Eddie’s, but blond instead of black. “Yeah, but my dad says a lot of bad words. Doesn’t seem that bad since he says them so much.” The kid looks at Eddie and leans halfway out the window. “You think the people living there died?” Eddie gasps. “I live there!” “Are you dead?” Eddie pinches his arm and waves his hand in front of his face. “No. I’m alive.” “Did you get burnt?” Eddie shakes his head. “Do you live with nine people?” The kid looks disgusted. “No. My cousins are here for Christmas and they’re so annoying. They never let me play with them.” Eddie’s only ever met one of his cousins and they were already an adult so they didn’t play or anything. He wishes he had cousins to play with. “I’m Eddie. I have to go live with my Uncle Wayne for a little while.” “I’m Gareth. I have to close the window before my mom knows I’m awake.” “I’ll come to your house when I get back! Then we can play without your cousins.” Gareth smiles big enough to show off his missing front tooth. “Yeah! We can be best friends!” Eddie beams back at him. He may have lost most of his things in this fire, and his dad might go away for a while, but he’s finally found a best friend. December 1986 Gareth taps his foot on the floor. Wayne called him hours ago and there’s still no news. Everyone’s in the waiting room. Everyone. He’s not being dramatic. He’s pretty sure there’s at least 20 people in chairs and against the walls, and he recognizes almost all of them from the past nine months circulating through Eddie’s hospital room. One person gets the call and it spreads like a wildfire. Jeff and Frankie are in the far corner, but Gareth can’t sit. He hasn’t said a word to anyone since he got here. And then there’s Wayne, smiling. It’s been a long damn time since he’s smiled like that. He stands at the door and everyone crowds him at once. Gareth’s right up front, right next to Dustin and Mike. “He’s awake?” He asks, already knowing the answer. “He’s awake.” Everyone cheers, but Wayne touches Gareth’s shoulder. “Asked to see his best friend.” “That could be a few of us,” Gareth swallows around the sob sitting in his chest. “He collects best friends like baseball cards.” “I think we both know he meant you, kid.” So Wayne leads Gareth back to the room that he’s been in nearly every day since March when he was saved from whatever hell the government has tried keeping from them. “Now he’s awake, they’re limiting one visitor at a time for a bit. They’re gonna be doing a lot of tests and don’t want him to overdo it,” Wayne explains. “He’s gonna be sleeping a lot for a while.” “But he’s like, normal?” Gareth can hear how shaky his voice is. Wayne snorts. “Has Eddie ever been normal a day in his life?” Gareth doesn’t laugh, he’s not sure he can. Wayne touches his shoulder again. “He remembers everything and everyone from what I can tell. He’s not in too much pain yet. Meds haven’t worn off completely.” Gareth nods. “You go in, I’ll go back out there and update everyone. We’ll figure out the order for visiting.” The nurse standing by Eddie’s bed is writing things down on the clipboard in her hand. Eddie’s eyes are on Gareth. “I’m alive,” Eddie’s voice is barely more than a whisper. “And not burnt. Bit to hell and back, though.” Gareth’s sob finally leaves his body as he rushes to Eddie’s side. He’s still hooked up to so many wires and tubes, and he can’t seem to move his head or arms much. He’s scarred everywhere, but Eddie’s the type of guy who will think it’s cool. “I feel like I’ve been living with about 20 people lately,” he sniffs and wipes his eyes. “You found a whole herd of sheep, dude.” “Yeah, but you’re my favorite.” Gareth holds his hand. He doesn’t remember a single time he’s done that, but it feels right now. Eddie squeezes his hand and smiles crookedly. “Heard I’m a Christmas miracle.” “From who?” “The nurse before me,” the nurse says with a roll of her eyes and soft smile. “She’s grown quite fond of Mr. Munson.” “That’s because he’s been asleep since March. We’ll see if she still thinks that way tomorrow when he’s talking her ear off about Hobbits,” Gareth says without looking away from Eddie. He’s alive. He’s really alive. Awake and alive. “You should come to my place when you get out of here. We can play,” Gareth says quietly. “Jeff and Frankie can come, too.” “Might be a while before I can play guitar,” Eddie wiggles his fingers. They weren’t ever broken or even that badly scarred, but Gareth knows he’s probably still worried. “But I’ll be there.” “Good. My cousins are here being absolute shitheads again.” Eddie smirks. “Isn’t shit a bad word?”	someone holds me safe and warm December 1975 The sirens are loud and Eddie is terrified. His Uncle Wayne is on his way to pick him up and let him stay with him for a while, or at least that’s what the nice lady in the purple dress said. She’s talking to the cops who put his dad in the back of their car. He can’t really see him from here, but he was yelling and cussin’ a lot. No one’s paying much attention to him right now. He runs. He doesn’t make it that far. He realizes it’s really dark and he doesn’t have shoes on, just socks. He also remembers his mom always telling him not to be on the street at night. By the time he realizes he needs to head back, he’s in someone else’s yard. There’s three bikes in the grass and the trash bin is piled high. Maybe a lot of people live here. There’s a trailer near Uncle Wayne that has nine people living in it. He doesn’t think he’d like sharing a bedroom with anyone, let alone a few people. There’s a light dusting of snow on the grass, too. A reminder that he’s not dressed for being outside this close to Christmas. “Is that house on fire?” A boy asks from the window Eddie’s standing in front of. He looks a little younger than Eddie, and he should definitely be in bed. So should Eddie. “Just a little bit. They’re putting it out,” Eddie shrugs. Sometimes it’s easier to pretend he’s just watching a story happen rather than being the character in the story. “My dad says shit happens.” “Isn’t shit a bad word?” The kid asks. His hair is a mess, and curly like Eddie’s, but blond instead of black. “Yeah, but my dad says a lot of bad words. Doesn’t seem that bad since he says them so much.” The kid looks at Eddie and leans halfway out the window. “You think the people living there died?” Eddie gasps. “I live there!” “Are you dead?” Eddie pinches his arm and waves his hand in front of his face. “No. I’m alive.” “Did you get burnt?” Eddie shakes his head. “Do you live with nine people?” The kid looks disgusted. “No. My cousins are here for Christmas and they’re so annoying. They never let me play with them.” Eddie’s only ever met one of his cousins and they were already an adult so they didn’t play or anything. He wishes he had cousins to play with. “I’m Eddie. I have to go live with my Uncle Wayne for a little while.” “I’m Gareth. I have to close the window before my mom knows I’m awake.” “I’ll come to your house when I get back! Then we can play without your cousins.” Gareth smiles big enough to show off his missing front tooth. “Yeah! We can be best friends!” Eddie beams back at him. He may have lost most of his things in this fire, and his dad might go away for a while, but he’s finally found a best friend. December 1986 Gareth taps his foot on the floor. Wayne called him hours ago and there’s still no news. Everyone’s in the waiting room. Everyone. He’s not being dramatic. He’s pretty sure there’s at least 20 people in chairs and against the walls, and he recognizes almost all of them from the past nine months circulating through Eddie’s hospital room. One person gets the call and it spreads like a wildfire. Jeff and Frankie are in the far corner, but Gareth can’t sit. He hasn’t said a word to anyone since he got here. And then there’s Wayne, smiling. It’s been a long damn time since he’s smiled like that. He stands at the door and everyone crowds him at once. Gareth’s right up front, right next to Dustin and Mike. “He’s awake?” He asks, already knowing the answer. “He’s awake.” Everyone cheers, but Wayne touches Gareth’s shoulder. “Asked to see his best friend.” “That could be a few of us,” Gareth swallows around the sob sitting in his chest. “He collects best friends like baseball cards.” “I think we both know he meant you, kid.” So Wayne leads Gareth back to the room that he’s been in nearly every day since March when he was saved from whatever hell the government has tried keeping from them. “Now he’s awake, they’re limiting one visitor at a time for a bit. They’re gonna be doing a lot of tests and don’t want him to overdo it,” Wayne explains. “He’s gonna be sleeping a lot for a while.” “But he’s like, normal?” Gareth can hear how shaky his voice is. Wayne snorts. “Has Eddie ever been normal a day in his life?” Gareth doesn’t laugh, he’s not sure he can. Wayne touches his shoulder again. “He remembers everything and everyone from what I can tell. He’s not in too much pain yet. Meds haven’t worn off completely.” Gareth nods. “You go in, I’ll go back out there and update everyone. We’ll figure out the order for visiting.” The nurse standing by Eddie’s bed is writing things down on the clipboard in her hand. Eddie’s eyes are on Gareth. “I’m alive,” Eddie’s voice is barely more than a whisper. “And not burnt. Bit to hell and back, though.” Gareth’s sob finally leaves his body as he rushes to Eddie’s side. He’s still hooked up to so many wires and tubes, and he can’t seem to move his head or arms much. He’s scarred everywhere, but Eddie’s the type of guy who will think it’s cool. “I feel like I’ve been living with about 20 people lately,” he sniffs and wipes his eyes. “You found a whole herd of sheep, dude.” “Yeah, but you’re my favorite.” Gareth holds his hand. He doesn’t remember a single time he’s done that, but it feels right now. Eddie squeezes his hand and smiles crookedly. “Heard I’m a Christmas miracle.” “From who?” “The nurse before me,” the nurse says with a roll of her eyes and soft smile. “She’s grown quite fond of Mr. Munson.” “That’s because he’s been asleep since March. We’ll see if she still thinks that way tomorrow when he’s talking her ear off about Hobbits,” Gareth says without looking away from Eddie. He’s alive. He’s really alive. Awake and alive. “You should come to my place when you get out of here. We can play,” Gareth says quietly. “Jeff and Frankie can come, too.” “Might be a while before I can play guitar,” Eddie wiggles his fingers. They weren’t ever broken or even that badly scarred, but Gareth knows he’s probably still worried. “But I’ll be there.” “Good. My cousins are here being absolute shitheads again.” Eddie smirks. “Isn’t shit a bad word?”	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75726371	{"authors": ["steddieas_shegoes"], "language": "English", "title": "someone holds me safe and warm"}
Beans on Toast My name’s Bennie. Not Bernadette, or Beans, just Bennie. I let Keith call me Beans sometimes, though. He came up with it at our fourth of July celebration when I was six and I ate a full bowl of ‘em. I do like my beans. You might know my brother as Two-Bit. I call him Keith just to make him mad, because that’s his real name and he hates it, but most people except for our mom forget he even has one. The gang, which consists of Ponyboy, Darrel, and Sodapop Curtis, Johnny Cade, Dallas Winston, all call him Two-Bit because they’re nice and respectful young men and know how to treat others and whatnot. They aren’t, really, the gang’s just a bunch of hoodlum greasers. Which is fine by me, ‘cause I don’t have to deal with them much except if Laura Wheeler is at cheerleading and I have to tag along with my big brother. I prefer to be called Bennie because it’s just two syllables and easier to say than Bernadette. Plus, the gang all have nicknames, and I’d like to at least fit in and not have to be called Bernadette by my brother’s friends. They’re close enough to me, anyway. I grew up with most of them, being a greaser and all; we have to stick together or else we’ll get jumped at random by the opposing group, the Socs. I think it’s spelled Socs, anyway. The group is really called the Socials, and they’re just a bunch of rich kids who don’t know how to treat others properly. Mostly they just take it out on us, the greasers, the poorer population in Tulsa. I know most people my age are aware of their presence, but you might not be. I say this because my story might be found in the future, when there aren’t constant turf wars between teenage boys and people can walk around nicely without getting jumped and beaten and all that. The Socs are just a pain in the behind. I come home everyday from school by myself, even if it's against Keith's will, because I'd rather die than have him next to me in that stupid Mickey Mouse T-shirt that he never washes. So I'm not surprised when I get catcalled by people from both social sides. I barely pay attention to that, anyway. I have more important things to think about, like how Miss Barry assigns too much geometry homework or if someone at the Curtis house is gonna bake a chocolate cake. Two-Bit says I need to get my head out of the clouds, which is ironic since his head's never within a hundred miles of the earth's surface, but I don't listen to him most of the time. I mean, yeah, he's my big brother, but he doesn't give good advice in the first place so I don't know why I should have to follow it. Once, he told Pony to run from the police because “they only chase you if you look guilty,” which is hard not to do when you’re a greaser. I don't think it's even possible for people like us to not look guilty. Maybe if we stopped getting into trouble so much then our reputation would change. My mama always says you can lead a horse to water but you can't force it to drink. I guess that can apply to us greasers, because even if presented with a better situation, I don't think any of my brother's idiot friends would choose a life without crime. Except maybe Darry. He's the smart one, but he's always working and taking care of his brothers and all that 'cause he's old. Pony says he has two jobs, one is at a roofing company, but Darry doesn't like to talk about the other. Keith thinks he works as a male stripper. And with those rippling muscles of his? Yeah, I can see that. Then we've got Dally. I'm kind of scared of him, to be honest. He used to be a convict in the Big Apple before he moved to Tulsa. He's mean, real mean, like he'd kick a puppy and get joy out of it. Next is Sodapop. Soda's super good-looking; all my friends have the hots for him. He works over at the DX pumping gas and fixing cars, and it's like he's a magnet for girls. I swear I've never seen so many girls interested in motors before. After Soda there's Steve. He doesn't have much of a personality, other than hating me and Ponyboy for always tagging along with the gang, but one thing's for sure: he's practically in love with Soda. Steve also works at the DX, probably because Soda's there all the time. Then Pony, who's Darry and Soda's little brother. He's closest in age to me, so therefore, he's my best friend. We always have sleepovers and stay up writing together until ungodly hours. I'm the only one of his biologically female friends that Darry allows to sleep over there. So I'm grateful to Darry for that, at least. Finally, Johnny Cade. I've heard Pony describe him as a little lost puppy that's been kicked too much, and I have to agree with him on that one. Johnny's the quietest of all of us. He's always getting beaten by his dad, and I think he got pounded by the Socs a few weeks ago, which is probably why he's so messed up in the head. If someone could have negative happiness, it'd be him. Anyway, that's how things usually are. At least, that's how they were before today. I was walking home from school like I always do, kicking pebbles down the sidewalk and counting the houses until mine came into view. I didn’t notice the car at first. I usually don’t. You learn not to, when you’re a greaser. It slowed down beside me anyway. I kept walking when they wolf-whistled and goggled their eyes at my short skirt. And I didn't tell Keith about it. I didn't tell anyone. I didn't think it was important. Until it was.	Beans on Toast My name’s Bennie. Not Bernadette, or Beans, just Bennie. I let Keith call me Beans sometimes, though. He came up with it at our fourth of July celebration when I was six and I ate a full bowl of ‘em. I do like my beans. You might know my brother as Two-Bit. I call him Keith just to make him mad, because that’s his real name and he hates it, but most people except for our mom forget he even has one. The gang, which consists of Ponyboy, Darrel, and Sodapop Curtis, Johnny Cade, Dallas Winston, all call him Two-Bit because they’re nice and respectful young men and know how to treat others and whatnot. They aren’t, really, the gang’s just a bunch of hoodlum greasers. Which is fine by me, ‘cause I don’t have to deal with them much except if Laura Wheeler is at cheerleading and I have to tag along with my big brother. I prefer to be called Bennie because it’s just two syllables and easier to say than Bernadette. Plus, the gang all have nicknames, and I’d like to at least fit in and not have to be called Bernadette by my brother’s friends. They’re close enough to me, anyway. I grew up with most of them, being a greaser and all; we have to stick together or else we’ll get jumped at random by the opposing group, the Socs. I think it’s spelled Socs, anyway. The group is really called the Socials, and they’re just a bunch of rich kids who don’t know how to treat others properly. Mostly they just take it out on us, the greasers, the poorer population in Tulsa. I know most people my age are aware of their presence, but you might not be. I say this because my story might be found in the future, when there aren’t constant turf wars between teenage boys and people can walk around nicely without getting jumped and beaten and all that. The Socs are just a pain in the behind. I come home everyday from school by myself, even if it's against Keith's will, because I'd rather die than have him next to me in that stupid Mickey Mouse T-shirt that he never washes. So I'm not surprised when I get catcalled by people from both social sides. I barely pay attention to that, anyway. I have more important things to think about, like how Miss Barry assigns too much geometry homework or if someone at the Curtis house is gonna bake a chocolate cake. Two-Bit says I need to get my head out of the clouds, which is ironic since his head's never within a hundred miles of the earth's surface, but I don't listen to him most of the time. I mean, yeah, he's my big brother, but he doesn't give good advice in the first place so I don't know why I should have to follow it. Once, he told Pony to run from the police because “they only chase you if you look guilty,” which is hard not to do when you’re a greaser. I don't think it's even possible for people like us to not look guilty. Maybe if we stopped getting into trouble so much then our reputation would change. My mama always says you can lead a horse to water but you can't force it to drink. I guess that can apply to us greasers, because even if presented with a better situation, I don't think any of my brother's idiot friends would choose a life without crime. Except maybe Darry. He's the smart one, but he's always working and taking care of his brothers and all that 'cause he's old. Pony says he has two jobs, one is at a roofing company, but Darry doesn't like to talk about the other. Keith thinks he works as a male stripper. And with those rippling muscles of his? Yeah, I can see that. Then we've got Dally. I'm kind of scared of him, to be honest. He used to be a convict in the Big Apple before he moved to Tulsa. He's mean, real mean, like he'd kick a puppy and get joy out of it. Next is Sodapop. Soda's super good-looking; all my friends have the hots for him. He works over at the DX pumping gas and fixing cars, and it's like he's a magnet for girls. I swear I've never seen so many girls interested in motors before. After Soda there's Steve. He doesn't have much of a personality, other than hating me and Ponyboy for always tagging along with the gang, but one thing's for sure: he's practically in love with Soda. Steve also works at the DX, probably because Soda's there all the time. Then Pony, who's Darry and Soda's little brother. He's closest in age to me, so therefore, he's my best friend. We always have sleepovers and stay up writing together until ungodly hours. I'm the only one of his biologically female friends that Darry allows to sleep over there. So I'm grateful to Darry for that, at least. Finally, Johnny Cade. I've heard Pony describe him as a little lost puppy that's been kicked too much, and I have to agree with him on that one. Johnny's the quietest of all of us. He's always getting beaten by his dad, and I think he got pounded by the Socs a few weeks ago, which is probably why he's so messed up in the head. If someone could have negative happiness, it'd be him. Anyway, that's how things usually are. At least, that's how they were before today. I was walking home from school like I always do, kicking pebbles down the sidewalk and counting the houses until mine came into view. I didn’t notice the car at first. I usually don’t. You learn not to, when you’re a greaser. It slowed down beside me anyway. I kept walking when they wolf-whistled and goggled their eyes at my short skirt. And I didn't tell Keith about it. I didn't tell anyone. I didn't think it was important. Until it was.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75728271/chapters/198066736	{"authors": ["beetchplease"], "language": "English", "title": "Beans on Toast"}
A New Life in Lumiose City A deep sigh had escaped me as I stared out the window, gazing upon the city as it came more and more into view. This was my new home, my new beginning, after finally taking the step towards leaving, I finally made it to Lumiose City. As far as I knew, I had no real plan outside of just making it here, so everything from this point on was just winging it. Wringing my hands together, I couldn’t help but feel nervous about what would await me here. The letter my Grandmother gave me sat perched atop my large travel bag. Long before the accident that took my only family away, Grandmother would recant her stories of what it was like to live in Lumiose; She’d stated it was a bustling town full of opportunities, people, and Pokemon. She said if there were ever a time I needed to escape from it all, that Lumiose would be the place to welcome me with open arms. Who knew I would end up taking such words literally. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of riding the train from the airport, the train slowed to a screeching halt and passengers slowly but surely made their way off the train. I stood up, stretching to release all the tension that had built up over the journey, and grabbed my bag as well as the letter Grandmother wrote. As soon as I got off the train, I found the exit from the station and into the city. I took a deep breath, mentally preparing myself for the new adventure that lies ahead, and took my first step towards my new life. Grandmother wasn’t kidding when she said that Lumiose was a bustling city; There were people everywhere who had places to be and things to do, all while having Pokemon partners at their side. Although you had grown up in a village in Hoenn that had its own Pokemon population to speak of, the environment you were used to was much quieter and less busy. It took a second for you to take it all in, and while forgetting to look which way you were walking towards, you ended up bumping into someone. “My goodness! I do apologize, I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.” You recovered from your slight stumble just in time to make eye contact with a boy who seemed to be around your age. You took a second to take him in; His blonde and dark pink hair, his bright blue eyes and kind smile gave you a warm and welcoming feeling that caught you a little off guard. “It’s no problem, I know Lumiose can be a lot for first-timers. I’m Urbain, nice to meet you!” As you went to stretch your hand out to introduce yourself, something he stated caught your attention briefly. “How’d you know this was my first time here?” Urbain chuckled, something light and airy that helped you to relax a little bit more. “I’ve been here for some time, and I would’ve remembered meeting you before. The large duffle-sized travel bag was also a bit of a dead give away. Are you here on vacation?” he asked as he dusted himself off slightly. You paused for a brief moment, questioning whether it was wise to open up to a stranger so soon. “I had some unfortunate circumstances that brought me here to Lumiose City. I was told by my Grandmother that ‘If I ever wanted to find a place that would welcome me with open arms, Lumiose would be the place.’ So that’s what brings me here.” A slight frown had appeared on Urbain’s face and for a moment, you were worried that you had made him a bit uncomfortable by your vagueness. Instead, Urbain looked at you with sadness in his eyes as he said, “I’m sorry, I don’t know your circumstances but I’ll tell you what!” he exclaimed as his face had brightened up again. “I’ll be your Certified Tour Guide of Lumiose City, if you’re willing to help me out with a slight project!” Thankful for the change in atmosphere, you perked up at his request. “Sure, I’d be glad to be of any assistance if I can. What kind of project are you working on?” Urbain had explained that he was shooting a commercial to help promote the Hotel he was running. Come to find out, it had been the same Hotel that Grandmother had recommended you stayed at while you spent your time here in Lumiose City. As you were discussing what Urbain would need help with on the commercial, a small Pancham had strolled up towards the two of you. Urbain glanced at it, then back at you; “Do you know this Pancham by any chance?” You shook your head no, seeing as it had been your first time laying eyes on one. When you looked back towards the Pokemon, however, you realized that it had a hold of your bag with all your belongings. “Hey! Give that back to me!” you shouted which caused the Pancham to snicker then run off. “C’mon, after it!” Urbain exclaimed as you two took into pursuit after it. As you followed after the Pancham, which proved to be a bit more difficult of a task than you had imagined, time continued to pass on throughout the day. Before you both knew it, sunset had fallen on the city as it started to disappear towards the horizon. Panting and out of breath, the two of you had unfortunately managed to lose the Pancham and were frantically searching for it. As the two of you ducked into an alleyway, you didn’t expect to be greeted by a specific sight; In front of you, happened to be a Ghastly that had seen better days. From what you could tell, the Pokemon seemed to have been caught in some sort of scuffle, and as a result was gravely injured. Urbain seemed to notice as well, and walked up beside you. “Uh-oh, it looks like Ghastly needs some serious help. Luckily, I have a few spare Potions in my satchel that should get it goods as new.” Urbain rummaged through his bag and once he found the Potion, he started to strive towards the Pokemon. As soon as he had gotten too close, however, the Pokemon seemed to hiss and thrash out of fear of further getting hurt. “Wait a minute, calm down! I’m just trying to heal you, jeez.” But with no such luck, the Ghastly simply wouldn’t let Urbain get close enough to apply the Potion. “Here, let me have a stab at it.” You calmly took the Potion from Urbain before he could protest, and started to slowly approach the Ghastly yourself. Just like with Urbain, it had started to hiss and move about frantically. You quietly shushed the Pokemon, trying to get it to calm down. “Hey, it’s okay; I know you’re probably really scared. I’m not here to hurt you, I just wanna make sure you get better. It’s no fun to go around with bruises is it?” As you continued to approach the Pokemon, making sure to keep the same quiet tone and move ever so slowly, it started to calm down after a little bit. “That’s it, you’re doing great.” As soon as you were close enough, you reached out towards the Ghastly. It did flinch when you made a move to touch it, but after it was certain that your aim wasn’t to cause it any harm, you began to apply the medicine. “Now just a warning, this may sting a little bit but it’ll be over soon, okay?” You warned quietly before you began to apply the Potion. It had jumped at first with the initial shock, but afterwards it calmed down and allowed you to treat its wounds all the while Urbain stood behind you slack-jawed. Finally, when you were done making sure it had healed up nicely, Urbain came to stand next to you admiring your handiwork. “I’ve gotta say, you’re a natural with Pokemon! Well, except for Pancham maybe. Are you a Pokemon trainer perhaps?” Chuckling, you shook your head as you directed your attention to him. “Nope, I’ve never actually had a Pokemon to call my own yet, but back from my hometown in Hoenn, I used to help my Grandmother treat Pokemon all the time, so I’m used to it I suppose.” Smiling a bit wider, Urbain held out a fist for bumping and you returned it with an eager grin of your own. Lost in your own world, you don’t notice the Ghastly slowly start to hover in front of you, as if it wanted something. Urbain seemed to take notice of this, and his smile brightened even more. “Well, if I didn’t know any better, I would say that Ghastly may want to thank you for taking care of its wounds. It actually looks like it may want to come along with you.” Excitement seemed to spread through you; You had always wanted to become a Pokemon trainer! Battling seemed like it was a lot of fun, and a great way to get to know people! One small issue had occurred to you just then; You didn’t actually have a way to catch the Ghastly! “Uhh, Urbain we might have a slight problem; I don’t actually have any Pokeballs on me at the moment…You wouldn’t happen to have a spare one lying around would you?” you questioned nervously. Coming to the same realization as you, Urbain shook his head. “Nope, I don’t happen to have any at the moment. Tell you what though; Ghastly can still stick with us while we search for Pancham, and the first Pokemon Center we come across, we’ll get you some there. Sound good to you?” You nodded in agreement then turned back to Ghastly with a wide smile. “Welcome to the team Ghastly! Now, let’s get back to our Pancham Hunt!” After a bit more roaming around the area to the point that night had officially fallen on the town, you finally came across two people standing in an alleyway, and lo and behold, there is your luggage! “Hey! Give that back!” you shouted, so fed up with the ridiculous situation. Your irritation seemed to rise as the young couple turned towards you with an air of indifference as the Pancham held on tightly to your belongings. “Huh? And what makes you think this luggage is yours? Pancham found it on the ground so now it belongs to us!” You had a stupified expression on your face; You thought that surely this grown up wasn’t seriously using idiotic logic, but sure enough she stood her ground. Her partner seemed to double-down with her in agreement as he stated, “She’s got a point; If these were your belongings, you should’ve taken better care of them so that others wouldn’t be mistaken.” Before your anger could boil over any further, Urbain stepped in with a somewhat angry expression on his face. "Wait a minute, I know you two! Still	A New Life in Lumiose City A deep sigh had escaped me as I stared out the window, gazing upon the city as it came more and more into view. This was my new home, my new beginning, after finally taking the step towards leaving, I finally made it to Lumiose City. As far as I knew, I had no real plan outside of just making it here, so everything from this point on was just winging it. Wringing my hands together, I couldn’t help but feel nervous about what would await me here. The letter my Grandmother gave me sat perched atop my large travel bag. Long before the accident that took my only family away, Grandmother would recant her stories of what it was like to live in Lumiose; She’d stated it was a bustling town full of opportunities, people, and Pokemon. She said if there were ever a time I needed to escape from it all, that Lumiose would be the place to welcome me with open arms. Who knew I would end up taking such words literally. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of riding the train from the airport, the train slowed to a screeching halt and passengers slowly but surely made their way off the train. I stood up, stretching to release all the tension that had built up over the journey, and grabbed my bag as well as the letter Grandmother wrote. As soon as I got off the train, I found the exit from the station and into the city. I took a deep breath, mentally preparing myself for the new adventure that lies ahead, and took my first step towards my new life. Grandmother wasn’t kidding when she said that Lumiose was a bustling city; There were people everywhere who had places to be and things to do, all while having Pokemon partners at their side. Although you had grown up in a village in Hoenn that had its own Pokemon population to speak of, the environment you were used to was much quieter and less busy. It took a second for you to take it all in, and while forgetting to look which way you were walking towards, you ended up bumping into someone. “My goodness! I do apologize, I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.” You recovered from your slight stumble just in time to make eye contact with a boy who seemed to be around your age. You took a second to take him in; His blonde and dark pink hair, his bright blue eyes and kind smile gave you a warm and welcoming feeling that caught you a little off guard. “It’s no problem, I know Lumiose can be a lot for first-timers. I’m Urbain, nice to meet you!” As you went to stretch your hand out to introduce yourself, something he stated caught your attention briefly. “How’d you know this was my first time here?” Urbain chuckled, something light and airy that helped you to relax a little bit more. “I’ve been here for some time, and I would’ve remembered meeting you before. The large duffle-sized travel bag was also a bit of a dead give away. Are you here on vacation?” he asked as he dusted himself off slightly. You paused for a brief moment, questioning whether it was wise to open up to a stranger so soon. “I had some unfortunate circumstances that brought me here to Lumiose City. I was told by my Grandmother that ‘If I ever wanted to find a place that would welcome me with open arms, Lumiose would be the place.’ So that’s what brings me here.” A slight frown had appeared on Urbain’s face and for a moment, you were worried that you had made him a bit uncomfortable by your vagueness. Instead, Urbain looked at you with sadness in his eyes as he said, “I’m sorry, I don’t know your circumstances but I’ll tell you what!” he exclaimed as his face had brightened up again. “I’ll be your Certified Tour Guide of Lumiose City, if you’re willing to help me out with a slight project!” Thankful for the change in atmosphere, you perked up at his request. “Sure, I’d be glad to be of any assistance if I can. What kind of project are you working on?” Urbain had explained that he was shooting a commercial to help promote the Hotel he was running. Come to find out, it had been the same Hotel that Grandmother had recommended you stayed at while you spent your time here in Lumiose City. As you were discussing what Urbain would need help with on the commercial, a small Pancham had strolled up towards the two of you. Urbain glanced at it, then back at you; “Do you know this Pancham by any chance?” You shook your head no, seeing as it had been your first time laying eyes on one. When you looked back towards the Pokemon, however, you realized that it had a hold of your bag with all your belongings. “Hey! Give that back to me!” you shouted which caused the Pancham to snicker then run off. “C’mon, after it!” Urbain exclaimed as you two took into pursuit after it. As you followed after the Pancham, which proved to be a bit more difficult of a task than you had imagined, time continued to pass on throughout the day. Before you both knew it, sunset had fallen on the city as it started to disappear towards the horizon. Panting and out of breath, the two of you had unfortunately managed to lose the Pancham and were frantically searching for it. As the two of you ducked into an alleyway, you didn’t expect to be greeted by a specific sight; In front of you, happened to be a Ghastly that had seen better days. From what you could tell, the Pokemon seemed to have been caught in some sort of scuffle, and as a result was gravely injured. Urbain seemed to notice as well, and walked up beside you. “Uh-oh, it looks like Ghastly needs some serious help. Luckily, I have a few spare Potions in my satchel that should get it goods as new.” Urbain rummaged through his bag and once he found the Potion, he started to strive towards the Pokemon. As soon as he had gotten too close, however, the Pokemon seemed to hiss and thrash out of fear of further getting hurt. “Wait a minute, calm down! I’m just trying to heal you, jeez.” But with no such luck, the Ghastly simply wouldn’t let Urbain get close enough to apply the Potion. “Here, let me have a stab at it.” You calmly took the Potion from Urbain before he could protest, and started to slowly approach the Ghastly yourself. Just like with Urbain, it had started to hiss and move about frantically. You quietly shushed the Pokemon, trying to get it to calm down. “Hey, it’s okay; I know you’re probably really scared. I’m not here to hurt you, I just wanna make sure you get better. It’s no fun to go around with bruises is it?” As you continued to approach the Pokemon, making sure to keep the same quiet tone and move ever so slowly, it started to calm down after a little bit. “That’s it, you’re doing great.” As soon as you were close enough, you reached out towards the Ghastly. It did flinch when you made a move to touch it, but after it was certain that your aim wasn’t to cause it any harm, you began to apply the medicine. “Now just a warning, this may sting a little bit but it’ll be over soon, okay?” You warned quietly before you began to apply the Potion. It had jumped at first with the initial shock, but afterwards it calmed down and allowed you to treat its wounds all the while Urbain stood behind you slack-jawed. Finally, when you were done making sure it had healed up nicely, Urbain came to stand next to you admiring your handiwork. “I’ve gotta say, you’re a natural with Pokemon! Well, except for Pancham maybe. Are you a Pokemon trainer perhaps?” Chuckling, you shook your head as you directed your attention to him. “Nope, I’ve never actually had a Pokemon to call my own yet, but back from my hometown in Hoenn, I used to help my Grandmother treat Pokemon all the time, so I’m used to it I suppose.” Smiling a bit wider, Urbain held out a fist for bumping and you returned it with an eager grin of your own. Lost in your own world, you don’t notice the Ghastly slowly start to hover in front of you, as if it wanted something. Urbain seemed to take notice of this, and his smile brightened even more. “Well, if I didn’t know any better, I would say that Ghastly may want to thank you for taking care of its wounds. It actually looks like it may want to come along with you.” Excitement seemed to spread through you; You had always wanted to become a Pokemon trainer! Battling seemed like it was a lot of fun, and a great way to get to know people! One small issue had occurred to you just then; You didn’t actually have a way to catch the Ghastly! “Uhh, Urbain we might have a slight problem; I don’t actually have any Pokeballs on me at the moment…You wouldn’t happen to have a spare one lying around would you?” you questioned nervously. Coming to the same realization as you, Urbain shook his head. “Nope, I don’t happen to have any at the moment. Tell you what though; Ghastly can still stick with us while we search for Pancham, and the first Pokemon Center we come across, we’ll get you some there. Sound good to you?” You nodded in agreement then turned back to Ghastly with a wide smile. “Welcome to the team Ghastly! Now, let’s get back to our Pancham Hunt!” After a bit more roaming around the area to the point that night had officially fallen on the town, you finally came across two people standing in an alleyway, and lo and behold, there is your luggage! “Hey! Give that back!” you shouted, so fed up with the ridiculous situation. Your irritation seemed to rise as the young couple turned towards you with an air of indifference as the Pancham held on tightly to your belongings. “Huh? And what makes you think this luggage is yours? Pancham found it on the ground so now it belongs to us!” You had a stupified expression on your face; You thought that surely this grown up wasn’t seriously using idiotic logic, but sure enough she stood her ground. Her partner seemed to double-down with her in agreement as he stated, “She’s got a point; If these were your belongings, you should’ve taken better care of them so that others wouldn’t be mistaken.” Before your anger could boil over any further, Urbain stepped in with a somewhat angry expression on his face. "Wait a minute, I know you two! Still up to no good I see. What, couldn’t make it in the Royale and now you have to resort to stealing to get by?” Your anger diminished into slight shock at Urbain’s sassy attitude as he put a hand on his hip. Grunting, the couple became enraged at the comment as they came closer towards you two. “What’d you say?! It was just a fluke that you managed to beat us before; Things are different now, and this seems like the perfect time to get some payback. What do ya say, up for a Battle?” His partner seemed very keen on the idea of battling herself, but there was yet again another slight issue. You had never battled before, only watched and not participated! You had no idea what you were doing! Sensing your rising panic, Urbain put a hand on your shoulder which seemed to level out your anxiety a bit. “Hey, it’s okay, we can do this. You have Ghastly on your side as your Partner, and it’ll take good care of you. Here are a few of the moves Ghastly learns that should be able to help you in battle…” As Urbain seemed to give you information, you took that moment to be eternally grateful that he was the one you had run into earlier that day, or else you’re not sure things would’ve turned out any better for you. Finally, armed with Ghastly and its current moveset, you were ready to engage in your first battle!	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75728286/chapters/198066771	{"authors": ["SaikoChan"], "language": "English", "title": "A New Life in Lumiose City"}
A Snowdrop Blooms at Winter’s Thaw “Now, remember to thank him for his hospitality,” Petra’s father fretted, threading the gilt gold clasp through her hair with a frown. Unsatisfied with the placement, he took the ornament out, and undid the braids put in her hair for what felt like the seventh time that hour. “And commend him on the size of his hall. Lords like acknowledgement of their status.” “Father, of course I will,” Petra laughed as he fluffed up her hair in his attempts to smooth it out, seeing her own reflection rolling her eyes fondly as she so often did when her father put on airs. “I have manners.” She tilted her head as she took in her mirror image, appreciating the tousled and wavy appearance the braids had given her usually neatly maintained shoulder-length hair. Practical hair, she had informed her father every time he’d nervously suggested she grow it out to match those of her peers and the ladies of the court. Like this, her hair gave her a wild and free appearance, as if she’d been romping through the fields and trees uncaring of the fashion of the time. But Petra had sensibility. Carefully, and lovingly swatting away her father’s clumsy and fussing fingers away, she began to braid her hair again. It was not the ornate up-does of the court, littered with jewels and many layers, but more utilitarian. Her shorter hair was not as flexible when it came to styling and she was faced with a dilemma: she did not want to insult any Northerners by implying they were not worth the effort, but nor did she want her new home to think she was a frivolous city girl. She wished she had more knowledge of their world and customs, but distances were vast and her family did not have the income, people nor time to afford someone to scout out the faraway kingdom. Nor did they have close connections that possessed that worldly knowledge. All they had was rumour, and Petra had long since learned not to trust those. So, Petra braided her hair neatly and simply, with only the simple fawn hairclip of her family’s crest for ornamentation. “How do I look, father?” She asked, angling her head to better look at her hair in the mirror. Her dad dabbed some rouge on her cheeks, rubbing them into the already natural healthy pink of her sun-kissed skin. “Like an angel. I doubt this lord has ever seen such a pretty girl in all his years.” “I’m a woman, papa,” she ducked her head, feeling childish to assert herself and letting out her old affectionate nickname for her father fall out. “And no doubt he’s seen great beauties. His family knows the king, after all, and must have attended his court.” “A woman of twenty years is still a girl to her old man,” he chided affectionately, putting a lace veil over her hair that descended down to the dip of her back. “Even if you do look every bit the bride.” She smiled, eyes glittering like honey caught in the light. She could not show her fear in front of her father, and thankfully his good cheer made it impossible. “I do hope he’s not disappointed,” she held her hands above her lap, flattening over her dress in their fidgeting. Her fingers fell over the lumps of embroidery her mother had painstakingly sewn into the gown all those years ago, before she’d married her father. Things that made her happy, contained in thread. A sunflower here, a goldfinch in flight there. It was minutiae dotted subtly throughout the skirt and bodice of the otherwise plain dress. A hand-me-down dress for a last-minute bride. But Petra found her mother’s work beautiful. Sure, it was not the fine silks and decadent embroidery of the women of the court, being only linen. She hoped the material wouldn’t cause instant scorn and derision from any onlookers. But the silhouette was nice, showing off Petra’s figure in a way that accentuated the slight soft curves in her otherwise demure frame in its cinched waist. Nothing could be done to conceal her lack of height and grace, but thankfully the gown wasn’t so long as to make her feel like she was drowning, nor did it taper out extravagantly. Hopefully her new husband would find it—would find her—pleasant to look at. Tolerably pretty. Petra was under no illusions that she was a great beauty, but there had to be some reason why her husband-to-be had chosen her among those who vied for his hand. It certainly wasn’t her connections. She was only the daughter of a merchant and a sickly lady from a lesser house. Sure, her father had been commended and their house ceremonially elevated by his service to the king in battle, but such exploits would not have drawn attention. She couldn’t make sense of the Lord of the North’s choice in her. It couldn’t be point scoring, unless it was a rebellion against the order of the monarchy itself, and even then surely he could have chosen any maiden in the North who knew his character and shared his customs. Petra struggled to make sense of the politics of King’s Landing as it was—keeping her head down and her vivacious spirit under wraps and only for her parents and her pony. She wanted to keep her head, after all. What she did know and had learned would be near completely useless as she left for the faraway kingdom of her betrothed. She’d be going in completely blind to the North. She couldn’t let anyone smell her fear. If King’s Landing had taught her anything, it was that nobles and people of the court were vultures who descended on those they identified as weak, and her position alone—lowly, poorly connected, commoner father—made her prey. She wasn’t naïve enough to believe it could be different anywhere. As she dabbed rosewater and perfume on her collarbone and the slender arch of her neck, she could only pray her husband didn’t intend to rip the throat inside out. “This was also your mother’s,” her father quickly draped a necklace across the length, several pendants of moonstone, amber and a strange cut of black glass dotted at the dip of her collarbone. Rather than look around her into the mirror to get a look, he spun his daughter around by the shoulders to take her in. Tears welled up at the weathered creases of his eyes. “God, you look a vision. I can’t believe my little girl is all grown up! But Pet, are you sure you want to go through with this? Just say the word and I’ll—” His usually mischievous and warm brown eyes were serious, imploring. “Cross a powerful family up North and make a potentially fatal enemy? Father, you know we can’t,” Petra’s shoulders slumped in his hold. She refused to let the warmth and itchiness in her throat and behind her eyes bear fruit. There would be no tears today, or else Petra feared they would never stop flowing. She refused. “It’s not too late,” her father clasped her hands in his. “We … we can just say you’ve fallen ill. Like your mother, and then—” “No,” Petra’s fingers flinched in his. “We won’t use mama to get me out of this. Not when we’re so close to being able to afford her treatment if I do go through with this.” “Pumpkin, we don’t know if they’ll work,” her father’s own eyes were welling with tears, a couple falling down the cracks of his sunken and weathered cheeks. “Your mother has fought for so long, but she wouldn’t want you throwing your life away—” “It’s my life to give,” Petra’s voice cracked, her father’s desperation and sorrow after holding everything together for so long almost made her crack. “Even if the treatments don’t work, maybe they’ll be able to alleviate some of mama’s pain. Please,” a single tear trickled down her cheek, and she wrenched her hands out of his to hurriedly wipe it away. No more, please, no more. “Let me do this.” He squeezed her shoulders, composing himself with a watery smile. “For such a slight girl, you hold the weight of our world on your shoulders with such grace.” She smiled back tightly. “Hopefully I can have some of that grace on my wedding day. I can’t let them—can’t let him think I’m a pushover. Not if I want him to consider me a partner.” “Pet, you’ll be his wife,” her father clapped her shoulders. “He already wants you for his partner and you will be, so soon.” Petra tried not to let the bitterness show on her face. It was a miracle that this sweet, guileless man had survived in King’s Landing after all this time. She hated that she took after him, even if her mother had made her more aware of the world they were enmeshed in. “That portrait artist must have done a lot of heavy lifting,” she joked, startled to see a flash of guilt run across her father’s face. Strange. Perhaps he regretted getting it done. Then she could have stayed with him, never having to travel far. “Hey,” she squeezed her father’s hand. “Chin up. Remember the old fortune teller? It’ll be okay. ‘Flowers growing in the snow, a thawing heart meets its match in stone. Weather the storm and protection will come. She will be his sun on the longest night. Their vows to each other will save their souls.’ The vows can only mean marriage. And remember? You asked her to speak more plainly and she sighed and nodded when you asked if I will marry extremely well. She couldn’t have meant purely connection and riches; with the words she said, there must be genuine love, like the kind you and mama have.” Peter Ral sighed, pinching his nose. “No doubt she said similar things to other ladies, things we all wanted to hear. Vague hopeful pretty words that we could find our own happiness in. But I choose to believe, because they made you smile so widely when she explained them. You were always one for fairytale romances, and I fear your mother and I might have set the bar too high. Forgive us if that’s the case. Please.” “But she didn’t just say things people wanted to hear, remember? She…” Petra trailed off, remembering reports that the mystical woman had been torn from her glittering trinket shop and tortured for a proclamation that had made its way back to the king that the man hadn’t wanted to hear. She had not survived the punishment. Petra had been a young, spirited girl when she and	A Snowdrop Blooms at Winter’s Thaw “Now, remember to thank him for his hospitality,” Petra’s father fretted, threading the gilt gold clasp through her hair with a frown. Unsatisfied with the placement, he took the ornament out, and undid the braids put in her hair for what felt like the seventh time that hour. “And commend him on the size of his hall. Lords like acknowledgement of their status.” “Father, of course I will,” Petra laughed as he fluffed up her hair in his attempts to smooth it out, seeing her own reflection rolling her eyes fondly as she so often did when her father put on airs. “I have manners.” She tilted her head as she took in her mirror image, appreciating the tousled and wavy appearance the braids had given her usually neatly maintained shoulder-length hair. Practical hair, she had informed her father every time he’d nervously suggested she grow it out to match those of her peers and the ladies of the court. Like this, her hair gave her a wild and free appearance, as if she’d been romping through the fields and trees uncaring of the fashion of the time. But Petra had sensibility. Carefully, and lovingly swatting away her father’s clumsy and fussing fingers away, she began to braid her hair again. It was not the ornate up-does of the court, littered with jewels and many layers, but more utilitarian. Her shorter hair was not as flexible when it came to styling and she was faced with a dilemma: she did not want to insult any Northerners by implying they were not worth the effort, but nor did she want her new home to think she was a frivolous city girl. She wished she had more knowledge of their world and customs, but distances were vast and her family did not have the income, people nor time to afford someone to scout out the faraway kingdom. Nor did they have close connections that possessed that worldly knowledge. All they had was rumour, and Petra had long since learned not to trust those. So, Petra braided her hair neatly and simply, with only the simple fawn hairclip of her family’s crest for ornamentation. “How do I look, father?” She asked, angling her head to better look at her hair in the mirror. Her dad dabbed some rouge on her cheeks, rubbing them into the already natural healthy pink of her sun-kissed skin. “Like an angel. I doubt this lord has ever seen such a pretty girl in all his years.” “I’m a woman, papa,” she ducked her head, feeling childish to assert herself and letting out her old affectionate nickname for her father fall out. “And no doubt he’s seen great beauties. His family knows the king, after all, and must have attended his court.” “A woman of twenty years is still a girl to her old man,” he chided affectionately, putting a lace veil over her hair that descended down to the dip of her back. “Even if you do look every bit the bride.” She smiled, eyes glittering like honey caught in the light. She could not show her fear in front of her father, and thankfully his good cheer made it impossible. “I do hope he’s not disappointed,” she held her hands above her lap, flattening over her dress in their fidgeting. Her fingers fell over the lumps of embroidery her mother had painstakingly sewn into the gown all those years ago, before she’d married her father. Things that made her happy, contained in thread. A sunflower here, a goldfinch in flight there. It was minutiae dotted subtly throughout the skirt and bodice of the otherwise plain dress. A hand-me-down dress for a last-minute bride. But Petra found her mother’s work beautiful. Sure, it was not the fine silks and decadent embroidery of the women of the court, being only linen. She hoped the material wouldn’t cause instant scorn and derision from any onlookers. But the silhouette was nice, showing off Petra’s figure in a way that accentuated the slight soft curves in her otherwise demure frame in its cinched waist. Nothing could be done to conceal her lack of height and grace, but thankfully the gown wasn’t so long as to make her feel like she was drowning, nor did it taper out extravagantly. Hopefully her new husband would find it—would find her—pleasant to look at. Tolerably pretty. Petra was under no illusions that she was a great beauty, but there had to be some reason why her husband-to-be had chosen her among those who vied for his hand. It certainly wasn’t her connections. She was only the daughter of a merchant and a sickly lady from a lesser house. Sure, her father had been commended and their house ceremonially elevated by his service to the king in battle, but such exploits would not have drawn attention. She couldn’t make sense of the Lord of the North’s choice in her. It couldn’t be point scoring, unless it was a rebellion against the order of the monarchy itself, and even then surely he could have chosen any maiden in the North who knew his character and shared his customs. Petra struggled to make sense of the politics of King’s Landing as it was—keeping her head down and her vivacious spirit under wraps and only for her parents and her pony. She wanted to keep her head, after all. What she did know and had learned would be near completely useless as she left for the faraway kingdom of her betrothed. She’d be going in completely blind to the North. She couldn’t let anyone smell her fear. If King’s Landing had taught her anything, it was that nobles and people of the court were vultures who descended on those they identified as weak, and her position alone—lowly, poorly connected, commoner father—made her prey. She wasn’t naïve enough to believe it could be different anywhere. As she dabbed rosewater and perfume on her collarbone and the slender arch of her neck, she could only pray her husband didn’t intend to rip the throat inside out. “This was also your mother’s,” her father quickly draped a necklace across the length, several pendants of moonstone, amber and a strange cut of black glass dotted at the dip of her collarbone. Rather than look around her into the mirror to get a look, he spun his daughter around by the shoulders to take her in. Tears welled up at the weathered creases of his eyes. “God, you look a vision. I can’t believe my little girl is all grown up! But Pet, are you sure you want to go through with this? Just say the word and I’ll—” His usually mischievous and warm brown eyes were serious, imploring. “Cross a powerful family up North and make a potentially fatal enemy? Father, you know we can’t,” Petra’s shoulders slumped in his hold. She refused to let the warmth and itchiness in her throat and behind her eyes bear fruit. There would be no tears today, or else Petra feared they would never stop flowing. She refused. “It’s not too late,” her father clasped her hands in his. “We … we can just say you’ve fallen ill. Like your mother, and then—” “No,” Petra’s fingers flinched in his. “We won’t use mama to get me out of this. Not when we’re so close to being able to afford her treatment if I do go through with this.” “Pumpkin, we don’t know if they’ll work,” her father’s own eyes were welling with tears, a couple falling down the cracks of his sunken and weathered cheeks. “Your mother has fought for so long, but she wouldn’t want you throwing your life away—” “It’s my life to give,” Petra’s voice cracked, her father’s desperation and sorrow after holding everything together for so long almost made her crack. “Even if the treatments don’t work, maybe they’ll be able to alleviate some of mama’s pain. Please,” a single tear trickled down her cheek, and she wrenched her hands out of his to hurriedly wipe it away. No more, please, no more. “Let me do this.” He squeezed her shoulders, composing himself with a watery smile. “For such a slight girl, you hold the weight of our world on your shoulders with such grace.” She smiled back tightly. “Hopefully I can have some of that grace on my wedding day. I can’t let them—can’t let him think I’m a pushover. Not if I want him to consider me a partner.” “Pet, you’ll be his wife,” her father clapped her shoulders. “He already wants you for his partner and you will be, so soon.” Petra tried not to let the bitterness show on her face. It was a miracle that this sweet, guileless man had survived in King’s Landing after all this time. She hated that she took after him, even if her mother had made her more aware of the world they were enmeshed in. “That portrait artist must have done a lot of heavy lifting,” she joked, startled to see a flash of guilt run across her father’s face. Strange. Perhaps he regretted getting it done. Then she could have stayed with him, never having to travel far. “Hey,” she squeezed her father’s hand. “Chin up. Remember the old fortune teller? It’ll be okay. ‘Flowers growing in the snow, a thawing heart meets its match in stone. Weather the storm and protection will come. She will be his sun on the longest night. Their vows to each other will save their souls.’ The vows can only mean marriage. And remember? You asked her to speak more plainly and she sighed and nodded when you asked if I will marry extremely well. She couldn’t have meant purely connection and riches; with the words she said, there must be genuine love, like the kind you and mama have.” Peter Ral sighed, pinching his nose. “No doubt she said similar things to other ladies, things we all wanted to hear. Vague hopeful pretty words that we could find our own happiness in. But I choose to believe, because they made you smile so widely when she explained them. You were always one for fairytale romances, and I fear your mother and I might have set the bar too high. Forgive us if that’s the case. Please.” “But she didn’t just say things people wanted to hear, remember? She…” Petra trailed off, remembering reports that the mystical woman had been torn from her glittering trinket shop and tortured for a proclamation that had made its way back to the king that the man hadn’t wanted to hear. She had not survived the punishment. Petra had been a young, spirited girl when she and her family had visited the fortune teller. She’d barely been able to sit still on her father’s knee, feet dangling and moving with a desire to run in the fields just behind the tent. She hadn’t missed the distraught, sorrowful looks the woman kept shooting towards her mom, but had assumed they were at Petra’s expense for being such an obvious handful. In the dark of the tent, the light coming from dim candles and the strange glow of mushrooms in jars, the woman’s eyes had been shadowed, inscrutable beneath the fringe of her hair. But when she fixed her gaze upon Petra to read her future, Petra could see that they were as milky and cloudy as moonstones. They had chilled Petra to the bone. Her mother had explained later that the woman must have been completely blind, and that Petra mustn’t be afraid of those different to, and less fortunate than, herself. Her father had thought it might have been untreated cataracts and wondered if they should have gone back to her tent to suggest (and pay for) a good doctor, as was their duty as human beings. But the tent and surrounding animals had completely disappeared, leaving behind only a strange mist on the fields, when he’d gone back to offer. “Maybe she’d moved on.” It was never safe for a single woman to stay alone for long in one place if they’d become known to others. She found it scary, too, that the woman didn’t speak until asked for prophesy, no small talk or pleasantries, and even then, the words felt to Petra more like images than tones, conjured up directly into her mind’s eye rather than heard. She’d shivered, and the woman had seemed amused, smile quirked as if to say ‘you will need to get used to the cold, child’ without saying a single world. She’d nodded and shook her head in the follow up questions her father had asked for clarity, then a pig had entered underneath the tent’s flap, and she’d shooed them away to hold it by the snout and stroke its chin, getting it ready for its dinnertime. The hour had been late, after all, and her livestock were restless. Before she turned away to tend to her animals, she’d leant over her table and held Petra by the chin, looking into her eyes. Petra remembered freezing in fear, but had defiantly glared back. She must have looked like a prissy terrified housecat staring down a wolf, but the woman had only smiled down at her, fond, as if Petra had provided some light into her day. The woman had nodded to her in farewell, hand reaching up to stroke her cheek like her mother’s so often did, before she turned her back on them. Petra wished she had said something. Wished she had known and been able to read the future. Perhaps she couldn’t have done anything, but maybe she could have thanked the woman for providing her a little promise of hope in such bleak times, that had only gotten bleaker, and provided her own words of comfort. Even if she could not have changed the woman’s fate, or warned her to be more careful with who she gave her proclamations to, she wished she could have given her some kindness in turn. Imagining the woman’s pristine white dress (a dress that did not seem to get muddy, even surrounded by damp fields and playing animals) mucked up with her blood and torn open by blades and spears gave her nightmares. The image of her face, those clouded eyes turned to her made even blanker in death, mouth open in a silent scream and crusted at the corners with blood, kept Petra up at night. She’d only heard the vaguest whisperings of the woman’s fate, but the images her mind conjured were so real and visceral Petra felt she had seen her death play out. All because she’d dared to say the politics and plotting of man would only take deadlier turns after the king drew his last breath at the hands of those closest to him, all while the schemers remained blinder than even she to the true threat lurking giant behind the walls. The king refused his own mortality. To claim such events was heresy. But the fortune teller had proven correct, even if she drew her last breath before he did. Civil war—a war for the iron throne, at that—had broken out. It was a miracle travel was still permitted in and out of its walls, and every day the shackles grew tighter upon the people of King’s Landing. Soon, they’d all be stuck. Petra’s father never brought it up, but it very well could be possible that once she left the walls of the city, she’d never be able to get back. Who knew what the days ahead would bring. He pulled his daughter into a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you, Pumpkin.” She closed her eyes and hugged him back. “Look after mama for me, please. Make her comfortable. The first of the payments from the bride-price from the Ackerman’s should arrive while I’m in transit. Please … please spend the lot on yourself and mama.” Petra’s father opened his mouth, prepared to argue, so Petra changed tactic. “I wish she could have seen me in her wedding dress.” He grit his teeth, biting back tears. “The doctor’s said she would be too insensible to even recognise you, or else she’d be sleeping.” “I know they don’t want to risk her treatment,” Petra held him tight. “But it’s such a shame.” “If you need me up there—” Petra shook her head against his chest. “You can’t leave the business or mama. I have long understood and accepted it. Please just … look after yourself. Look after mama, and feed Princess extra carrots for me. I’m just so happy you could see me in my wedding gown, even if you can’t be there to walk me down the aisle.” Her dad sobbed. --- Packing her life away was easy when one had few possessions. She could not take anything of substance—any of her loved ones, the small vegetable garden she tended to, her friends—with her. Beside her wedding dress, just bundles of woolen clothes she hoped would stave off the winter, some family trinkets, dried food stocks for the road, one person’s worth of cutlery, a dagger for protection and a bag full of seeds Petra had been assured were hardy and could grow in colder temperatures. All-in-all, a meagre trunk for a meagre girl. Beside her trunk was another containing her pittance of a dowry. Odds and ends from her father’s shop. Curiosities, really. Absolutely meaningless to a high-class family like the Ackermans, but worth over three years’ worth of wages to her father. The only thing Petra felt might have been of some worth to nobility were a pair of strange swords formed by blackened volcanic glass her father had assured her came from the breath of dragons. How he’d acquired them, her father told her, was a story for another day. She prayed to the Seven Gods that there would be another day. Her father had tried to be so strong in his final hug with her as he saw her off, but she’d felt his chin tremble against her shoulder. His face had seemed older than she’d ever seen it as her carriage had pulled away, his body sagging in on itself as if the weight of saying goodbye had hit him in a devastating blow that made him need to sit down. It was a happy occasion, Petra told herself, trying not to tremble as the days of her journey increased and the colder weather set in. The wheels on the carriage got rickety on the harder terrain as the King’s Road narrowed, throwing Petra around inside to the point of queasiness. The paved roads from the capital soon gave way to rocky trails and poorly maintained paths the deeper they got into the Riverlands. The guards travelling with her to ensure her safe passage were not Ral retainers—their house lacked the numbers to spare nor funds to keep loyal men around—but Ackerman affiliates, all stern and taciturn who kept their eyes fixed for danger, darting through the trees, on the road ahead, and behind them. They were there to ensure the safe passage of their lord’s bride, not there for her comfort or conversation. Petra had tried to engage them in the first weeks of travel with kind good mornings and offers to share her food when she had noticed their food tack was even drier and less than she had, but they all looked so put out by her smiles and treated her with grunts and short words, basically ignoring her unless she had something related to the journey in particular to ask them. Mission-focused. Not the friendliest of chaps. Petra had basically given up on making a friend for the month’s long journey but still held firm in her kindness. The nights on the road were the worst. For the most part, the guards and coachman insisted on moving on after nightfall, but slowly, to make good ground. The caution and stress from the horses put Petra on edge, and she felt useless sitting alone and powerless in the carriage as everyone else did the work. It was always a relief when the party did stop, usually parking the carriage off-road and out of sight under cover but in sight of the road in case they needed to make a hasty get away from bandits and ambushers. A young woman in the party armed with a bow oversaw hunting for small game for extra protein, but was informed if she wanted to cook it, she must make a fire away from the carriage campsite. Petra knew when she had been hunting, because she’d always return with a scowl but everything cooked and ready to eat among her guard comrades, even if they teased her that she must have eaten half of the kills before she gave them a look in. The light would draw too much attention, and the roads were dangerous, especially with how restless the Riverlands were. Petra, relieved when she had noticed another woman within the party, had poked her head out and asked if she needed an extra set of hands to skin the rabbits and cook them next time. All the guards turned and looked at her aghast, except for the woman—girl, really—who used the opportunity of the other’s distractions to steal a piece of meat from the man nearest to her before they could react, having already finished her meal. “Sasha!” the man descended a blow down upon the girl, but her smug, fat-and-sauce-stained face didn’t change its expression, for she had already gotten what she wanted. “Get back inside your box, princess,” one of the men barked. “We can’t have you drawing attention. It’s not safe here.” Petra wanted to argue that, if she’d been given a horse, she could have ridden it alongside them and not drawn as much attention as a guard procession with a carriage—however basic and small it may have been—was bound to. But these men and Sasha were risking their lives for her. So, she bit her tongue. The Riverlands were usually hospitable. Fisherfolk and traders going down the rivers in times of peace were quick to make conversation and to exchange their wares. But Petra had barely seen a single soul, and those that she did were quick to move on. The lands were lush and fertile, and farmers ploughed their fields, but they too were jumpy, and quick to dart inside at the sight of unfamiliar riders on horseback. Petra felt her heart sink. The outbreak of war would affect the people they passed the most. Things would tighten in King’s Landing, but the farmlands here would become the sights of battlefields. Falling in the centre of the warring lands, and lacking in mountains and dense forest cover, these people would be the first to feel truly feel its impacts and sheer brutality. The party came upon the point where the major river, the Trident, forked off into its three offshoot rivers. The red fork was the first they passed by and it possessed a bad omen that made them quickly agree to stop at the Inn at the Crossroads; a group of men had been slain, their bodies drifting down river. Petra peeked out through her small window gap hearing the mutterings of her guards, and caught sight of the harrowing murders. Petra saw a bloated face, the men clearly having been left to rot and travel downstream for a while. The first man’s red beard could not cover up the slit through it, the neck below cleaved almost in two but hanging together through un-severed muscle and spine. The man’s eyes were open, clouded in death just as the fortune teller’s had been in Petra’s visions, his mouth also open in a scream for help that reached no one. The blood had dissipated in the water long ago, but one of the guards had grimly muttered to another that this was the Red Fork for you, as if making a joke that failed to land. The next body that drifted below the view of Petra’s window was a lad younger than she was, his eye pierced with an arrow and chest punctured with so many of them that it reminded Petra of her mom’s old pin-cushion. She had to look away, trying to take herself back to the time when her mom was well and tending to her torn dresses, berating her for her clumsiness in running through the trees. But when she closed her eyes, all she could see was the face of the arrow-slain boy. She covered her mouth, holding in a sob and holding back bile. If she vomited, she or one of the guards would have to clean it, and she didn’t want their regard for her lower than it already was. She took a breath, willing herself to have courage to at least look out and bear witness to the atrocities marring their kingdom. Giving the living and dead dignity was something her mother had drilled into her, before the consumptive sickness had rendered her neither living nor dead, and she would stick by her principles. Petra stepped out of the carriage. “My lady,” the sigh from the guard was almost a growl in his irritation. “Have the dead been given final rites?” “Christ, my lady, if there’s dead bodies, there will be brigands or fighting nearby.” “They must have been dead at least a week,” Petra was bluffing. She lacked the medical knowledge and could only make guesses based on books she had read and things she had heard. “The bloating—” “What do you want us to do about it?” the guard was testy, twitchy, looking passed her for signs of danger. In the distance, there was the sound of children playing, of farmer’s ploughs hitting the fields and oxen bleating. They were near a township, but that didn’t rule out a threat. “We can’t protect the dead.” “No,” Petra’s shoulders, which had been raised self-righteously, slumped. “But we can give them dignity. A proper burial.” “It’s not worth it,” another guard—Petra had heard someone call him Eld—said, sending Petra a sympathetic smile before placating the offended other guard who seemed to have taken Eld’s defense as mutiny against him. “It’s a city girl’s pretty, fanciful idea. Not practical. Don’t take it personally. Besides, we can’t tell what their faith was, where they were from, or how they would have wanted to be buried. Best to leave them to the fishes.” “But the waterways could be contaminated with their—can we please at least get out the—” “I’m sorry. It would make us vulnerable and delay us further. And for what? The dead cannot assist us, nor can we assist them. It’s better we stay among the living.” Seeing Petra’s obvious distress, the guard sighed, giving her a penetrating stare. “You are kind, girl. But impractical. Save your kindness for the living. Lord Levi will need it. But you best wise up to the world, miss, if you wish to win his favour.” Petra bit her tongue. She wanted to ask what kind of man her betrothed was. All she’d heard were tales of heroism and bloodshed. A cold lord with a colder cunning and bloodstained hands who could take out whole armies on his own to protect the kingdom and his own. But she would learn who he was soon enough. “They weren’t even in armour or armed. Why—” “They could have been armed,” the guard pointed out. “They might have been looted for weapons. We’ll never know.” Petra watched the shoes of the last body until the movement of the river turned it out of view. “Stories like this happen every day, don’t they,” Petra murmured. “Aye my lady, they do,” the guard was grim. “Especially on the road and in times like these.” She clenched her jaw and her fist, frustrated by the feelings of powerlessness washing over her. Such senseless loss and violence. The guard watched her carefully. “You must be looking forward to having a proper bed beneath you tonight.” Petra wondered if she’d be able to sleep at all. She’d gotten used to the hard wooden boards beneath her back, to the rhythmic swaying of the carriage. There was a crick in her back—she’d never sat so still for so long in all of her years—but she doubted just one night at an inn would take the ache away. “You too, Sir. After riding all this way, you and your men must—” “Sir?” Sasha cut in, laughing wildly. “You speak like he’s one of them pouncy knights. You’re a funny girl.” “What should I call you all then?” she asked. “I know your name is Sasha, and you're Eld, but I don't know if you want me to call you that. And the others—" She went ignored, and the guard who seemed to have taken a personal dislike to her sighed and put his hand on her shoulder to move her towards the carriage. “We’ve stopped here for too long. You can consider that our respect for the dead. Get back in the coach.” The Inn was half a day’s journey away and, if the tension releasing from her entourage’s backs were to believed, could not have come sooner. Petra offered coin to pay her way, but was ignored once again by the guards, who got to work haggling for cheaper rooms. Sasha bounced up to Petra’s side, clinging to her arm as if they were good friends. “We’ll be sharing a room. Don’t worry, I’m as good with a dagger as I am with arrows if any of the patrons rooming here decide they want to push their luck. I’m an expert at aiming for the balls.” Petra grimaced, but did her best to smile at the guard. “You might have to teach me how to aim. I can use a dagger, but that sounds like a very solid warning shot.” Sasha laughed like that was the funniest thing she had ever heard. “I doubt they’d find it to be a warning shot, my lady.” Petra wished they would drop the formalities and call her by her name. Had formality always been so stifling, or had being on the road and hearing the banter between the guards outside made it all seem so shallow? Sasha was out like a light and drooling as soon as she hit the pillow. Petra watched her with amusement, half-wishing she could sleep so easily and half-wincing in sympathy because the girl was still wearing light armour and it would no doubt ache in the morning. Well, they were no doubt trained and used to the heaviness, especially after the weeks of travel. There was a knock on the door. Another guard had brought food to them, shooting a knowing look at the sleeping Sasha. “Just put this under her nose. The smell—” Sasha was up and threw a pillow at him. So, she was a light sleeper, despite sleeping quickly. It was a hearty and full meal. More than Petra had eaten since starting the journey. Her stomach had been twisted with nerves and unable to get anything down the night she’d left King’s Landing. She hadn’t realised she was as famished as she was until she was halfway through the pork, gravy glistening on her chin. She caught Sasha watching her, similarly messy and mid-bite, holding a chunk of meat in one hand and a potato in the other. The two women just stared at each other, and then Petra released an awkward burp. Petra swallowed her mouthful with an embarrassed smile. Sasha grinned at her widely. “You’re not bad, lady. You’re not bad.” The conversation they shared was basic, not delving into much in particular beyond the stresses of the journey. She came to learn Sasha was a girl from a mountain village in the North who had come to Winterfell to serve less than twelve months before this mission, who had quickly endeared herself to her new squadmates through her resourcefulness and cheer. Even if she was teased for not being the wittiest or socially quick. “Lord Levi don’t care about all that fancy shit, and that’s why he’s the best lord ever,” she beamed, before her smile dropped. “Even if he’s a bit scary. He just cares that people do their job, and do it well, and I’m an excellent marksman and hunter. You have to be in the mountains, or you don’t eat!” Petra just smiled and shared a bit about riding with her pony Princess when she heard Sasha loved being in the saddle, and her own adventures foraging and exploring fields when she was smaller. The girl snorted ale through her nose when Petra told her how she’d given her household the runs after adding a field mushroom to the dinner pot, and been forbidden by her father from cooking for six months. “I’d have still eaten it. Probably wouldn’t have gotten the shits, too,” Sasha wheezed, wiping away the mess around her nostrils with the back of her hand. “I have a cast iron stomach.” Petra laughed politely in gratitude, grateful her anecdote had distracted Sasha from the fear growing within Petra. Levi cares about people doing the job, and doing it well? Her stomach rumbled with nerves, hoping he’d find her performance up to his standards. Sasha, misunderstanding, yelled out to the other guard her age to fetch them more food. Soon after, Sasha was asleep again, drooling over her pillows. Despite the comfort of a bed, and the extra warmth of the blankets, Petra felt a cold stone settle in her stomach. No matter which way she turned, she couldn’t get comfortable. She watched the ceiling, wondering if that was all life would become—watching unfamiliar ceilings while a faceless man ploughed his weight into her, blind and uncaring to his wife’s mind or pleasure and getting his sweat all over the sheets. In the silence of the night, she could hear panting through the walls, the rustle of straw bedding. She rolled over and covered the pillow over her ears, trying to block out the sighs that sounded like a mockery from the room next door. If she concentrated on listening to her blood flowing through her ears pressed on the pillow, it was like she could hear the ocean. She wondered what the beaches of the Riverland were like. It was close-by the inn—but it would add a week onto the trip if they were to go there and back again, and despite provisions allowing for delay, her guards seemed eager to be home. Petra hoped she would be gripped with the same yearning—to have someone up North she wished to come home to—when she met her husband, but for now all she wanted to do was hug her father and to walk along the beach, getting sand and salt spray between her toes. Maybe her husband would like to walk along the beach with her, hand-in-hand. Perhaps he’d be the sort to complain about the sand, or to burn easy in the sun, but he’d indulge her. Maybe he’d laugh as freely as Petra did at the antics of the seabirds, always quick to steal food from guests who had let their guard down, or maybe he’d be the strong silent type. Now that her mind was drifting away from the stresses of the expectations put upon her as a bride, it was almost pleasant. There was a part of her that desperately wanted to meet the man that had chosen her. Perhaps he would be handsome. Perhaps he could be kind. She was finally able to sleep when she imagined herself stepping into ocean, beckoning the man on the shore to follow. The weeks on the road were easier when she didn’t feel totally alone. Sasha wasn’t quite a companion—always retaining her professionalism—but she did bring Petra extra poultry, and she did send Petra conspiratorial smiles when her squad-mates said or did anything particularly stupid or stubbornly hardheaded, usually the boy was the close-cropped hair Petra had come to learn was named Connie. Bathing was done in streams, Sasha on lookout. Petra longed for soap and a soak that wasn’t accompanied by a ‘be quick about it,’ but was grateful for the dignity they allowed her. She heard Sasha snickering to Connie later that Petra’s urge for cleanliness and thoroughness to scrub with such little time was a great sign. That Lord Levi was “going to love her.” The next time she bathed, the water—or at least her skin—felt warmer as she wiped her cheeks. The days drifted by with the landscape. Petra began to sleep easily in the carriage, the hard wood under her cheek becoming a reminder that she was safe and secure. The only real incidents were a desperate attempt to rob her carriage, swiftly dispensed in awe-inspiring teamwork and fighting prowess that left Petra breathless and wanting to train in the ways of her guards, and the grim stress of travelling through the Twins. “The Tyburs are allies,” Sasha said, but Petra noticed that even she was lacking her usual good cheer and friendliness. The guard had covered her hair under a cap and wore baggier clothes that disguised her figure. “Lord Levi isn’t well liked by the current head of the family.” Thankfully, they were granted swift passage, as if the Tyburs wanted them gone without incident as soon as possible. Petra was relieved to not have to dine at the castle. The promise of a bath and a bed were nothing on the strange, strained tension the giant guardsmen of the Tybur family exuded. Soon, farmland and waterways got sparser, giving way to rockier grounds and the first signs of snow. Petra felt her heart quicken, her breaths painting the window of the carriage in puffs of pale white as she started to feel the cold. She was downright shivering, even in her wools, by the time they arrived into the North, its grounds blanketed by snow. In the distance, a crow cawed. Perhaps it was from the Night’s Watch? Petra might have enough seeds to share with it if it flew near the carriage, but it probably sought meat. The carriage came to a stop, Sasha opening the door. A gust of freezing wind entered, leaving Petra huddled in the corner, buried under a woollen coat. Petra’s wide, sorrowful eyes locked with the mischievous pair of the young guard, who laughed at her state. “You might want to change into your wedding gown now, if you’re intending on getting married straight away—he’s a busy guy, and he does so love efficiency—and want to make a pretty impression,” Sasha’s eyebrows waggled suggestively. Petra groaned and hugged herself. The thought of stripping naked in the narrow compartment when the air was so cold she could see her breath in steady streams of white made her want to curl up in a ball and never emerge. But this was her future, and Petra was no coward. She would not be cowed by a little frost. “Thank you, Sasha,” Petra drew on her strength to offer her a grateful smile. “I’ll do that now.” “Just shout out when you’re ready,” Sasha grinned. “We’re turning into Winterfell within the hour, and I’d hate to draw open the door and have your husband see all of you in her first glimpse. Unless you’re into that, in which case—” “Thank you, Sasha,” Petra repeated, stonily. The younger woman just chuckled and left Petra to get dolled up as best as one could without an attendant, on poor sleep, after a forty-day journey in a narrow box. Petra couldn’t help but chuckle bitterly once the door clicked shut. For all her and her father’s dress rehearsals and fussing over her hair, it seemed like there would be no time at all to even bathe if her husband was to be meeting them at the entrance. A small woman, Petra was lucky enough to be able to stand upright with just a lowering of the head to avoid hitting the roof. Relieved that the carriage and procession had come to a halt and not continued to trek on, the jostling would have prevented Petra or either of her dresses from coming out unscathed, Petra braced herself and began stripping down to her undergarments. Her long skirts hit the floor of the carriage and her layer of protection from the elements was stripped away. She bent into herself, shuddering as she got to work fishing out her gown from the trunk. Petra could well understand why ladies travelled with attendants. Tying up her own corset was an exercise in agony, at first squeezing too tight she was unable to tie it up and needed to stop to regain her breath. Sitting hunched over in her under-things, breasts heaving free beneath the untied corset and peaked almost painfully from the cold, Petra couldn’t help but laugh at her predicament. Even after all this time, all of her courage to leave her family, there was still no noticeable change in circumstance or care for her person. Well, she at least had herself to rely on, and after her moment of accepting this, she tightened the corset firmly, but not too tightly, around her waist. She slid the dress over herself, doing her best to smooth down any creases that had amassed over the journey, and stretched herself to tie up all the ribbons and buttons along the back. She fished out a comb, tugging it fiercely through the tangles of her hair, before doing her best to plait her hair and attach the silver fawn hair ornament as if it were a bow by her ear. Hot indignation and righteous fury coursed through her veins; she barely felt the cold beneath the rush of blood, although it continued to pinch and prod at her skin. Her husband, for all his titles and resources, had not sought fit to provide her with a companion for the road to talk to, or at least someone to help her look her best for him. It stung. She hadn’t wanted to step on any toes, making herself small and amiable for the duration of the trip, even as the guards treated her as unwanted cargo. For forty days, she had sat without complaint, her only request the burial rites of the murdered men ignored, and now the closest person she did have to a companion, Sasha, was teasing her but not offering any advice or help. She hadn’t wanted to seem too eager and desperate to find out more about her lord husband, but now she wished she had been nosy. A whole trip along the King’s Road, wasted. She probably looked a fright, too. Her heart clenched, still longing for approval, and afraid to make it all the way there to be turned back in disgust. Biting back on feelings of shame, she clenched her hand around the carriage handle and braced herself as she opened the door. “Sasha,” she yelled out, alarmed as all her guards turned to face her, as if seeing her for the first time. She ignored the low whistle Connie let out, alongside the raised eyebrows and wide-eyed stares of some of the older men, as her eyes scanned around for the only female guard. Sasha stared at her as if awestruck, the potato she’d shoved into her mouth falling from her slackened jaw. The fire of anger inside Petra sputtered out as she realised none of the people present must have had much contact or experience with highborn women and their needs, their harsh manners and shortness with her coming from not knowing what to do when it came to the handling and treatment of her and being embarrassed about it while trying to act tough and assert that they could protect her. Still, Petra had to ask. She licked her chapped licks nervously, wincing at feeling the cracks along the plush skin. “Would you be able to fill up my basin with water for me? I have a towel and a mirror on my person, but I need some freshwater to wash my face. I fear I’ve run out and don’t know the area well enough to fetch some.” She winced hearing her own voice. Not even at the castle, after they had done so much for her, and she was already making demands of them for her own vanity— “Aye, my lady,” Sasha blinked, eyes wide. “I didn’t even think of that—" “It’s not essential,” Petra smiled, embarrassed. They must think her a vain thing. “You’ve been focusing on the important elements of the trip—all of you have.” She bowed to the group, who all looked around disgruntled and confused. “Thank you for all your time and efforts to transport me to your Lord. It is a long journey, and you have been on the road for twice as long as I have, away from your homes and your families. All to transport a silly young woman who makes demands off of you. I’ve been trying to not get underfoot, and to stay out of your way—it’s my first journey along the King’s Road. I’ve never left King’s Landing before, or been away from my family for any length of time. But I did not think that it might be the same for some of you. I’ve been selfish so please.” She bowed lower, and would have gotten down on her knees if not for the fear of ruining her wedding gown before her betrothed got the chance to see her in it. “Forgive me.” The group was speechless. Sasha looked at Connie in disbelief as if searching for an answer, before her gaze fell back to Petra. “There’s nothing to forgive …?” “You haven’t been ordering any of us around or nothing,” Connie agreed. “Hells, when we heard we were fetching a city noble, we figured we were in for a month and a half of hell and being distracted and ordered to find a bigger carriage, but you’ve been quiet an’ polite. We were scared we picked up the wrong person!” “If anything, we’ve been unfair to you,” an older man with blonde hair tied into a bun who seemed to be in a leadership position interjected. “Not keeping you in the loop and hurrying you along with nothing but stops for toileting. We hadn’t wanted to cause you fear.” “Fear?” Petra stood up to her full height. “Why would I be afraid?” “Miss, we’ve narrowly avoided armies by a margin of days and sometimes miles in some cases,” he informed her. “It was a risk to continue to fetch you during this time of upheaval, but plans were underway from before the king carked it, and we’d already travelled three-quarts the way by the time news of his death reached us. We refused to return to our Lord empty handed. In trying times, our people and our leader could use some happy news, and nothing had reached us to tell us our mission was off.” The man looked at her, tilting his head and giving her a small, fond smile. “And I can’t imagine you’d make him unhappy.” It was Petra’s turn to be rendered speechless. She’d been aware that unrest was brewing and that there were rumours of gathering armies and the outbreak of civil war, but she had not realised they’d been so close to disaster. They’d shielded her—who must have seemed so frightened, to those unaware of her fire—so diligently from danger and their own fears. What she’d taken for annoyance with her was perhaps simply stress. “You have my sincerest gratitude, Sir Eld.” The man smiled, chuffed. “None of this Sir business, you hear my Lady? Formalities aren’t really a thing to our Lord.” “Yet you still call him your Lord,” Petra smiled, feeling at ease. “Does it annoy him?” “Undoubtedly,” Eld grinned. “If he wants to be called by any titles, he prefers ‘Captain’ when it’s in battle. But he’s our Lord, whether he likes it or not.” “You can all call me Petra,” she offered, with a relieved smile. “It seems strange to be called ‘My Lady.’” Eld tilted his head. “It’s probably best that you get used to it. You are our Lady of Winterfell. And for what it’s worth, my lady,” Eld gave her a roguish grin. “We’re honoured to have you with us.” The scout they had sent on ahead returned, letting them know Lord Levi had been informed of their arrival and was ready to receive them. Eld let out a sigh of relief, whispering to Petra that he was the kind of man to run off into battle alone if asked by an ally, or if threat came too close to their home. Eld had very little update on the situation at home from after they’d left it, receiving only a few ravens along the road with correspondence assuring him that the Ackermans were more concerned with activity on the other side of the wall than the power grabs of men for the Iron Throne. Specifically, that Levi was waiting for waiting to consult with his wife before getting involved in any wars. “He must be eager to meet you, indeed,” he shared a conspiratorial smile with Petra. -- The mountains looming impossibly large were what Petra noticed first as the party continued their ascent to her new home. Petra’s heart leapt into her throat when she realised the large structure she had in her sleep-deprived state originally taken to be another large mountainous structure was in fact Castle Winterfell coming into view. She gasped so loud she heard the carriage driver, a near-silent presence, chuckle. The walls towered high and wide and were made of dark granite. Snow powdered the tops of the walls and turrets, and the gate heaved as if the castle was groaning in effort to let them in. The horses’ hooves and the carriage’s wheels echoed, clipped as they glid across the bridge over the moat. Petra saw, before the ceiling of the castle’s entrance kept it from view, that atop the entrance, a flag bearing a silver-sewn wolf snarled in greeting. The same symbol surrounded them on the banners lining the entrance, before a second gate opened up and unveiled the first part of her new kingdom to her. While King’s Landing had a golden glow, the architecture tall and ornate, Winterfell was blunt and imposing and felt like the light would never enter it. Dark stone and snow blocked everything out. Winterfell’s walls were shorter than King’s Landing, its population much fewer than the capital which housed a whole city with its own provinces, but Petra had never felt so lost and small as she did emerging into the first courtyard. Petra felt the walls and her freedom were closing in on her the more she was drawn inside the complex labyrinth. Petra heard a clashing of metal against metal ringing out from two different directions, moving from window to window to see where they were coming from. A blacksmith to one side, a training yard across the road. Soldiers were putting themselves through their paces, but several of the younger ones stopped to watch the carriage’s approach. A young man with sepia-tinted hair styled into a shaggy undercut waved and hollered at the procession. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes! Damn Connie, Sasha, I was appreciating the quiet!” “We missed you too, Jean,” Sasha cried out cheerfully. “Feast at ma’s tonight, don’t be late!” “We’ve got the wedding feast to get to, you dumbass!” The exchange alerted more people to their presence. Even townsfolk previously engaged in their tasks stopped to watch the returning procession of guards ambling in on their horses, several faces lighting up in delight to see their loved ones had survived across the months of absence. “Okay guys, I know it’s exciting but make way—” Eld cut off his own attempts at crowd control, stopping his horse and jumping off to embrace a woman who Petra had seen run past a block of houses to reach him. “Oh honey,” he kissed the woman’s lips as she desperately craned her neck towards him, meeting in the middle. “I missed you too. I missed you so much—” Petra’s heart twinged painfully, an acute ache as she watched the pair of lovers reunite. The kind guardsman cradled the woman’s face and she looked at him as if memorising every detail, looking for new scars and creases. Eld’s easy-going smile was softer, settled. Like he’d finally come home when he was in the woman’s arms. She felt terrible to have been responsible for such partings, while longing to experience what they were in reuniting. By now, they’d gathered quite a crowd. Families, friends, and curious onlookers eyed the party, some villagers even following the carriage inside from the township just outside the castle walls. Petra peered through her window, smiling at a small child who jumped in alarm, dropping their teddy bear, at her sudden appearance in the glass. The brave girl picked up her bear, braced herself, and waved the bear’s hand at Petra, who enthusiastically waved back with a beaming smile. The young man who had greeted Connie and Sasha pointed at the carriage. “Is that …?” Petra gathered her bearings, still a bit delirious from the jostling the rough and rocky terrain, and opened the carriage door to meet the people she was hoping would accept her as one of them. This caused alarm among the guards. “My lady,” the harshest of the men cried. “We are not yet at the inner castle.” “I can walk,” she smiled at him, relieved to be out from the claustrophobic carriage cabin. “And I’d like to meet everyone! Thank you all for the warm welcome, and thank you for lending me so many of your good men and women to come and fetch me for such a long journey.” She addressed this to everyone but shared a smile with the woman in Eld’s arms. “My lady, you’ll ruin your wedding dress traipsing through all this mud,” murmured the carriage man, a broad man with dark hair and thick features Petra hadn’t realised possessed such kind, quiet manners. “Yes,” Petra rubbed her chin in thought. “I shouldn’t trail mud through the halls. What an inappropriate greeting!” “We can help!” Sasha and Connie beamed, hoisting her up on their shoulders. Petra laughed in surprise, almost falling off their shoulders but being righted by the carriage driver with a supportive hand on her back. Cheers ran out from the public, delighted by their antics and the amiable nature of the young bride, although some were already whispering, they’d never heard of a lady from the city doing that. The duo powered forward for several streets in tandem with each other, but Petra could feel their back muscles faltering. What surprised Petra was the enthusiastic cheerful nature of the town’s folk, who joined the pair and walked with them in an informal parade. An older woman by Connie’s side chatted away up at Petra, placing a stone bracelet on Petra’s dangling wrist. The woman seemed awed by the softness of Petra’s smooth, pale hands, stroking them repetitiously as she offered to gift her a jar of this season’s marmalade and jam. “That sounds delightful,” Petra smiled at her, thanking her for the bracelet. “I would love to sit down and have tea with you some time, and we can exchange recipes.” Connie and Sasha bounced her, laughing. “Perhaps I should ride one of the horses?” Petra rested a hand on Connie’s close-cropped head. “It would be less of a weight on you.” “Too late for that,” Sasha tilted her head to smile up at her as the procession narrowed to cross the bridge over the second moat into the castle’s inner walls. “Hold on tight to Connie’s bald head—we’d hate to drop you now!” Their arms, already hooked around her legs securely, tightened to show they had no intention of letting go. The gaiety and cheer of the group continued until they came up to the steps of the castle’s great hall, whereby a silence thick and heavy as the gaze of the man standing atop the stairs fell upon them. Petra’s heart leapt to her throat, her laughter cutting out at the intensity and severity of that impenetrable look. Wordlessly, the two cheerful young guards deposited her to the foot of the stairs. Petra didn’t know what to do with her hands, or her body for that matter. Under his weighted stare, she stood frozen, a fawn caught in the teeth of a wolf, just waiting for it to deliver the final blow. The chilling winds blew at the skirts of her dress, and she shivered. But she did not feel the cold. The crowd had gone completely silent. All she could hear was the wind whistling through the courtyard, not even her own breaths. The wind buoyed the black wolfskin cape the man wore upon his shoulders. Silver eyes stared her down, impenetrable and giving nothing away. Those quicksilver eyes were sharp and angular—everything about her betrothed was sharp. The sword at his side. His stance. Those eyebrows. The impeccably kept cut of his suit. His jaw, which tilted imperiously as he took her in. Petra felt heat pool in her stomach and chest as he continued to scrutinise her without saying a word. No man had ever looked at her so intently, as if she were a book to be analysed or perhaps a work of art to be studied. She wondered what it was that he saw. Cautiously, she raised her hand to wave at him, if only to wilfully break the spell she felt she was under, a bashful red painting her cheeks as she met his gaze head on with a smile. The man’s brows furrowed. The hand at his side twitched, as if he was compelled to wave back but actively holding his body back from completing the motion. Petra didn’t want to appear too forward, but she needed to meet him. She lifted her skirts up, marching purposefully up the first few steps. She heard the scratch of footfalls running down the stone steps, rushing to meet her midway, but her eyes never left her husband, and he had not moved. Brow furrowing at the disconnect between sound and visual, Petra had a second to feel an extra chill from a shadow as it fell upon her, before she saw the dark figure descending upon her in a leap. A flash of fangs and drool. Wild eyes fixated on her. Black fur that matched the cloak of her husband. So, this was how she would die, Petra thought, tensing as a creature ambled towards her in impossibly fast strides. The young lady put her arms up to defend her neck as best she could, only to be knocked bodily onto the ground by the bold beast that had embraced her with a ferocity that she wished her husband had. To be held, at least one time, would have let Petra die with a smile. Unable to see her husband over the sheer size of the wolf, she closed her eyes and braced herself for death as the creature’s warm breath fanned over her neck, its nose exhaling rapidly as it drew upon her pulse. There was a frantic gasp from the guard and public, too far away to do anything and fearing the worst. Only for both crowd and Petra to be surprised that instead of teeth meeting her skin, it was the warm, wet strip of a tongue. The wolf whined, a desperate little keen, and nuzzled insistently against her neck and chin, peppering her face with kisses. Petra could feel the creature vibrating, its paws padding all over her and making her wheeze under its weight as it sought purchase and accidentally pressed into her chest and stomach. Sensing Petra’s distress, it shuffled its big paws around, adjusting its body weight so it wasn’t bluntly pressing into her. The beast gave her cheek a lick, as if in apology, before continuing to slobber all over her face. Petra’s head thankfully hadn’t cracked against the stone courtyard in the fall, instead being pushed off and landing in a blanket of snow. The wolf’s breath and mouth tickled, and while she knew logically to fear the animal, she couldn’t. Not when it was acting like an overgrown puppy. She could hear its tail slapping against its side as it wagged seemingly endlessly in its happiness. The shock wore off, and very quickly Petra was laughing, wriggling in the snow as the wolf smooched up to her in play, gummily nipping at the air and shaking its butt up. Petra’s giggles echoed through the courtyard, her legs flailing as the she and the dog engaged in a tickle contest. “Oh, you are so cute,” she angled her head to try and look at it better, a task made impossible as the dog zoomed back to her face at the movement and made up for its play by resuming its curious snuffling and kisses. “Who’s a good dog? Yes, you are! Yes, you are!” her hands buried in the creature’s side, burying into the thick fur to ruffle around its back and ribs. The wolf whined and groaned, practically melting into her touch. Torn between leaning into her strokes and wanting to lean forward to give her more licks, the dog let out a grumbling sigh and flopped onto her chest, boneless and happy as if it had given up on thought. Petra was very tempted to poke it gently on its big wet nose, but she didn’t want to suddenly provoke it. Instead, she gave it a slow, methodical stroke behind the ear, in awe that such a big creature was so gentle with her. It was practically falling asleep under her hands! “I’m going to get up now, okay?” she spoke slowly and kindly. The dog whined in displeasure—Petra cooed “don’t give me that attitude”—but rolled off from her, taking to watching over her from her side as she sat up. She sent a sheepish smile up to her Lord, both her and his wolf doe-eyed, embarrassed and trying to gauge his mood. Nervously, Petra smoothed down her dress, hoping he and the crowds had not seen too much skin. God, he must think her so immature and graceless. The worst first impression she could have possibly made, giggling like a guileless fool and flopping about like a damn child. His face was an unreadable mask. They were strangers, unused to each other’s moods and mannerisms, but Lord Levi seemed made of the same stone as his castle. Perhaps the strong line of the man’s lips were pursed, his eyebrows minutely furrowed, but she needed more time to be able to decipher what it meant. She hoped she had not repulsed him so immediately in their acquaintance. At his side, his hand flexed, clenching and unclenching. Eventually, his voice rang out, a deep timbre that filled the space with such gravity that he did not have to raise his voice to be heard. “I trained you better than that, dog.” The dog lowered its head in shame, looking up at him with pitiful eyes as it crept up back towards him to sit by his side, as if trying to pretend that nothing had ever happened. Those sharp eyes turned a shrewd, unhappy glare down in the wolf’s direction, the canine looking away in shame. The man sighed, standing rigid and firm, as he turned his attention back to Petra. Petra took note of the way his hand reached back to pat his wolf as he took steps down towards her, muttering a low “Stay.” He walked down the steps with steady strides, neither hurried nor hesitant. His eyes on her—she could tell she’d never grow immune to their weight. She shivered. He was only a couple of steps above her, but Petra had to stop herself from reaching out to bridge the distance. He tilted his head, considering her, before removing that wolfskin cloak from his shoulders without question or hesitation. Petra noted how his arms, despite his body’s overall trim figure, were thick and compact with muscle, pushing against the sleeves of his dark woollen tunic. A man built for battle, honed through training. Petra bit her lip and looked away first, fearing that the intense man could read her thoughts and desire through her eyes. She’d always been told her face was too honest. That thick cloak was heavier than it looked as it was wrapped around her shoulders. Startled, Petra looked up, eyes questioning. “You were cold,” he said simply. Petra blushed a deep shade of pink. The cloak, despite its heaviness, embraced her snuggly, insulating her from the biting chill of the air she hadn’t realised was getting to her so much until it was gone. The black of the furs and its sheer volume contrasted strongly against the flimsiness of her white linen dress. Petra was embarrassed to see patches of said dress were so thin as to be translucent where the snow had seeped in and wetted the dress in the wolf’s assault. Not only had he provided her with warmth from the elements she was not used to, he had given her modesty while her dress dried. “But my Lord,” she entreated. “Won’t you be cold? You didn’t have to … ” His jaw twitched as his eyes scanned over her insubstantial gown, his hands reaching out to readjust the cloak as its weight slipped from her shoulders as she did her best to keep it wrapped around her slimmer body. “I am used to these conditions. You are not.” Petra stroked the fur self-consciously, awed by how silky the texture felt through her fingers. She couldn’t help but smile, even if she felt silly for her attire. Now, she felt warm, inside and out, held and engulfed under layers as she was. Emboldened, and remembering her manners, she smiled winsomely up at him, positively beaming with happiness. “Thank you for the cloak, Lord Ackerman.” Those hands fixing the cloak to her shoulders clenched in the fur, not drawing away. He was but a step away from her now, those eyes frozen on her face, brows furrowed in intensity. His hands were warm and strong; Petra could feel them around her shoulders, even through the wolfskin. This close, a gap away from being chest-to-chest, Petra could feel the warmth of his steady breathing, the heat radiating from his body. Curiosity bloomed in Petra’s belly, wanting to feel just how hot his body temperature ran, but he startled when she leaned closer to him, as if nudged out of a daydream. He blinked, and then took a step back, but with hesitation Petra had not seen his sure movements possess before. “Welcome to Winterfell.” The snow pricked Petra’s gums as she smiled. “Thank you for the warm welcome.” “Perhaps too warm,” his eyes shot a glare at the wolf. “I trained him better than that.” “No harm done,” Petra smiled at the wolf, daring to brush against Levi’s side as she joined him on the step. This close, Petra was surprised to see her Lord was almost as short as she was. The way he carried himself—the sheer presence, coiled strength and physicality of his person—had made him seem taller. “It’s nice to be appreciated.” His eyes seemed to darken, a thought clearly on his tongue that he did not say. Instead, he tsked and tugged the cravat off from around his neck, offering her the pure white fabric. Petra raised a brow in confusion. “For the drool,” there was the flicker of a smile almost broke through his impenetrable façade but smoothed over, Levi reaching across to dab at her chin and cheeks. “…It was the wolf’s,” Petra stuttered, mortified. That was definitely a small smile. Petra felt a flutter between her ribs—embarrassment, she told herself. “Of course it was just his. But I’d rather not get a mouthful of dog saliva when we—” “Fair enough,” Petra flustered, taking the cravat and hurriedly, but methodically, wiping her face with it. Levi watched her with interest. Petra held out the cravat, before thinking better of it and tucking it into the engulfing cloak sleeves. “I’ll wash it proper.” “Good,” he said simply, turning to walk up the stairs, indicating with the tilt of his head for her to follow. Petra clung onto the cloak and hustled up the steps by his side, taking note of the way his Adam’s apple bobbed beneath his high neckline, the way he kept glancing over to her to make sure she was there and real. “Gods, I’ve been before you all of five minutes and already divested you of most of your garments—” Petra cut herself off. Levi raised an eyebrow. “I mean, I feel bad already, with all this taking,” she ducked her head shyly. “Your coat and cravat. Might I give you something of mine, so that we start off our partnership on equal footing?” “Petra,” his voice was a husky whisper, for her alone. His elegant fingers clenched again at his side. The guards at the door to the great hall could not hear it, nor the public below. “Gods, woman, do you know what you’re doing to me already?” Petra blinked at his reaction, having unclasped the fawn hairclip in her hair to sweetly offer him the silver emblem. Levi’s eyes trailed from the hairpin back to Petra, face blank. Petra tilted her head in confusion, moving to rescind her meagre offer of the fawn when his hand reached for hers. Gingerly, he took the offering, bringing it back to his chest to examine. Without another word, he opened it up and clipped it onto his sleeve, as if it were a treasured cufflink. Petra smiled at his acceptance. The fawn, right next to the wolf.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75728291/chapters/198066776	{"authors": ["PiratePlunder"], "language": "English", "title": "A Snowdrop Blooms at Winter’s Thaw"}
Nidhiki, The Green Knight It started with my birth and that’s when I found out I was born matoran. Mama called me a kitty cat as I waddled across the street to the local water pump. It was a chromatic time, when others would greet me on the street as the repetitive frets of joyous violins and talking animals followed me home. I was a poor boy living on an island off Greenery’s coast. There my father left for the mainland and my mother died of dysentery. I couldn’t even cry over her lifeless body. At the funeral service there was a portrait of a woman. Green skinned woman, not quite indigenous, but not quite foreign either, she looked like us. She wore a white robe with vegetation and animals crawling all over her, with her arms stretched out as if giving you a hug. She wore four rings, two on each hand, each symbolizing the four elements and subsequently the four corresponding islands. Below her were numerous unidentifiable children, she was a mother, she looked like my mother, and above her were all the colors of the rainbow alongside a mask with a matoranoid on it. That was my first introduction to our sacred mother, Mata Nui, and how we depicted her. Some islands thought she was a man, others viewed her as a snake, and others viewed Mata Nui simply as the universe itself and nothing more. Personally, I never viewed myself as a religious person, but everyone else was so I had to keep that in mind. When I was still a kid, I learned about my island's history and replicated it with moss and mud. I spent weeks in my grandfather's yard, gathering stones, nuts, grasses, clay, anything I could find to recreate Greenery’s Eastern cities of old. I layered it over a flat bed of mud, where I pretended it was a city atop of a lake. I sat there making people with sticks and watching as they lived their lives in harmony. It’s the best I could do gathering from the pictures I’d see in the book. It was the closest I could get, yet so far from what I wanted to see. It was all gone, nothing was left. There was a boy named Tuuli, he was an odd fella, what others would call slow. Which meant he was a little eccentric. I first met him when his mother came walking to our door step, asking for someone to play with him around the neighborhood. Grandpa allowed him to knock on our door and he always knocked on our door. I had to tell grandpa to start ignoring him. There was just something about him, the way his hands involuntarily shook, how he ran with his head planted towards the ground, thinking it would make him go faster; I would mimic the way he acted to grandpa and it'd always give him a quick chuckle. It was just the way he is, which made others want to avoid him like the plague. Then one day I invited my friends Makuru and Ayotli over from school, and Tuuli came knocking. He could hear us from behind the house, there was no getting ourselves out of this one, so I included him out of pity. It only took ten minutes before Makuru started locking Tuuli’s arms behind his back. Not even ten minutes passed and they already couldn’t stand him. I was the one Tuuli knew and he looked at me screaming for help. He tried getting me to look at him, but I couldn’t. “Let him go.” I told Makuru, then I said, “He’s learned his lesson for today,” to make them think I wasn’t like him. Makuru did as I said and let him go. Tuuli walked himself back home, looking back at me with a saggy demeanor, looking like a battered rahi. “We have the strength to do what you never could. Sometimes you just gotta tell them to beat it.” Tuuli moved shortly after. A few days went by and I noticed we didn’t go outside as much as we used to. The newspapers started hammering the issue of crime in Greenery and every parent became scared, because of that our hang outs around the neighborhood became less frequent, and we as a result became more distant. Besides, It was much harder to get others to play outside when you didn’t have an annoying runt they couldn’t say no to, everyone just stuck to their own little worlds after that. Maybe Tuuli and all the other weird kids weren't so bad after all. My memory then skipped a few years when I was working with my grandfather. He worked selling ice cream with his dinky little cart that was old, and while he was off in the bathroom, I turned my back once and the stopper broke. Before I had even noticed, that ice cream truck was splattered at the bottom of a hill. That was his livelihood and I somehow found a way to mess it up, like everything else before. I was so scared he’d beat me, so I ran off towards the woods where a woman spotted me and took me to her place. I peeked outside her window and watched a man’s stomach get ripped open in a gang fight, slowly watching the man crawl himself next to the dumpster where he desperately attempted to put everything back inside himself before dying of a mixture of stomach acid and blood loss. That was the worst way I had ever seen someone go out, you could visually see the history on his body. Tattoos and lockets, muscle and blood, chipping away at himself, testing the waters with how far he could go, until there was nothing left. I had watched a man kill himself that day and that’s when I promised myself that I could never let that happen again. No one deserves the hand they’re dealt. A decade later I’d remember sitting in university looking out the window at the devastation being done to the jungles outside, all because they wanted another location to park their gucko birds. My professor is always picking on me and pointing out to the rest of the class that I was never paying attention. I didn’t like school growing up. There was only one thing I had remembered in school, that being an excerpt written by one of Anemite’s early diplomats to Greenery a thousand years after the great cataclysm, ‘The Garrobo state is of no fault of their own, but instead related to the generational degradations brought upon by the fire spitting race. Their cities and cultures, once as advanced as the ancient societies of Anemite are no more, instead replaced by Tapans social order, which in and of itself is far behind the rest of developed Anemite. You speak to a Garrobo today and his only distinguishable features are that he treats his wife like cattle and that he has a fierce opposition to the fire spitters who stole his wives and bred them to create the cosmic race.’ Garrobo was the name of an iguana-like rahi. So instead I got into gucko bird racing. I never took the warning signs seriously until they caught up to me, and I fell 600 feet to the ground, where I was then saved by a familiar face. It was Iruini, the Green Knight, who returned me to the ground safely. He was a toa; tall and strong. That was the first time I ever met him. And he came back to me like a salesman, “Hey kid, you wanna be a hero?” What a confusing thing to ask out of nowhere, I didn’t even personally know him, “Why me?” “Because you’re the only one who hasn’t been annoying me about it.” “Are you nervous?” Iruini asked as he peered through the curtains. “A little. I’ve never been on a stage before.” I could hear the announcer ready to call my name. “Good, it’ll make the feeling that much more euphoric. Make sure to smile, you got a good one, it’ll make the ladies go coocoo for you.” I shrugged his complement off as I tightened my suit. He got behind me as if prepping me up for a boxing match, “Remember, these will be your glory days.” "Now give it up for Matau Corrino!” The curtains parted and I walked out. I paused as instructed, posing with my head slightly pointed to the ceiling and my hand in my pocket. Cameras flashing, I completely forgot I had to walk down to the aisle, so I abruptly started moving forward a little too late. The lights blinding, and the air nauseating, it only got worse once I got to the stands. That’s where I met the great Lhikan in his military uniform with his numerous medals of honour, Nokama whose music I’m pretty sure was playing in the background while I was walking up, and Whenua who was from the powerful Tarik family. I sat down alongside them in my tailor made throne and it still felt a little too big for my liking. Everyone else’s thrones were fine, it was only mine that made me look like a child. At the ceremony, they brought me to a palace radiated by the sounds of war drums and horns. I kneeled beneath Iruini along with my peers. The toa as they drew their hands on our shoulders, transferred their power from their body to ours. Iruini looked down on me as if I were his son, and I looked up at him as if I were ready to bask in his legacy. I looked around at the others, Lhikan, Nokama, Whenua, now they’re my family. And we rise on a stage above a vivid crowd. Whenua poses with his hands to his sides and a bow, clearly showing his history in theater. Nokama waved her hands with as little effort as possible, as if she were still one of them, trapped by the audience's gaze. Me and Lhikan, not knowing what we were doing, simply assumed that this was the family we’ve been looking for our entire lives. I thought this feeling would never die. We were a new class of hero compared to the toa Hagah, often paraded as the greatest generation of toa. You could look at toa from that era and they almost had this universal look to them. They always wore the same armors or suits, you could look at a toa like Iruini and he just blended into the persona so much to where there was no Iruini left, only the mythical hero we know as the Green Knight. Even though the Green Knight had been played by many different people over the centuries, they all had the same look to them. Same masks, same proportions, they were always the jester of the toa. And that was with all the toa; the toa of fire were always the leaders, the toa of water were always women, and there was never an indigenous or mixed race toa of earth, or air for that matter. There was a timeless aura to the role that was unchanging and comfortable to the	Nidhiki, The Green Knight It started with my birth and that’s when I found out I was born matoran. Mama called me a kitty cat as I waddled across the street to the local water pump. It was a chromatic time, when others would greet me on the street as the repetitive frets of joyous violins and talking animals followed me home. I was a poor boy living on an island off Greenery’s coast. There my father left for the mainland and my mother died of dysentery. I couldn’t even cry over her lifeless body. At the funeral service there was a portrait of a woman. Green skinned woman, not quite indigenous, but not quite foreign either, she looked like us. She wore a white robe with vegetation and animals crawling all over her, with her arms stretched out as if giving you a hug. She wore four rings, two on each hand, each symbolizing the four elements and subsequently the four corresponding islands. Below her were numerous unidentifiable children, she was a mother, she looked like my mother, and above her were all the colors of the rainbow alongside a mask with a matoranoid on it. That was my first introduction to our sacred mother, Mata Nui, and how we depicted her. Some islands thought she was a man, others viewed her as a snake, and others viewed Mata Nui simply as the universe itself and nothing more. Personally, I never viewed myself as a religious person, but everyone else was so I had to keep that in mind. When I was still a kid, I learned about my island's history and replicated it with moss and mud. I spent weeks in my grandfather's yard, gathering stones, nuts, grasses, clay, anything I could find to recreate Greenery’s Eastern cities of old. I layered it over a flat bed of mud, where I pretended it was a city atop of a lake. I sat there making people with sticks and watching as they lived their lives in harmony. It’s the best I could do gathering from the pictures I’d see in the book. It was the closest I could get, yet so far from what I wanted to see. It was all gone, nothing was left. There was a boy named Tuuli, he was an odd fella, what others would call slow. Which meant he was a little eccentric. I first met him when his mother came walking to our door step, asking for someone to play with him around the neighborhood. Grandpa allowed him to knock on our door and he always knocked on our door. I had to tell grandpa to start ignoring him. There was just something about him, the way his hands involuntarily shook, how he ran with his head planted towards the ground, thinking it would make him go faster; I would mimic the way he acted to grandpa and it'd always give him a quick chuckle. It was just the way he is, which made others want to avoid him like the plague. Then one day I invited my friends Makuru and Ayotli over from school, and Tuuli came knocking. He could hear us from behind the house, there was no getting ourselves out of this one, so I included him out of pity. It only took ten minutes before Makuru started locking Tuuli’s arms behind his back. Not even ten minutes passed and they already couldn’t stand him. I was the one Tuuli knew and he looked at me screaming for help. He tried getting me to look at him, but I couldn’t. “Let him go.” I told Makuru, then I said, “He’s learned his lesson for today,” to make them think I wasn’t like him. Makuru did as I said and let him go. Tuuli walked himself back home, looking back at me with a saggy demeanor, looking like a battered rahi. “We have the strength to do what you never could. Sometimes you just gotta tell them to beat it.” Tuuli moved shortly after. A few days went by and I noticed we didn’t go outside as much as we used to. The newspapers started hammering the issue of crime in Greenery and every parent became scared, because of that our hang outs around the neighborhood became less frequent, and we as a result became more distant. Besides, It was much harder to get others to play outside when you didn’t have an annoying runt they couldn’t say no to, everyone just stuck to their own little worlds after that. Maybe Tuuli and all the other weird kids weren't so bad after all. My memory then skipped a few years when I was working with my grandfather. He worked selling ice cream with his dinky little cart that was old, and while he was off in the bathroom, I turned my back once and the stopper broke. Before I had even noticed, that ice cream truck was splattered at the bottom of a hill. That was his livelihood and I somehow found a way to mess it up, like everything else before. I was so scared he’d beat me, so I ran off towards the woods where a woman spotted me and took me to her place. I peeked outside her window and watched a man’s stomach get ripped open in a gang fight, slowly watching the man crawl himself next to the dumpster where he desperately attempted to put everything back inside himself before dying of a mixture of stomach acid and blood loss. That was the worst way I had ever seen someone go out, you could visually see the history on his body. Tattoos and lockets, muscle and blood, chipping away at himself, testing the waters with how far he could go, until there was nothing left. I had watched a man kill himself that day and that’s when I promised myself that I could never let that happen again. No one deserves the hand they’re dealt. A decade later I’d remember sitting in university looking out the window at the devastation being done to the jungles outside, all because they wanted another location to park their gucko birds. My professor is always picking on me and pointing out to the rest of the class that I was never paying attention. I didn’t like school growing up. There was only one thing I had remembered in school, that being an excerpt written by one of Anemite’s early diplomats to Greenery a thousand years after the great cataclysm, ‘The Garrobo state is of no fault of their own, but instead related to the generational degradations brought upon by the fire spitting race. Their cities and cultures, once as advanced as the ancient societies of Anemite are no more, instead replaced by Tapans social order, which in and of itself is far behind the rest of developed Anemite. You speak to a Garrobo today and his only distinguishable features are that he treats his wife like cattle and that he has a fierce opposition to the fire spitters who stole his wives and bred them to create the cosmic race.’ Garrobo was the name of an iguana-like rahi. So instead I got into gucko bird racing. I never took the warning signs seriously until they caught up to me, and I fell 600 feet to the ground, where I was then saved by a familiar face. It was Iruini, the Green Knight, who returned me to the ground safely. He was a toa; tall and strong. That was the first time I ever met him. And he came back to me like a salesman, “Hey kid, you wanna be a hero?” What a confusing thing to ask out of nowhere, I didn’t even personally know him, “Why me?” “Because you’re the only one who hasn’t been annoying me about it.” “Are you nervous?” Iruini asked as he peered through the curtains. “A little. I’ve never been on a stage before.” I could hear the announcer ready to call my name. “Good, it’ll make the feeling that much more euphoric. Make sure to smile, you got a good one, it’ll make the ladies go coocoo for you.” I shrugged his complement off as I tightened my suit. He got behind me as if prepping me up for a boxing match, “Remember, these will be your glory days.” "Now give it up for Matau Corrino!” The curtains parted and I walked out. I paused as instructed, posing with my head slightly pointed to the ceiling and my hand in my pocket. Cameras flashing, I completely forgot I had to walk down to the aisle, so I abruptly started moving forward a little too late. The lights blinding, and the air nauseating, it only got worse once I got to the stands. That’s where I met the great Lhikan in his military uniform with his numerous medals of honour, Nokama whose music I’m pretty sure was playing in the background while I was walking up, and Whenua who was from the powerful Tarik family. I sat down alongside them in my tailor made throne and it still felt a little too big for my liking. Everyone else’s thrones were fine, it was only mine that made me look like a child. At the ceremony, they brought me to a palace radiated by the sounds of war drums and horns. I kneeled beneath Iruini along with my peers. The toa as they drew their hands on our shoulders, transferred their power from their body to ours. Iruini looked down on me as if I were his son, and I looked up at him as if I were ready to bask in his legacy. I looked around at the others, Lhikan, Nokama, Whenua, now they’re my family. And we rise on a stage above a vivid crowd. Whenua poses with his hands to his sides and a bow, clearly showing his history in theater. Nokama waved her hands with as little effort as possible, as if she were still one of them, trapped by the audience's gaze. Me and Lhikan, not knowing what we were doing, simply assumed that this was the family we’ve been looking for our entire lives. I thought this feeling would never die. We were a new class of hero compared to the toa Hagah, often paraded as the greatest generation of toa. You could look at toa from that era and they almost had this universal look to them. They always wore the same armors or suits, you could look at a toa like Iruini and he just blended into the persona so much to where there was no Iruini left, only the mythical hero we know as the Green Knight. Even though the Green Knight had been played by many different people over the centuries, they all had the same look to them. Same masks, same proportions, they were always the jester of the toa. And that was with all the toa; the toa of fire were always the leaders, the toa of water were always women, and there was never an indigenous or mixed race toa of earth, or air for that matter. There was a timeless aura to the role that was unchanging and comfortable to the general masses. Then there was us, we were just a mess. I don’t know what exactly changed, but my guess is that it has something to do with the times. “Truth is dead and no one cares,” the turaga told me. Mata Nui had been asleep for so long, she might as well be dead, hence the apathetic nature of it all. Venture west of the Rojas river, I had never seen such apathetic matoran. It’s because they had no reason to care, since it’s always been down hill from the very beginning for them. Now it’s like that everywhere, everyone’s lost hope. Long were the days where the matoran's greatest threat were the makuta. It’s not that they were any less formidable, it’s that we’ve been fighting them for so long that they’ve lost their touch. They’ve become a constant and with that resulted in the disillusion of unity. No longer were there set in stone values of good and evil. Supposdely, crime didn’t exist in previous toa generation, because there was a sense of loyalty to the common matoran, but now apparently we’re just as much of a threat to ourselves as the makuta. With mafias, bureaucrats, and corporations replacing the daily consciousness over the makuta menace. Which is why Iruini chose me, because apparently he saw me as the solution to all of this. Just from Iruini’s decision alone, he was reflecting the changing tide. I was of mixed race descent compared to my previous successors who were usually of criollo Tapan or Anemite origin, which was an immediate visual departure from the Green Knight mythology that came before. Another departure which I decided to make on my own was changing our color scheme from white to green. I never understood why the Green Knight always wore white armor and clothing. They said it was because it contrasted nicer to the toa of earth’s black color scheme, but it was mainly due to the color green being associated with the Makuta. Which I always found to be a stupid reason considering that green has also been the color of Greenery since the inception of its name. Our landscape is green, our people are green, and therefore our heroes should be green too. I also abandoned the old tradition of using a scythe or axe as the Green Knights tool of choice, instead opting for two machete’s, which I thought better exemplified the culture of my island home. Yes, toa tools! Not weapons, launchers, anything. Simple toa tools. When I showed them my new look I got an assortment of mixed responses. Nokama thought I looked ugly, but she thought that of every man she came across, Lhikan thought similarly, preferring the traditional color scheme simply out of a loyal sense to novelty, and Whenua was the only one who enjoyed my change in style, wishing he was brave enough to do the same. It’s so hypocritical too, considering my peers did the same with their changes. Lhikan went by the alias Atomic, which was his island’s title for the toa of fire. He wore a heavy suit of armor, adorned with gold accents and a jetpack, it made him look taller. It was laced with numerous devices designed to kill and a helmet so sturdy that you’d break your hand trying to punch it. He always wore that helmet, most people probably didn’t even know what he looked like. It wasn’t just the suit either, he took a drug called antiplasm which turned his biceps larger than my quads and his quads larger than my waist. Usually, the toa of air brought the levity, while the toa of earth brought the brawn, but with Lhikan he just did both. He just had to be the coolest one of course. Then there was Nokama who became the Blue Rider, a position known for its modesty and purity. Toa of water were always known for their motherly role among the toa. Yet Nokama wore nothing but the most luxurious expensive clothes she’d usually wear for her concerts. She wore the exact same things she did when she was a matoran, just this time tailor made to her much larger physique. Similar to Lhikan, she could do anything and wouldn’t let you forget it; surfing, singing, teaching, gambling, she’d somehow be a professor while also being an Ani-pop star. It bothered me how, whether we were looking at her or not, she kept telling us to look up at her head, like we were objectifying her even though she was always doing the most, “You aren’t that confident in front of your matoran?” I told her. She’d look at me with a perky smile and a joyous voice, “You aren’t my matoran.” It was a joke, in the way that Lhikan slapping your back was a compliment. Something felt odd and I looked at Whenua; he laughed, but I could tell he was thinking the exact same things I was thinking. “Every toa is gifted with two inalienable traits. As you’ve noticed, gravity feels weaker, your forefeet feel jumpier. Every toa has its element tethered to the island they’re from, yours being air, allowing you to soar large distances without the use of a gucko bird. Then there’s your secondary ability tethered to your mask, also known as your soul. You must find this out for yourself.” With a glider, I soared across Rishi lake as Iruini and the other turaga trailed behind me with their gucko birds. As my heart drummed against the idea of flying higher, I rose up and flew to the sky without a care of what the other turaga thought of me. With the thrust of air sliding through my finger tips, I kept going higher. Until it felt like time had skipped, and I came crashing down. Only to remember floating atop the lake’s surface. “You wish to accomplish everything for them. In response, they will hate you for it and you’ll fall, but in time you’ll learn to lead alongside them. And only then will they join you in the sky, Matau.” And I flew not by myself like the other Green Knights, but with my gucko bird, Maya, along my side. All I could remember were the sounds of a harps fretting to the color her rainbow plumage. All of it taken away by the actions of the amphibious man. The Ghekula Ghekula referred to a type tree frog in the Sekuli language. ‘Who would you say is the weakest member of the toa metru’ ‘Matau.’ ‘Matau.’ ‘oh easy, Matau.’ ‘why that’d obviously be Matau.’ ‘Matau.’ ‘Matau for sure.’ ‘Why him?’ “I don’t know how you do it without pissing everyone off,” Whenua told me, “to be frank with you Matau, I was never meant for this kind of honour.” “You were chosen for a reason.” I say that, but how is he supposed to help others if he can’t even help himself? “Yeah I know I know, you’re right.” I don’t think that seemed convincing. How do I help him? “You know, I was saving coal miners from a collapsing cave a few weeks ago and one of them apologized to me, because they liked you more than me.” “There’s no way. You have to be lying. Even if that were true, it’s a coal miner, he’s probably Jaharti and most of them think like that.” He was just complaining a second ago that his people don’t like him, “You’d be surprised. He was from here and you know what I told him back? That you were my favorite too.” Whenua shrugged and smiled, “That’s so corny.” He then pauses again and becomes a little more serious, “Man, you make it seem so easy. Connecting with other matoran. You have no idea that that’s the hardest part.” ‘I wasn’t a big fan of his decision to change the color of the Green Knight from white to green. It always struck me as bizarre considering that air is clear, kind of like the color white. You don’t think of air as green. Yeah, sure, the Green Knight name doesn’t fit with the white look, but why not change the name to the White Knight instead? It has a much nicer ring to it don’t you think?’ ‘I don’t know, there’s just something off about him. He doesn’t have the same charisma as the other Garrobomen, he doesn’t feel above us, like they used to.’ ‘Ah well, I don’t know, he’s just kind of boring. He looks perfect, sounds perfect, always smiling, always good. There’s no nuance or anything to him, he’s just good.’ I stood atop a building looking over Greenery's many expanding cities. There I found a forgotten man; a man with hats of foliage and marked skin. His hands and mask were so hardened, it was as if he had been under the sun for thousands of years. He smelled of a sweet madu, clearly one of the poor souls working on the numerous madu plantations across Greenery. Oblivious to my existence, he stood at the edge, looking at the same city I did, then he looked to the streets below. “It’s going to be okay.” I told him. He looked at me, tears in his eyes and shaking, “Why am I so different from them?” He had trouble speaking, he was Parundi, and I spoke back to him in his native language, "None of us are different under the eyes of Mata Nui,” I place my hand on his shoulder, “We’re not as different as we think. No matter how backward they make you believe you are, we’re never as behind.” He hugs me and in spite of Greenery’s social contract, that one must not show any affection to another man, I hug him too. I was about to pass out, thinking I’d die, before Lhikan brought the bar back to the rack, “That’s what I like to see!” I got up from the bench, “I can’t believe I did that.” “Let’s go up. One rep max, you gotta do a one rep max,” Lhikan said as he was putting more weight on the bar. “Sadly, I think that’s it for me for today.” “What?! We’ve barely even started. Grow your damn flame and help me out over here.” “What time is it?” “About halfway through the day.” “Oh I should start heading out now. I have a date later on.” “Really?” his cheeks go red and he looks away, “that’s my man right there,” he hugs me, “I didn’t think you had it in you. Who’s the lucky woman?” “Nokama.” Instantly he started walking away from me, “Nokama,” he said while hunching over the bar, “Really?” I will never forget the sheer amount of disappointment I heard coming out of Lhikan’s voice. “Yeah, what’s wrong with that?” “You sure it’s a date?” “Well, we’re having dinner together.” “Women from Anemite don’t do dates, I should know considering I’m married to one.” “You sound so disappointed.” He looks away from me, then back. It looked as if he were trying to be a turaga, he wanted to be everything, “You can do better than that, man. Those Anemite women are nothing but misery, you talk to them and they have twenty mental illnesses minimum. They are makuta-like matoran who think they’re better than everyone else. And don’t date someone from the team for Mata Nui’s sake. You know how unprofessional that looks?” Family is never professional. ‘But why did he have to get rid of the axe though? It’s so iconic and he just threw it away like it was nothing. That axe is so important to our history, how we used axes for the logging industry back when Greenery was being first developed. I guess matoran are too sensitive to that reality nowadays.’ On my way to my date with Nokama, of course I had to be stopped by the amphibious man. He stole an ax from a museum, the iconic axe of the Green Knight. Using it as a sick joke against the people it once protected. So I followed the trail of blood into the woods he retreated into. Standing atop the canopy, I spotted him at another treetop, “The only reason I let you go is because I want to see the real you.” He laughed with his gigantic mouth, “I know what I am!” We continued fighting, hopping from tree to tree like skipping stones over a body of water. From vine to vine, he swung with the intention to kill, which I simply parried with my machete. He was just a matoran, I was sign Our endeavor eventually led us to the edge of a waterfall. Where he stood with the axe directly pointed towards me, “Good old Matau, you let ten people die all because of your silly little rule. Believe me, I know how this goes. The rule tells you to not kill them, since it’ll upset the established order, but the rule was written by those who put you in servitude. They repeat it, so that they can control you, take your land and rape your women and children with myths of progress. The only sensible way to live in this world is without rules.” I sit down on the rock next to him, completely ignoring the axe’s blade bordering my neck, “It doesn’t have to be that way. You wield that axe, knowing the context of all the Green Knights that came before you, maybe you could do something with that. I’m not aware of all the little blows which turned you down this road, but who’s I to say, perhaps I’ll be there too. Perhaps we can be heroes, maybe you can join me.” I bring out my hand towards him. And I looked at him, blood leaking from the pores of his scalp as he wiped it away. A hint of anger so seething behind those eyes, then completely muddled by the laughter he used to mask it, “I will never join you! I killed your bird, I’ve killed so many matoran and you want me to work with you? Oh what a funny world we live in. Let’s make a deal, if you can take back the axe without touching me, I will join you,” He jumps to the closest tree, where the careless nature of his movement immediately cuts the branch he is standing on. The axe, too heavy for the matoran’s spindly arms, falls out of his grasp. To which I responded by simply levitating the axe right to my position. He comes back to me at the edge of the waterfall, “You cheated, give it back!” “Follow me.” “Never!” “Well then I’m afraid your time with the axe is finished.” I threw it into the waterfall where he shortly followed by diving alongside it. Deep into the misty pool below and he vanished. ‘It’s those damn indigenos which got him changing the color like that. Did you know the indigenos don’t even believe in the element of air? They believe it’s plant life. Can you believe that? Idiots! And Matau justifies them by changing the color to green. What is wrong with him?’ I was eating dinner with Nokama that afternoon, at a dimly lit restaurant in a cenote. I thought it’d be cute considering it was a bridging of our two cultures, water and air. We had traditional Greenery cuisine and musicians everywhere with their maracas, horns, and powerful voices. Lhikan had a wedding where he coincidentally married Nokama’s best friend. I was tired on one of the days leading to the wedding, so I asked Nokama if she thought they were a good match; that’s how we got interested in each other. I liked her maturity, how she’d tell her friend and Lhikan how to run the wedding better than they ever could. All I could remember from that ceremony was that Nokama had to leave early while I was stuck around helping her best friend with damage control as the night went on. Their friendship fell apart after that. At the dinner, we had one of the matoran waiters fan her while we were eating. Looking back I think even the waiter thought Lhikan was on to something. She wore a plaid skirt, a white shirt, and a brown jacket, she looked like a school girl. Here there wasn’t much of a fashion sense, most of the women here just wore as many colors as they possibly could, and I could tell from Nokama’s smirk that she looked down on them. On top of that, Greenery's cuisine was too much for her, so she resorted to putting out cigarettes on her kooto curry. “Most of my life I lived in the Shien province of Anemite.” She’d only speak when I asked questions about her. “Have you ever been in a relationship before?” Nokama asked me suddenly. “No.” “Good, everyone’s a rahkshi anyways.” She took out another cigarette to which I quickly ignited the lighter for her, “I had two boyfriends before, both were useless. First one I met through surf betting, complete incompetent bastard, as you’d expect from one of those degenerates. The second one was a professor I met at work. He was a sweetheart, but died from kyra virus shortly after I met him.” I started coughing from the smoke. “I could stop if you’d like? I really should be quitting now that you remind me.” “You’re fine.” She decided to stop anyway, “Yeah, but anyways, don’t get tricked by everyone's pretty exteriors. They always have you think they’re so much better than you, that’s how they reel you in, then they trap you like creditors. That’s why everyone on Anemite is studying so hard nowadays, so that they don’t end up with failed husbands. Like the story of your poor mother. It’s horror stories like that which we tell our youth, so that they learn to not need a man. Relationships are something of the past anyways, they’re dead now, all they bring is hardships and misery. Don’t even get me started on marriage. Oh, that reminds me. There’s a cause for celebration,” She takes out a piece of paper and shows it to me, “I told you they’d get a divorce. I’m honestly more surprised that divorce is still legal on Tapan. You were right too, isn’t that incredible?” “I didn’t want them to get divorced.” Lhikan’s my friend, I wouldn’t want him to go through something like that. I just wish he had the nerve to recognise that he and Kotu weren’t the right fit. All he cared about was short term gratification, because it was Tiper tradition that they get married young. “But you saw it coming, right? How couldn’t you? Fire spitters make horrible husbands and we knew it. I’m just so proud that even without my advice, Kotu came to her senses. I swear to Mata Nui that I’ll have this certificate pinned in her house as a reminder of how wise her decision is.” She could tell that I was a little distraught and she put her hands atop mine, “Hey cheer up now. I get why something like this would be disheartening, but what happened is in the past now, it’s better to move on. You worry too much for others, Matau, you’re too good for them. Perhaps it’s time you focus more on yourself.” A while ago I met her fellow Ani-pop singers and it shocked me how well they worked together. Up to that point, I had never seen Nokama work so efficiently with a group of matoran in my entire life, which makes me question, why can't it be like that with us? It almost felt as if she was compensating for something. In Anemite culture, there was the persona of the ‘makuta hunter’. The name was hardly literal, using the term makuta to refer to all things masculine. It was a title given to the most culturally relevant matoran of the Anemite archipelago, usually defined by a sense of female empowerment. Nokama was given this title along with her sisters due to their contributions through Ani-pop and with that came the need to uphold the mythos. I have no proof of it, but I have a feeling that the ‘makuta hunter’ has something to do with it. ‘Ahhhh what’s the matter Matau, Nokama not returning your letters?’ They called him the Ghekula, because his mouth was always wide. It was Sekuli tradition to widen mouths with these wooden apparatuses they’d use during adolescence, a practice now gone to the passage of time. He was alone, the last standing member of his tribe and he wanted us to feel that. The Ghekula really thought he could prove a point, that there were no civilized people and when push came to shove, everyone was as savage as the indigenous Le-Matoran. So he stuck natives in one boat rigged with explosives and settlers in another. Told them that only one could live with the simple press of a button. Even in the most dire of situations, I showed them that they could believe in good. No one was injured in his final gambit, and the Ghekula desperately kneeled down in front of me. It’s been years since the start of our back and fourth, and you could tell by just looking at him. His skin was laced with blisters and bumps, his lime joints crackling, and blood running down from the pores on his scalp, washing away the mask he used for so many years. All because of the Golima flu, a story as old as Mata Nui. I tried getting him the vaccinations he needed, the medication he deserved, and he’d always deny it with the exact same point; ‘I will never take their solution to a problem they brought.’ I tried to save him, preserve his culture, find other alternatives, matoran he could connect with, but he’d always deny my help. Now he was kneeling here and I knew he was going to die. He looked up at me while he was basically melting under the sunset, “I came here to tell you… that all I was ever trying to do was make a point, that I was always fighting for this island and its matoran as much as you did. And no matter how violent or how cruel my methods were, it was always fighting for the greater good of our matoran. And because of your half measures, we have no matoran. I want you to remember that when… I’m gone. If you think that non-violence is ever going to change the universe, you’re living in a fantasy.” He collapsed under the weight of his own upper body. Joints completely cracked, his legs and arms only holding on by threads. I didn’t care that he was infected, the blood, or that he was a killer. I still held him up with my arms and told him, “I know. You say it like it’s a bad thing. Fantasies shape us, explain our societies, and inspire us to accomplish wonders. And as long as I live, I will never stop fighting to live in a fantasy where the violence that you’ve suffered and inflicted on so many others, is something that we all deplore.” He looked up into my eyes with his life on its final droplets, “Good old Matau, as much as I hate to admit it, you really did always see my pain as much as theirs. I just hope… that eventually one day… they’ll think like you.” I was holding his body in my hands, with his cheek next to mine and I bawled. Looking off into the distance, not caring what the others thought of me as they threw fruits and beans in my direction. ‘Anyone who cries for a literal serial killer is just a no for me, sorry.’ ‘Well he supports indigeno terrorists along the countryside, of course he’s the worst.’ ‘I personally view his method of hero work unsustainable. I mean, there’s always something going on around here. Greenery is the crime capital of the universe and with his ways of rehabilitation, it has cost the government millions on repairs and facilities.’ We were sitting at the dinner table and this man continued to wear his helmet, “Why don’t you take off the helmet, Lhikan. We all know each other here. There’s no reason to keep your mask hidden. Why don’t you show us who you really are?” “The helmet is who I am, it is what Atomic wears, this is me,” I don’t think he was feeling good that day. Nokama rolls her eyes as she looks at me, “Don’t disturb the alpha when he’s eating.” I didn’t like seeing them like this and I could tell Nokama enjoys it. It’s almost as if she relishes in the idea of what Lhikan represented, as if his every moment of being was a justification of what she thought was right. Lhikan thought the same, you can tell from the way he waves his hands that he thought she was ridiculous, looking at us as if we thought that same. Both of them seeking our approval, both of them thinking they’re the leader, and both of them despising each other. With how much they get off on each other's failings, they should honestly love each other for the sheer amount of mental orgasms they gift to one another just from acting as stubborn as they do. Something needs to change. ‘I think what really gets to me is that he sees problems where there really aren't any.’ ‘When did merit all of a sudden get thrown to the waistside when selecting the next Garroboman? Now they gotta capitulate to the moralists and start including everybody. At this rate we’ll have a terrorist as a toa of air.’ Iruini was gone that day, so I ventured back to the cemetery. On my way there I remember all the times I delayed meeting with Iruini and recognized I was never going to tell him what I was thinking about. I kneeled at her grave, “Hello Mama,” “Everything's good now, just like how you wanted it to be. I have a family now, I'm a knight, and almost have a girlfriend too. Well that’s not exactly true, I can’t really tell if she likes me back or not.” “I could never be as strong as you and I’ve always tried. I’m sorry for all you did for me, mother. It’s just that, I don’t feel the pain as much anymore. It’s not the same as it used to be, you can understand that can you?” Then there was a shake beneath the earth, I couldn’t believe it. The dirt moved and then it broke. My mother crawled out the earth, mostly decayed and all. Then another hand broke free and grasped onto a gravestone. Then another and another, until it became very clear that the dead had reawakened. Liegur The second I spotted a resurrected makuta on my island I knew it was completely over. There was no way the makuta were okay with this mess, Lhikan even told me that they wanted a ceasefire, yet he still dismissed what I was proposing. The others agreed with him, until they also started noticing dead makuta on their islands. Lhikan begrudgingly gave in and that’s when something changed between us. He was always the kind of person who looked ordinary from a distance, but when you looked closer at him, you could tell from his perpetual stare that there was something that wasn’t right about him. He never forgave and there was a judgement there which felt as if it ripped all matoraness from you. And because of my suggestion, I was no longer matoran, I was one of them. I was the reason he needed a family just as much as I did. “One day a makuta asked the question, 'What if we could control matoran, like we do rahi?’ All it took was Liegur to formulate a blueprint based off of our previous parasitic fungi creations, and it was done. After killing himself, he used his body as a vessel for the new parasite as it spread its spores across the islands.” I met a makuta named Roodaka. A long slender matoranoid looking makuta with scales for skin and black hair. A makuta with an hour glass figure, “Hoooph, I didn’t know they were built like that,” I told Whenua as I elbowed his arm. He didn’t find my comment amusing. It was just a comment, I wasn’t supposed to be serious. Afterall, I wasn’t expecting much from her. I wanted to love Nokama, I wanted to tell her, but you could only be repulsed so many times before your heart gives out and your consciousness gets the better of you. Then I spoke with Roodaka and she cared. I thought I was going nuts, but my heart knew what was true and I couldn’t express it. The realist woman I have ever known and she only lived a few islands away. She wasn’t even a matoran. For the first time since the great cataclysm, makuta and toa fought side by side and we won. Then just a few days later, the ceasefire collapsed and the forever war continued. For a brief moment there was synthesis there and now it was gone. ‘You know I really liked it when knights weren’t political.’ ‘He’s the toa of an entire island, he’s supposed to be political. If anything, he’s not political enough.’ Ahkmou The invention of the air conditioner was the worst thing to ever happen to Greenery. Anemite engineers had been working on a device to cool the inside of buildings for years and now they’ve finally cracked the code. I was actually a chosen test subject for one of the first prototypes of the machine and it got me sick. It wasn’t meant for us Garrobo’s, because we were already used to the humidity. All it did was help Tipers and Anemites tolerate our environment, which greatly worried me. ‘The greatest invention since the cataclysm,’ they said, ‘it will help your economy,’ they said. Like those inventions from before didn’t contribute to the great cataclysm. I’d wager that this invention is Greenery’s great cataclysm. Conservation of native wildlife and matoran are a large part possible due to the rough environment of western Greenery. We already struggle with maintaining that side of the rojas river, I just don’t see how that’ll be possible with the air conditioner around. Iruini was worried of turaga Lesovikk. He was the oldest turaga at the time and worried he was going to die. Lesovikk’s nervous system had developed chronic tremors and he stuttered in speech. He was alone, his toa team and wife had long been dead. All that was left were his sons, who lived far away from the island of Greenery. His oldest son was drafted to Tapans military and hasn’t gotten back to him since, most likely killed by the makuta’s rahi hoards, but no one wanted to tell him that. Then there was his second son who moved to Anemite and worked as a professor. He rarely visits Lesovikk due to his wife's fear of the supposed crime going on here. She thinks it’s a bad environment for the kids. So I decided to live with Lesovikk for a while. I thought it would be a fun experience and I noticed his hacienda conveniently located next to a Garrobo community. I stopped to see what all the commotion was about, it seemed like the kacike was trying to make an announcement, “We will finally and forever rid ourselves of the generational trauma attributed by the fire spitting social order. As a result, this will no longer be a socialized community and we will instead divide up the lands to encourage the acquisition of private property. For the first time in the history of mixed race and especially indigeno peoples of Greenery, they will obtain generational wealth by being assigned their own lots of land, by dissolving town community councils. The age of Anemite exceptionalism is here.” Most of the people hearing the announcement seemed confused, because they didn’t see what the problem was, but since they heard the kacike railing against the Tipers; they cheered in droves. Once arriving at Lesovikk’s hacienda, that’s when I learned how much worse his condition actually was. I could hardly understand a word he said, which really made it difficult for me to help him around the property. I then caught him whistling to the trees and asked him what he was doing. He told me he was speaking to the rahi and I told him to teach me. I thought it would be an easier alternative to speaking with him normally and after a few years practicing with him, I not only grew to understand him better, but also the world around me. Lesovikk told me that it worried him, the condition of the younger generation. His grandson visited a few months ago and he couldn’t bear to eat the numerous tropical fruits, soups, and sauces that Lesovikk brought him. All he could eat was sushi and barbecues. I told him it was expected since he lived on Anemite, and that’s when Lesovikk asked me why they couldn’t live here. To that I answered that that was the problem I wanted to solve. I continued helping insert the lenses back into his glasses and that was when I heard knocks on our doorstep. I opened the door to find the same kacike that ran the Garrobo community just next door, alongside with a perky little lawyer next to him. I wore Lesovikk’s broken glasses and let them in. Get them off guard. I already knew what they were going to say, but I let them in anyway. Give them a modicum of a chance to realize the crudeness of their behavior. The kacike wrapped his arm around Lesovikk, buddy to buddy and spoke to him, “I know why your hacienda exists, Lesovikk. It’s the indigenos as you’re well aware and they have shown Greenery’s true colors unfortunately. Civilization was always the foundation of this hacienda’s establishment and I’m going to give it to them. Starting with this paper.” The kacike has his lawyer place down a paper in front of Lesovikk, “We both want the best for our island, you know that. But in our efforts to civilize those who need it, we are short sighted at times. The methods used by the fire spitters have long been ill equipped with dealing with the situation at hand, the days of large haciendas and churches are no more and now’s a time for new methods of civilization. That’s why we’re here. With the simple signature of this paper, you will cede the lands to your hacienda, with just compensation of course, to establish a new madu plantation, where its goal will be to create strong work ethics for the indigeno and mixed race communities of Greenery’s population. Do it for the island and the numerous Garrobo’s who will benefit from your decision. This may be your last time to be a hero, the toa you once were, and do something selfless for the betterment of our society. Do it for the glory days.” I closed my eyes, afraid of what Lesovikk would say. Then I opened them up, because I had a hunch that he’d make the right decision. He had a cheerful smile, clearly flattered and supportive of the kacikes words, as I sadly expected, but then there was still a sense of confusion and an odd nostalgia he had for the simpler times, which made him look at me. I was the person he seeked for answers, and that’s when I smiled, because I knew he made the right decision. I brought the two men out up front, away from Lesovikk and I spoke with them on my own. They had no shame manipulating and proposing such a ludicrous idea to Lesovikk, so I gave them the same gratitude by explaining to them all the little benefits and intricacies of the land Lesovikk lived on, getting their hopes up for a land that will never be sold. Creepily, they already knew everything about the land, making me think that they’ve already searched the property while me and Lesovikk were away. I continued wasting their time until the kacike finally stopped to offer me a bag of widgets, “Why don’t you go home, Matau. You’ve done your job for today, me and my lawyer can handle the rest.” “Why are you offering money?” “Think of it as a gift for all the hard work you've done for us as toa. Iruini would understand. We were great buddies back in his day, you should go talk to him about it. Trust us, Matau. We’re the ones with college degrees at the end of the day, we know what we’re doing. No offense, but you’ve been wearing those lensless glasses since we’ve got here.” The lawyer starts chuckling a bit, “Let us intellectuals handle this.” I start laughing as well, “Oh these things,” I grab the glasses and take them off my mask, “And you think I haven’t noticed?” I could tell that they were starting to see where this was going, “You know what I find funny? Is how even though it’s boiling outside, both of you still decided to wear those tailor made Anemite suits. You two’ve made your point, now let me make mine. Even with all the diplomas and money in the world, neither of you could understand that this land will never be sold, because it doesn’t take a graduate to know you two are scammers. Now get along now, before you guys make even bigger fools of yourselves." The kacike doesn't budge, “You do realize this land was stolen, hmm? It was never Lesovikk’s land, but the land of previous indigeno peoples who lived here in the first place.” “Oh now we’re talking about the indigenous? Well let's talk about them, shall we? If I see you two trying to scam any of the other neighbors out of their newfound ‘private property’, I will personally uproot every plantation attempt you’ll ever make. When Lesovikk dies, this land will be returned to his remaining family if they want it, and if they don’t, which is very likely to happen, the land will be returned communally to the Garrobo town down the street. As it belongs.” The Kacike and lawyer start heading on their way, “You have no idea who you’re up against little toa, you just wait and see. If you think this'll be the end of it, you have another thing coming.” After shooing them away, me and Lesovikk sit outside watching the sunset after a hard day of maintenance, “E-Even a-a-after everything tha-that’s hhhhappened, a-after all the ca-ca-confusion, y-y-yo-you mmake every-everything se-seem so simple. The-thank you.” ‘Rest in peace to the Ghekula. He ain’t do nothing wrong.’ ‘Well he’s an agent for the government obviously, why else would he not kill Ahkmou Caemon? I have a question for him: how much baby murder will you have to witness before deciding to clock the damn CEO? You don’t see Nokama or Lhikan pulling their punches?’ They told me to exterminate the species, telling me that it was moral and just cause, “Think about all the food we can make if we simply resolved the niazesk question? Why care for a makuta’s creation?” They thought they really got me with that one, “And who made the makuta?” I asked back, "the makuta made our world the way they did for a reason. Although they’re pests, once the niazesk fly is exterminated, so will our numerous amphibian species, and before you know it, there’s an entire ecosystem on the verge of collapse.” I don’t care if it was the niazeks fault or the water pumps. We don’t know exactly how our universe collapsed all those years ago, but we might as well find solutions now, instead of later. They told me there was no other way. That the King Garrobo, which was the size of a building, was sent from the west, by the ancient enemy, those ‘iguana-like matoran’ with their iguana beast. They told me the solution was to kill, to kill everything west of the Rojas river and resolve the island from its native question. So many questions with no real answers. ‘He is a terrorist supporting, makuta sympathizing, monster of a matoran being that deserves to die.’ The King Garrobo smacked me with its tail causing me to fly back hitting the side of a building. “Matau!” Two civilians walked over to me to bring me up to my feet, “We have your back.” “Thank you, but I’m afraid you two should’ve evacuated by now.” “We must return the favor after you played kohlii with us. We must give back to you and our community as you did for us.” “Watch out!” I carried those two out of the way before the King Garrobo hammered us with its tail. I place them down somewhere where it’s safe, “I appreciate the effort, but I work alone. Help your community in smaller ways, change happens through people like you.” I flew back to handle the King Garrobo. ‘I understand he wants to save everyone. The problem is that he’s just one little toa of air, not even the strongest at that. He needs to realize that you can’t save everyone. Sacrifices need to be made.’ ‘He’s just so weak. I mean think about it. You got Lhikan who can burn you alive, Nokama who can use the water in your own blood against you, Whenua who can move mountains; what can Matau do? Fly?! That’s it! I guess he could suffocate someone, but he can't even do that. He hasn’t even unlocked his mask power yet.’ So I fly. With the most amount of air that I had ever mustered, I pushed a creature over a thousand times heavier than myself, upward into the air. Until it had lost consciousness and I carefully maneuvered its unconscious body back to the ground. I had found a way to keep the iguana alive. Many wondered, “Was this the doing of a makuta? Have the natives had their revenge at last?” ‘His no kill rule makes me want to stick forks in my eyes.’ I ripped a metallic tick-like object attached to the King Garrobo’s head and I showed it to everyone. This wasn’t the work of any makuta or native, but the doing of someone who they considered matoran. Ahkmou Caemon, Greenery’s finest billionaire, pushed through the crowd, clawing at his mechanical device as if it were his baby, “Why did you make us do this?” Everyone in the crowd looked at him confused. “Oh so now it’s everyone's fault?” “Yes, it always has been; all until you came along. Now you got them all confused. When we had Iruini everything was perfect; we told them private property was the future, that it was the Anemite’s way, and that it would bring great productivity to their lands. It was nondiscriminatory and fair, but no, you just had to blow it all up. You, with your morals and stubbornness, can’t you see that it’s for the betterment of your people? You do realize that when we can’t buy the Garrobos lands for fair market value, we have to resort to the native question and push further westward. Half of them already support taking their lands anyways, you can’t stop the settlers. Use your brain for Mata Nui’s sake! We’re the two most powerful men on this island, and it’s because of them!” He waves towards the crowd, “The contradictions do not make sense, the center will not hold! The police officers took him away and despite being passed through the crowd, he continued yapping all the way back to jail. My head wasn’t really in the game that day. ‘I thought Ahkmou was gonna be the Green Knight. He worked for it so hard and they just took it away from him. How tragic.’ ‘Ahkmou is a great man. I don’t know what everyone else is talking about. When has providing jobs and creating more real estate for our overpopulated island ever been seen as a crime. Besides, he actually kills the criminals, which is something Matau could never do.’ I picked up a comic and read it on my way to work. The title was ‘Atomic v Garroboman: Divided we Fall’ It was an alternate future, where Nokama had died, slain by my hands. Ahkmou had tricked me into killing her and it triggered something from the back of my head, some kind of primal urge from what the comic depicted, and I killed Ahkmou by ripping his heart from his chest. Later I somehow take over the brotherhood of makuta, fighting to take control of the matoran universe. I wanted to control them, spreading my tentacles like an octopus over their homes forcing them to do what I thought was right. Then there was Lhikan, the matoran's last hope fighting with his sidekick Whenua, as they fought for Ahkmou’s martyred spirit. The comic ended in a fight between me and Lhikan where he eventually won, priding himself over the fact he beat me before then dying on the floor. The last toa of fire.” ‘A comic brought to you by Flash Comics.’ a company owned by Cormound Inc. It wasn’t just a comic, it was The Comic. The one that critics praised as the greatest work of our time. I read a comment from one critic that read, ‘no comic has ever depicted our heroes in such a controversial light. It’s like engraving our future with lightning, and my only regret is that it is all so terribly true.’ It was just a fiction, a fantasy, but to many it wasn’t. This is how they genuinely viewed their heroes. This is what they thought of me. ‘He can’t even do his job properly. He’s always fighting villains like Ahkmou, the Ghekula, King Garrobo, and you know why he keeps needing to fight them? Because he doesn’t kill them! How many deaths do you think he indirectly caused, because he never finishes the job! Always letting these monsters live just so they could come back and kill us all over again.’ ‘If he can’t kill the criminals or the makuta or whatever, then how is he supposed to stop them?’ ‘This man can defeat literal makuta, but not Ahkmou. That makes no sense!” “So I’m going to be charitable to you. The environmental protections and native conservation efforts I get. It might not be a knight's position to have a say in those matters, but I’m neutral on that. However, working with the makuta during the Liminal war. You were the one who first suggested it. I know it was dark times, I know we would have probably gone extinct without them, but even then, was there really no other way? Why would you ever consider working with monsters who still put us in concentration camps?” “So to answer your first question, yes, there was no other way. The makuta counter programing efforts against Liegur’s fungus is the reason why we’re still here, if it wasn’t for that we would have definitely gone extinct. We also seem to forget that Liegur also wanted to kill his own species. So the makuta and us were on the same boat there. It’s also misleading to say that I was solely responsible for wanting to ally with them. Something that a lot of people don’t know was that Nokama came up with the idea first, I was just the first person to actively vouch for it, and even then it was Lhikan’s decision for us to even follow through with the proposition. He’s our top dog and denied my proposition the first it came along to him. It wasn’t until Nokama agreed with me when he finally decided to follow through with it,” It was dead silent. I looked around and no one was smiling except for me. “But still man, I gotta ask why were you the first person to propose it? We just think that decision was very strange considering the other things you’ve said on record.” I smile, “You're not gonna like my answer Bomanga, no one is, but it’s the truth. And that’s that the makuta are simply not as bad as we think they are,” I paused due to the commotion of the room at that moment, I did not care. In the corner of my eye I see people walking out, “I believe that for multiple reasons. I first want to preface by saying that I definitely do believe that they’re fighting for an evil cause, and I do believe that it’s mostly their fault for fighting us this long. However, we’ve been fighting them for thousands of years at this point. We’ve been fighting them since the great cataclysm, do you have any idea how long that is? That’s longer than our recorded history, we've been fighting them since the days of legend and myth. We don’t even know what the universe was like before then, other than it was technologically advanced and apparently so much better than today. That’s the whole reason why we’re fighting to begin with, to return to that pre-cataclysm past.” “That’s false, Many of us are simply fighting to protect ourselves. Also, are you suggesting that we shouldn’t protect the Mata Nui from the makuta?” “No, let me finish. My point is that war is a two way street, and although the makuta haven’t done anything to massage relations with us, neither have we, and look where that’s brought us. The Mata Nui is dying with no solution on either side. And no, the makuta don’t want to kill the Mata Nui, they want to rule it, because they think it’s unfair that their brother Mata Nui became a god, while they were left serving us. Flawed logic, I know, but that’s what I learned when working with them during the Liminal war. Which leads me to something else and that’s that they’re much more dimensional than we give them credit for. In spite of being immortal and living before the great cataclysm, they don’t remember any of it, because they’ve lived for so long that their minds can’t recall all of it. Their minds are just as mortal as ours.” “Isn’t that what they want you to think?” “Maybe, I wouldn’t see why they would tell us a major weakness about themselves, but sure. Their leader is also a creep, they haven’t seen Teridax since the great cataclysm, he doesn’t even have a physical form anymore, he’s more of a ghost, and that bothers them. The main reason why they think the way they do is because of Teridax and they almost never see him. You see how that could build some distrust. When I talked to them, sure they were loyal, but I could see the cracks. Their faith in Teridax is not impenetrable. They still have souls and critical thinking skills, they’re just blinded by greed and jealousy,” I look at the audience, “You could all ignore what I just said, I understand that, but let me make this clear. This war will not be won through bodies, but through communication and understanding. Believe me when I say that they’re much more afraid of that than another battalion of matoran.” “Now as you may be aware, there has been a recent poll where around 62% of people across the islands consider you to be the weakest member of the toa metru. Whether that’s based on heroism, raw power, or popularity. Beats me, I don’t know. My question to you is, what would you say to those people who might question your competency as a toa?” Damn, they even thought Whenua was better than me. Real ones know that the answer is either between Lhikan or Nokama, “Well first of all those people are wrong,” the crowd laughs, “and secondly, that’s a really interesting question. I want to start by saying that I understand why I’m viewed so poorly outside the island of Greenery.” “But the poll says that even in your home island, you only have a 58% approval rating.” Man, I can’t catch a break, “Right, but going back to what I was saying. My guess as to why that’s the case is purely ideological. What I learned from being a toa this long is that matoran don’t want their toa to be matoran-like, if you get my jist. They want their toa to be up there with Mata Nui. And here’s my message to those matoran. I may not be the most powerful knight, like Lhikan. Or be a popular singer, like Nokama. But I do believe that there’s more to being a toa than those things. I mean, they wouldn’t be here answering these questions. I think that’s at least something worth considering. What I want to bring to the table is an inspirational thought, that whether you’re a toa or not, you can always be a proponent of hope. That even in the darkest times, there is always someone there that makes you feel that somehow, everything will be okay. That’s what I seek to bring to the table.” I vividly remembered that day. It was our family’s anniversary, which at that point they preferred we refer to ourselves as a team. I still liked to think of ourselves as family, at least at the time. We settled at a palace off the arid coast of Jaharat, it was one of Whenua’s many homes on the surfaceland. Getting there we traveled through miles of vegetative maze with large homes being sprawled out here and there, very different from the usual scenery of Jaharat’s golden gray coasts with small port towns edged against numerous escarpments and valleys. With their beautiful white dome-like architecture and vineyards which stretched to Jaharat’s colossal mountains, which inevitably collapsed into its endless deserts. Here everything was forest, as if it were trying so hard to be Greenery, but can’t. So much plantlife, yet everything was so dry, even the frigid rainy season wouldn’t be able to produce such vegetation. It was so clearly made for the wealthy Jaharti elite, who you couldn’t even see past the dense greenery. There was such a difference in philosophy compared to Greenery’s sprawling jungles. The trees felt so controlled, with wooden stakes wrapped around their trunks to make sure they grew straight. It was as if the trees only let you see what they wanted you to see, compared to Greenery’s fluid jungles which always felt like they were in a competition in showing their true colors. Reds, blues, oranges, violets, there was no shortage of color in the numerous flowering plants of Greenery’s jungle. Here there was only green and they all looked pretty. Foreigners always said the jungles of Greenery were creepy with all the indigenous, criminals, and rahi lurking around, but honestly I never really viewed it that way. If you just left the jungle alone for once and looked at the smaller details for once, you’d learn that there’s a science to the whole thing. That it’s teeming with life and it’s beautiful. Here it’s actually creepy, you could never look too far in one direction, because there’s nothing there. Even if you did spend time to look at the smaller details, you’d notice how artificial everything is. It was so lonely that you could never cross land like this without thinking about the people who live below, or the desert peoples starving for water just across the mountains, or whatever the elite are doing just around the corner. When we arrived at the gated community we were greeted by slow trumpets matching the pace of a dying noble sun, then changing to sound like the jumpy optimism of an alternate future. An opera began singing along with the trumpets and when they finished we clapped at their performance as Whenua then walked us to his front door. At the courtyard I remember seeing walls stretching across the entire property, walls so large not even a toa could look past them. All you could see there was the dry sun above slowly being overcast by the coastal marine layer, then you’d look down into Whenua’s pool, so static it was, probably cold too. That made me realize that I was always guilty. Then Whenua jumped in and it ruined my train of thought. It was night by then and we were eating dinner at the bonfire. It never stopped moving, it was probably hot too. Then the topic came along on our greatest achievements. Lhikan spoke of the time he defeated three kardas dragons and a makuta all at once. Nokama talks about her research with the makuta to stop the Liegur parasite. Whenua didn’t know what to talk about, so he brought up how he discovered his mask power, which both Lhikan and Nokama belittled him for being the second to last toa to discover it. Then there was me, there were many things I was proud of during my career, but I knew they wouldn’t react well, so I simply mentioned that one time I fought the Garrobo King. I had to explain to them that the word Garrobo was used for a type of iguana that lived on Greenery, as well as being the name for the inhabitants of the island, as well as explaining that the Garrobo King was an endangered species of giant iguana. They gave me that look, as if it were my peoples fault for making it so confusing, which infuriated me since it was their peoples fault for calling us Garrobo’s in the first place. We didn’t want to be called that, they just did it once and the name stuck. “So that’s it?” Lhikan asks. I told them the best answer I could and they still looked at me as if there was a problem. They looked at each other as if they were obfuscating the responsibility to tell me something. Can they really not just be brave enough to tell it to my face? “Have you discovered your mask power yet?” There we go, that’s what I like to hear, I just don’t understand why they have to be so serious about it. I tried moving the conversation into something else, but they were really set on this. Telling me that I need to apply myself in this, that I need to keep track of that. They told me that my people worship rahi and how that’s a problem. Because of course worshipping rahi is so much worse than worshiping Mata Nui, because rahi are a makutas creation, might as well be worshipping them instead. They thought this because rates of veganism were increasing on my island, which they’d know isn’t true if they took indigenous tribes west of the Rojas river into consideration. Which is even crazier considering that those are the main demographics where rahi worship happens. And they think I’m the one who lives in a fantasy, all because I don’t kill. Meanwhile, my own family is straight up hallucinating problems that do not exist, just so they can get on my case so that they can feel better about themselves. Also whatever happened to toa being apolitical? They got so mad at me when I spoke up against indigenous displacement in Greenery’s west side, and when I dared to propose we agree to a ceasefire with the makuta. Yet they sit here telling me how much of a threat veganism is to Greenery’s social order. I live on an island with billionaires and beasts, and veganism is the biggest threat because combating that is somehow combating the makuta. Then there’s Whenua just sitting there, silent, not joining in on the conversation whatsoever. I know he agrees with me, he’s just too afraid to say anything. The clouds became denser and it started raining. As we headed inside, Whenua showed me to my room, to which I locked myself away from them. It was a familiar feeling, back when we were young they’d send us inside because of how scary they thought the times were. We begged and pleaded with them to stay outside and enjoy the green, but they’d always tell us no. I remembered when everyone just started accepting it, our natural state, when we locked away ourselves willingly, because we too eventually became afraid of the green. I was tired, I needed some time away so I stood looking at my bed as the blinds from the window left shadows on my body. I was too tired to close them, so I laid there on the mattress with droplets of water running down. I had been awake for a while now, so I got up and went to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror I saw what they saw; an iguana’s head atop of a cosmic body, with crab pincers for hands and sharp bony protrusions for legs. I looked into that thing in the mirror and asked, “What should I do?” I put on some clothing and headed downstairs. I really didn’t want to be seen, but I didn’t really have a choice, I needed to get out. I knew where Whenua’s toa cave was, I just had to find a way. That led me down to the streets of Jaharat’s underground city, Onu Koro, where I trudged along waiting for the inevitable. I knew they’d stop me and ask questions, but then something extraordinary happened. A matoran passed me without a care in the world, then another. There were crowds of matoran everywhere, yet they were completely unaware of my existence. I rushed towards a clothing shop and looked at the mirror to find that I was never really there. Black in complexion and no longer towering, I had become a Jaharti in disguise. It was then, when I realized that I had finally discovered my mask power, the power of illusion. It was true, the indigenous matoran were right. They told me this would happen and I never believed them. I touched my mask, it had been the first time I’d been a matoran since Iruini came to me all those years ago. Walking out of the clothing shop, there was no sunlight, the streets were constantly illuminated by lamps on the sides of buildings. There was no distinction between night or day, I wondered if people born here had ever seen the light of sun. The base of the buildings were elevated a few feet from the streets, which I understood considering all the water and trash everywhere. The streets were perpetually under a layer of water due to the ceiling constantly leaking water, it looked like it was raining underground, probably because it was raining, but I’d bet that the sheer amount of irrigation on the land above isn’t helping much either. Then there were the matoran, men covered from head to toe in dust, using the water above to shower their bodies clean. Most of the matoran who lived here were protodermis miners, which was the main economy of Jaharat. I couldn’t even see any women. The most I heard were the cries and arguments hidden behind the walls of apartments I passed by. That’s when I realized that the borough was much more diverse than I thought it would be. There were surprisingly a decent amount of Tiper’s and Garrobo’s among the mostly Jaharti men and that got me thinking. Our cities have been the most diverse than they ever have been, our technology has been the most advanced since the great cataclysm, so why is there still so many problems in our societies? First there’s Lhikan, and he prides himself so much over how much stronger the average Tiper is compared to other islanders, how they just constantly repelled invasion after invasion of makuta for thousands of years. And now that there’s failure’s on the battlefield it’s always chalked up to the other islanders and their incompetence. Oh how Lhikan wishes we could return back to our mythical past, only then would we find success against the makuta menace again. Back when only Tiper soldiers fought and where the status of knight had a more mythical connotation than today. But would we really? Did we ever have success against the makuta? Our forefathers fought them and never ended the war. The Tipers are strong matoran, yes, but that’s only because they had to be strong or else they’d be wiped off the face of Tapan. Even with their strength, the Tipers are the least populous of all the islander groups due to the neverending war on their island. Drafting the other islanders was necessary for the preservation of their culture. Then there’s Nokama, the only woman of the group. She thinks she’s so smart and wise compared to the rest of us, just as prideful as Lhikan. She takes in the fact that the Anemites are so different from the other islanders and flaunts that with everything she does. Showing her body and intelligence in a way to show us that we could never conquer her inherent female supremacy. Her whole thing is progress, that we must constantly be breaking away from the past, to achieve some mythical final frontier. That the Anemite’s will one day pave the path for us if we just listened to them. Now and forever will always be the greatest time to be alive. But is it really? Is it really progress when her Anemite contractors and sympathizers mow down an entire community? I don’t think so. She thinks it’s so much better now with all the advancement we’ve gone through over the years, but nothing has really changed. We’re still fighting the same old makuta, the universe is still dying, there’s nothing in the present or future that implies that things are getting better. And she blames us for not listening to the Anemites, even though they’ve been the strongest island since the Tapans fall from grace. They don’t have to wait on anyone, they can just do whatever they want. Maybe if they stopped stroking their own ego’s so much, then something could actually be done. They always look inward, always. Then there’s me and Whenua, we’re just there. No one listens to us and we’re really only local celebrities on our islands. Funny how the only time Lhikan and Nokama ever agree on something, it’s because they’re disagreeing with one of us, really only me considering how quiet Whenua is. We’re supposed to be unified, we’re supposed to be family. What a family this has been. My entire life I’ve been looking for family, that’s the one thing I’ve been trying to rebuild. I thought I could do that with this toa thing and for a while I believed that it was family, but I was coping, this is not family. It’s a job, I wouldn’t be surprised if Nokama viewed us as co-workers. That’s not what I wanted it to be, but that’s how it turned out, and now I’m different from everyone. No one joined me in the light like Iruini told me they would, they just stood there looking confused on why I was there in the first place. I continued walking until a newspaper came across my foot, ‘Toa Matau sued!’ That looked odd to me so I picked up the newspaper and read it. ‘Believe it or not Bomanga, I didn’t always hate the Green Knight. I wanted to be the Green Knight, I even ran the fan club. The problem is that this Green Knight we currently have, not it.’ ‘But why Mr. Caemon? It has never been done before. Why would you sue one of the toa metru?’ ‘There was a time, when I believed that true democracy would one day be readied for the matoran of Greenery, like all other developed civilizations. With toa Matau in the picture, I find that to be an improbability. Have you seen what’s been happening to the island nowadays? The Ghekula alone has killed over 400 matoran and that’s just one killer out of many. With how much crime is rising on Greenery, we are headed towards a state of anarchy, it is now more important than ever that Matau abides by the interest of his matoran constituents, which he is not doing. Someone's gotta take up the mantle, which is why we at Cormound inc have taken it upon ourselves to sue toa Matau. So much has already been spent on correctional facilities and government agencies, all because Matau can’t finish the job in capping these criminals. Some may be a little apprehensive in suing our toa, but to be frank, toa are a thing of the past anyways. What do they actually do to improve the lives of ordinary matoran? Lhikan is still doing his same old generalship, Nokama's greatest impact is still her musical career. I want to inspire all matoran that it’s the toa who are supposed to be serving us and not the other way around. The days of toa tyranny are no more.’ Ahkmou wasn’t wrong when he said Iruini maintained the status quo, all the Green Knights did. However, in a limp attempt to try to offset that, every turaga tells their successor to avoid the same mistakes they made. The problem was that not a single knight listened, they kept passing on the torch over and over again, mistakes on top of mistakes, until now everything’s just a giant wildfire. I truly believed that I could win the fight for Greenery’s soul if I just gave it everything I could, how silly of me, how stupid of me, because no matter how hard I try, nothing can stop monsters like Ahkmou from throwing more fuel to the flame. Those billionaires and their kacike goons, they’re bigger than me now, they’ve won. But what kind of morale is that? I can’t just let them take control of everything. There must still be a way to stop them, maybe the problem is that I’ve looked at this narrowly. Maybe it’s broader than it seems. Maybe it’s not enough to save the matoran… I don’t care anymore, I never wanted to be the Green Knight anyways. Ever since I’ve turned into this, I always straddled the line between what I am and what others wanted me to be. It’s about time that changes, it’s about time I realize that I can be whatever I want to be. If I’m going to make a change, it’s going to be done my way, no matter what anyone else thinks, no matter the odds. The Ghekula Liegur Ahkmou -Roodaka- “Who are you? Show yourself?” The makuta said in a panic. So then I revealed myself, appeared from the middle of nowhere and showed my truest self since I was back on Jaharat. “Matau?” They were getting ready to kill me on the spot. “Wait guys, I'm not here to start any trouble.” They sent their hounds after me, to which I simply responded by flying in the air, “I just want to talk.” They grab their zamor launchers and start shooting up at the sky, “I want to join your side!” I yell at them. They stopped, got their dogs to shut up, then looked at each other in confusion, then became even more frightened than they already were, “You’re a long way from Greenery. How do we know you don’t have soldiers trailing you?” “You know soldiers don’t go this far north.” I gently land back on the ground, “Just to prove my innocence,” I hand them my wrists, “you can arrest me right here and now. Whatever happens to me is up to you.” They couldn’t bring themselves to do that. They were so fearful, they didn’t want to get close. They both look at each other for answers, neither of them having any, until one finally spoke up, “You’re crazy. Go back to your island where you belong, we don’t need your help around here.” They try walking away, “One makuta is about as strong as a toa, give or take. Two of you can very easily subdue me and the matoran have no easy way of replacing that. Once an island's toa is gone, it’s gone forever, that island that was once protected is defenseless. If the two of you sent me back to your home island as a prisoner, you’d both be praised as heroes.” Before they’d take me to their home island, they had me parade over the ghost cities of Tapan; the concentration camps which the matoran back home spoke of. This far north of the island was makuta territory and it showed. What a creepy sight it was to travel from city to city, seeing glorious tall buildings from afar, only to get closer and find out that no one lived there, other than the decrepit souls of starving soldiers captured from the war effort. It was far too cold in the north to grow anything other than golden grass, which you could tell from the technic beam-like bodies of the many matoran who suffered here. No fruits or vegetables here, only the bread of nutrient deficient golden grass sustained their labour. I was a trophy to the makuta, who fed me well and adorned me with makuta armors as they brought me around by chariot through the streets of these cities. I knew what they were doing, why they were treating me so well. I was forced to sit next to the matoran, to make sure that they saw me, as if their spirit hadn’t completely broken already. That’s when I met an old friend, I could hardly tell who he was past the soot, but I could tell it was him by the way he instantly recognized me. It was Ayotli shoveling through the rubble, staring right back at me. The way he looked at me, the way all the matoran looked at me, they couldn’t believe it’d get much worse, but it did, as they saw me in the same chariot as the makuta who damned them to their sub-matoran status. One of them jumped off a building the second they saw me, they knew it was over. “Doesn't it make you wanna go back to Greenery?” The makuta said while smiling, “We don't need you here, we’ll gladly grant you mercy before things get any worse, and believe me when I say that it will. What we want is to return things to the way they were, keep it simple. Why don’t you go home before you upset any more of your fellow matoran.” He reminded me of someone back home, “If you think showing me a few starving matoran is going to shake me to my core and shoo me away, then I’m afraid you’re not aware of how bad it gets on the other islands. I’ve weighed my options and this is what I’ve chosen. Don’t insult me with your petty manipulations.” Before they allowed me on the whale to makuta nui, they made me eat a parasitic worm rahi just so they could keep track of wherever I was going. That’s when I came to the disturbing realization that the makuta are far stronger than the toa, they just don’t know it. Matoran might be able to match the strength of a rahi through ingenuity, but that could only go so far when there’s a specific type of rahi for any kind of scenario. The makuta use their rahi like tools and in a way they could bypass any innovation a matoran can muster. Then there’s the makuta themselves, which on that front we only defend against them through toa. Lhikan believes that we’re stronger than the average makuta and that’s so delusional. They’re not consistent in power at all and even if we were to gauge them, they are at least on the same level as us. There's also more makuta than there are toa, there are four makuta in this whale alone, that’s already enough to take on our entire toa team. I once heard from a turaga that one of the many purposes of the makuta before the great cataclysm was so they could defend the matoran; the toa were only ever meant to be a fallback. I can’t help but think that’s true, because there’s no way a species this powerful was ever meant to fight against the matoran, why even create matoran at that point? It’s so amusing because they don’t even realize it. If they bum rushed us, we would absolutely lose, no questions about it. I don’t care if the ocean currents are disadvantageous to them, or that they only control one and a half islands, they could absolutely destroy us if they tried. They just think we’re way stronger than we actually are, for some reason. On the mainland, they put me in a cage for weeks. It was at this point when they stopped giving me the royal treatment. I thought about backtracking what I had done, but I continued on, because I knew that what I was doing was going to pay off. When my arms were skinny and my vision blurry, that was when they opened the cell and told me to get out. I knew they wouldn’t execute me, so many of them have worked with me during the Liminal war all those years ago. I knew they’d find a way to keep me around. At the initiation ritual they gave me my new name, Nidhiki. It was the makuta word for traitor. We’d shuffle around one thing to another, completely unaware how to do this considering it had never been done before. They finally decided to take me to the foothills of their tallest mountain as they went over numerous proclamations that I must adhere to. “Will you accept Teridax as your leader and savior?” Antroz asked. “I accept.” “Rise up fallen toa, you're one of us now.” He grabbed my hand and hugged me, “Before we continue, I want you to remember that If it wasn’t for me you’d already be dead. Welcome back old friend.” Apparently Teridax wasn’t around to make the decision, so it was put to an election where I was saved by a singular vote. I still couldn’t get it out of my head that at any moment, Teridax could reverse their decision. On one of the training exercises I stopped and picked up a dying kironga I found back on the trail. I held it in my hands, protecting it from the cold as I jogged back to base. When I arrived with the rahi in my hands, they looked at me funny. “I’ve been meaning to ask you this for a while, but none of the other toa have a no kill rule, why do you?” “Have you ever watched something die, Roodaka?” “Yes.” “Then you’d know that it’s a pretty horrible thing.” “Not really, it’s natural. All things are supposed to die eventually.” “What does that say about you then? Makuta don’t die, they get killed. Would you consider that natural?” “Well no, because we’re not natural, we’re gods like Mata Nui, we belong in that class of existence." “And who made Mata Nui? You see, everything's mortal in one way or another. Even the great spirit is mortal when you consider the universe as finite. Just because we can kill doesn’t mean we should, because there’s always another way.” “You’ll never be with her.” Grekk told me out of nowhere. “Oh yeah, why’s that?” “Us makuta are a purposeful lot. We’re happy when we need to be, we’re loyal when we need to be, and we’re loving when we need to be. We can’t reproduce like you matoran can and because of that she’ll never need you.” I guess he just wanted to rub it in, “If that were so true, then why recruit me into your ranks? What purpose does that serve? For whatever unknown purpose, your peers decided to keep me around. That's the logic I'm banking on when getting with Roodaka.” “Pffh, well don’t come crying to me when it doesn’t work out.” We were on a hike that morning , Grekk and I were the only ones shivering in our group, “Hey, weren’t you one of the makuta assigned to the tropical sector?” “Yeah, what about it?” He walked a few feet away from me to keep his distance. “You single handedly created over 60% of the rahi in our region. It’s because of you that Greenery has such powerful biodiversity. Thank you so much for that.” “Thank evolution for that, my work was simply the building block for what came later. Why do you care? It’s you Le-matoran who slaughter them by the thousands.” “I know! it’s so bad how we treat your creations. I tried stopping them from developing the region, but they just won’t listen.” “I’m aware.” I knew I was getting to him, “Which rahi did you specialize in?” I saw a twinkle in his eyes that he could not repress, “Oooh, I barely remember those days. I think I specialized in insect and amphibian rahi. The amphibians were my favorite. You could do so much with them in the tropical environment, my only regret is that I wish I instilled them with some toxin resilience, considering all the pollution that happens there nowadays.” “Do you miss those times before the great cataclysm?” It was a vague question, but a little bit too on the nose in hindsight. I had to be careful not to mention makuta Miserix. That’s when I saw his childlike smile get wiped away from his face. It was like watching the resurfaced whimsy of an artist fade away into memory, he returned to his current self, “No. Miserix was a weak leader, he had to go. It’s not like I don’t make rahi anymore, they’re just for the war effort now. Now I’m mature and recognize that we have to be a lot more purposeful when it comes to expressing our gift.” They took me to one of the many warehouses, where I took notes as Antroz walked me through the facility. He brought me to a giant vat. “See that liquid in there? That’s what we call biodermis, which is a fermented form of protodermis. All the animals you see in the universe come from there.” “Looks like water.” “Most of it consists of water, but I wouldn’t stick my hand in there if I were you. Not only is it boiling, but the liquid fuses to any nearby organism. It’s composed of cells without any DNA so it sticks to anything with a fraction of genetic makeup.” “How do you make organisms from that stuff?” “Well first we plan it with blueprints, then we screen it and approve the design. Once that’s done, we cool the liquid enough so we could mold it and then you just build it with your hands. It’s a lot harder than it sounds.” “How does the biodermis not stick to you?” “Quarinth do not have DNA, we operate under a different kind of system, which allows us to harness the liquid and build creatures from it. If you were to handle it, I assure you, it wouldn’t go well. It’d feel like slime against your fingers until you realise that you can’t get it off, as it starts fusing to your body.” As I was flying towards one of the warehouses to cancel production of a species, a building exploded right underneath me. I flew down there and knew what I needed to do. I leapt into the burning building, using my powers of air to blow the fire away as possible. I had to temper myself. I couldn’t break up the flames so easily, considering I had to be aware of not blowing the flames on an unsuspecting makuta. The smoke was so thick I couldn’t see who I was holding. I knew we had to get out before the building collapsed. I looked around, walls everywhere, and then the ceiling partially broke open. I flew up into the sky taking anyone I could, then going back in. I retrieved three makuta, everyone watching my spectacle. I came out with a few burns and scratches, but nothing that medical attention couldn’t handle. They clapped and cheered and little did I know that one of the makuta I saved was Grekk. “I don’t get it. After everything we put you through, you still show us forgiveness. Why?” Grekk said as he laid on the floor. “My journey as a living thing has taught me compassion." I grab his hand and bring him up to my level. Many makuta have the misconception that my duty is only limited to the island I’m from, I wanted to show them that compassion has no boundaries, “There is no condition to that statement, our pain despite our differences, is one in the same.” “Thank you so much, Nidhiki.” He hugs me and the mood is immediately broken by Icarax staring at me over there. No clapping, just him looking at me like one of those giant storks from Greenery. He probably made them. Why was he here? Usually he’s on Tapan fighting or running some camp. With Lhikan you could tell there was a pain behind his eyes, at least you could understand. Icarax just looked like death. His serpent like eyes and his beady little dilated pupils, it was like this manic feeling you’d get from rushing to study a test. Like he was studying you. Absolute freak, you could tell the ones that were vehemently loyal to Teridax, because they all have the same manic look to them. It’s so bad it transcends appearance. All makuta look different from each other and yet you could still tell which were the crazy ones. I was petting her visorak, an arachnid-like rahi, before it suddenly sunk its mandibles deep into my skin. Roodaka immediately noticed and slapped its head so hard that it started going dizzy. The poor spider started shedding tears from the pain, which Roodaka solved by erasing its memory and mind controlling it to get us glasses of water. The visorak's temperament returned to a blissful state, where it accepted its servile condition. “You don’t feel bad doing that to him?” I ask. “It’s a rahi,” Roodaka answered, “If you want to get your own glass of water, be my guest.” “I’d gladly get my own glass of water if it means avoiding slapping my pet on the head. You know, one day that makuta mind control will wear off, just you wait and see.” Roodaka laughs, “Yeah, right." “No matter how much you domesticate a gucko bird, it’ll still lay a few bad eggs. There’ll be a day, where no matter how hard you try to control them, eventually they’ll break through.” We truly loved each other, but she couldn’t bear to look at me. Quick glances with her beautiful smile and watery eyes, before looking to the sides or her pillow. It was different from her, but I expected it, because I knew she felt trapped where she lived and that she couldn't separate herself from what she was out there. After we finished I put my hand on her cheek, “I love you.” “No you don’t.” She said it jokefully, but it almost seemed assertive. As if she were willing it upon me. I wondered why. Then she looked at me, “Why would you abandon them? I still don’t get it. Was it really me?” “Partially, it’s um, it’s a bit of a complicated matter. All I will say is that I saw the writing on the wall, I knew where the universe was headed, so I did this as a last ditch effort.” “What is that supposed to mean?” “Mata Nui is dying, everyone knows that. What really gets to me, however, is how no one really cares. They say they care, but they don’t. Their last hope is that the kanohi ignika would one day appear for them, but honestly I don’t even think that will save them. You know it’s bad when even a toa can’t do nothing but watch as it all falls apart. I saw the writing on the wall that I wasn’t making a difference back home, so I thought that maybe I could make a difference here.” “Well how’s that been working out for you?” “I’m gonna be honest with you, these past few weeks have been the happiest I’ve been in my entire life.” She looked shocked by my response, then went back to looking away. I had a melancholic nostalgic feeling seeing her act that way. I couldn't describe it at the time, but it felt as if I was Tuuli all those years ago, if only I knew the warning signs, “I had a dream once, where it didn’t matter if you were matoran, makuta, or anything else. That we as a united culture stood together against the darkest times, where hope finally shined through, and we reached our destiny. Only then would we see Mata Nui rise. Now I feel like we’re closer to that than ever before.” I woke up the next morning, no one was by my side. I knew Roodaka had to leave early, but I didn’t know I’d be left alone. I continued my routine and I thought I slept incorrectly since my pelvic torso was killing me. I didn’t know sleep could affect that. I continued walking, everything was empty. The makuta always built towns even though there was no one to fill them. They just built them for the love of the game, probably from the hands of poor Tiper soldiers. Walking down the path, I remembered that one time when I met with Tapans war veterans, many of them were amputees. They told me how they’d often felt ghost limbs in places that had been amputated. I oddly felt the same. Looking at my hands I couldn’t see what my brain was telling me. I felt connections between my thumb, pointer finger, and middle finger, almost like webbing, but nothing was there. Likewise, I felt the same between my pinky and ring finger. I ignored it for now. At the shop, Grekk looked at me before delivering my rations, “You have a good day.” I needed to get out of there, my legs couldn’t stand it. It was as if the bones on my legs were polarized from one another as I was doing everything in my power to keep them in line, “You too.” I rushed out. “Wait!” Looking back, it was Grekk again. He came up to me out of breath, “They never trusted you. I’m so sorry.” I found myself on the floor, “What are you talking about?” “Roodaka poisoned you. They were afraid, they were always afraid that you’d upset the established order. I’m so sorry.” I couldn’t believe him. If that were the case then why wouldn’t they kill me, “Why would you tell me? Aren’t you putting yourself in danger?” “I’ll be fine. It’s as much of a cognitive poison as it is physical, what I’m telling you now you’ll forget eventually, and with that will go all the risk I’m putting myself through. I tried keeping it secret, they told me too, but I don’t know, I just couldn’t keep it in knowing I did this to you, and now it’s too late. You deserved better, you deserve to know before you go. Don’t worry about me. The makuta never betray one of their own, not for this kind of stuff.” I looked at the pavement below, “That’s where you’re wrong. They won’t get you now, but they’ll get you eventually. You’re a fool to think Miserix was the last.” Grekk had to leave. By the alley I was shaking with my hands on my head. I didn’t know what to do, there was no one there. My legs splitting, I was trying to hold them together, like the man with his stomach all those years ago. I will need to forget in order to live again, I can’t believe this is how it’ll end. I will always remember the Green Knight, his axe so unkempt and lean, its bearer so tender to the aging land. Perhaps they will reminisce, perhaps they will forgive, but whatever happens, I wish them the best. Before I forget… His eyes broke, barely reaching towards the warm distant light. It felt as if another person had been inserted into his consciousness and he moved before he had completely awakened, sweating the pain away. Immediately turning over, falling from the mattress. Shutting his eyes closed thinking it’d return back to him, afraid of any mirrors, his crab-like pincers clinging on to matoran hands, trying his best not to crush them. He cried reptilian tears, more arthropod than matoran, his skin hard and scalish, “I betrayed all of you, I am so sorry. I know none of you will forgive me, I only wish you could all understand. I’ve failed you.” They felt their still towering friend for the first time in decades. They could not find the anger and passion in their hearts, not in the way their younger selves could. So they did what they knew was right, abandoning the treachery of the darkest times, so that they could let hope shine through, “You did not fail us, Matau. It was us who failed you.”	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75726381	{"authors": ["Avnuva"], "language": "English", "title": "Nidhiki, The Green Knight"}
ghost bird Wind howls over the ruined city, but far above in the sunlit field atop the ruins of the Hexgate tower, all is quiet. Some might even call it peaceful, so long as they keep their gaze fixed upwards. Jayce slumps over, knees pressed into the hard ground before his own corpse. Dragonflies flit around its moss-covered shoulders, the breeze whistling gently through the hollowed out skull, stirring the flowers within. He knows it is a dream. Unlike the last time he was in this place, his scalp doesn’t itch with the buildup of weeks without bathing, his stomach isn’t a churning mix of nausea and hunger, his mouth is clear of the lingering taste of corrupted lizard guts. His leg, too—the pain is ever-present but it is no longer the bone-deep burning sensation that had been his only tangible companion in the pit. It’s mitigated now to the point where Jayce could almost forget it even exists—a luxury he only is afforded in dreams. “Viktor?” he calls out, thinking maybe the mage will make an appearance. Silence is his only response. Jayce’s shoulders drop although in relief or disappointment he cannot say. To see the mage, to see Viktor’s face again, that lonely devastation in every crease of his papery skin—would that constitute a dream or a nightmare? Who the hell is he kidding. He’d crawl across broken glass to see Viktor again in any form. But apparently he will not get to see him tonight, as the dream continues and all that happens is a butterfly landing on one of the spiked shards of the corpse’s skull. This dream is strange, he thinks as he examines the white porcelain face in front of him. It is different from the regular rotation of nightmares that have plagued him since his return from the broken future. The nightmares that have kept him from staying at his mother’s house—she doesn’t need to hear his gasping, choked sobs every night as he begs for a dead man’s forgiveness, Viktor’s corpse staring at him in judgement from the darkness, blood and Arcane corruption dripping from the hole in its chest. His own corpse, by contrast, is devoid of emotion, brittle and empty, everything within replaced by fungal growth and flowers. Its blank eyes stare forward, no sign of movement in its frozen features. Jayce blows out a breath and rearranges himself to a more comfortable position, stretching his braced leg out to the side. “So he’s abandoned you too, huh?” Jayce says, as he massages his ruined knee. “Figures.” The corpse doesn’t respond. A few more insects buzz around, one landing on the pale, outstretched hands. Jayce examines the hands now curled around nothing, the broken fingers half torn away after he’d wrenched the hammer out from the figure’s grasp. “Sorry about that,” he says, gesturing to the ruined hand. “I didn’t know you were so, uh, fragile.” It’s a lie. He’s always known about his own frailties—numerous fault lines run through him, only increasing in number as he’d grown. Hit the right spot and he’d shatter to pieces. His mother once called him delicate—his father called him soft, whispered conversations where they thought Jayce couldn’t hear, about how the world would break him. Their fears weren’t unfounded. Even after everything, under the muscle and the shoulder pads of his starched white jacket, he’d remained that soft, delicate little boy, the one who couldn’t handle even a hint of rejection or disappointment, facade crumbling even as he scrambled to keep everyone happy. An impossible task. The only difference between him and the statue in front of him is that now the exterior of the other Jayce matches how he is inside—fragile, hollow. Broken. “At least something beautiful grew inside you,” he muses. “He kept you here in the sunshine, full of flowers. We didn’t spend enough time outside, did we? All that time locked away in the lab, no sunlight or anything. No wonder we both went a little crazy.” He shifts, moving closer, curling his body around the kneeling corpse. “Were you scared, at the end? You didn’t know…at least I knew what was happening—what’s going to happen. Did you think…” He blinks, looks down as he swallows back a lump. “Did you still have hope? That you could save him, before he turned you into this—or did you know he was gone?” Jayce has wondered how the world ended the first time, the version of his universe without the mage’s interference. If Jayce had never been brought to the apocalyptic future, how would the sequence of events play out? “I suppose it doesn’t matter. You ended up here anyway.” Jayce reaches out a hand and tentatively strokes a fingertip down the smooth, spongy cheek. “Was it quick? Or did you linger here, as you turned into this? Did he…” his voice catches. “I can picture him coming here, talking to you, eventually. He was so lonely, he must have needed…I don’t know. Something. Someone to bounce ideas off of, like we used to.” Jayce sighs as he brings his head forward to rest against the statue’s shoulder. “Or maybe not. V didn’t need us the way we needed him. Maybe he kept you here as a punishment. For what we did to him. Turning him into something else against his will—and then leaving him alone.” His eyes burn and blur as tears spring up. “Did we deserve it? Is this still what needs to happen to me, to make up for it? I…I know it’s inevitable. I can feel it happening inside me even now.” The crystal at his wrist pulses and he grits his teeth against the throb and ache in his arm. It’s killing him, just like the rot in his leg, just like the arcane-corrupted meat he’d consumed to survive, poisoning him from the inside out. The irony is that the corruption of wild magic at the base of the ravine—the sticky webbing that blistered over his open wounds and now spreads across his skin with every blast of his hammer—it saved his life. Had he not been exposed to it, his mobility would have been shot, even with an improvised leg brace. He’d have died at the base of the ravine from starvation and exposure. It wasn’t just a guess, either—he’d confirmed it. The surgeon he’d consulted when he’d returned had been baffled as to how he was walking. The scans had come back…wrong. Strange growths in his leg that took the place of bone and muscle, growing around the shattered fragments of his tibia, fibula and femur—the Arcane corruption changing his body from the inside out. The doctor had wanted to examine him more, had wanted biopsies, discussing his options for treatment but Jayce had simply thanked her for her time and left, never looking back. Even if he followed her advice and amputated his leg, the rot would persist. It’s too deep in his bones, his blood. Jayce doesn’t know how long he has until he mirrors the statue in front of him, but it hardly matters. Arcane rot will not be what kills him. Keeping his head pillowed in the moss of his counterpart’s shoulder, Jayce reaches out to gently brush the back of his knuckles against the outstretched hand. “I hope, at least…” He sighs, drawing the words up from deep in his chest like poison from a wound. It’s just a dream—he can admit this in a dream. “If I fail, do you think he’ll grow flowers for me too?” Silence, undercut with the buzz of insects and the distant roar of the storm below answers him. “Ha,” Jayce says, huffing a laugh. “Yeah, probably not.” He sits there for a long while, the dream lingering. The heat from the sun is surprisingly realistic—conjured from some memory from his childhood, maybe, a warm summer’s day spent running through the fields in Ixtal. Jayce closes his eyes, breathing in the sweet verdant scent of the moss, the heady perfume of the flowers that surrounded the corpse. ”I should probably hate you,” Jayce murmurs. “Or resent you, at the least. You’re the one who had it easy. You didn’t know what was coming, you poor, stupid bastard. You didn’t have to…” He closes his eyes, the blinding light of the hammer blast obliterating Viktor’s soft smile flashing behind his eyes. “He smiled, when he saw you. You didn’t kill him.” “Gods. You didn’t kill him. I take it back. You’re a lucky son of a bitch—ah. Sorry, Mom.” He cuts his eyes to the placid face and grimaces. “Lucky fucker.” Jayce slumps into the body heavily, allowing it to take more of his weight. Something soft crumbles underneath him and he pulls back hastily. “Sorry—sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to break more of you.” Whatever broke isn’t immediately visible, unlike the fingers. Jayce runs a gentle hand down his future corpse’s side, checking for internal damage. To his shock, the hollowed out exposed sides expand, causing him to drop his hand in alarm. He blinks a few times, trying to discern if it was just the wind but no—the statue is breathing. Jayce glances up hastily at the frozen face and startles as he sees shimmering tears streak from its eyes, burnished golden-bronze in the sunlight. “Oh gods, did I hurt you?” he murmurs, reaching a finger up to wipe away the tears. The liquid lingers on his finger, not water but something else, something that’s almost the same blue as the runestone now embedded in his wrist. The liquid trembles on his fingertip before the tension breaks and it slides down his hand, right for the runestone. Jayce gasps as the droplet hits the crystal and a loud, clear chime echoes around him. He doubles over, clutching his wrist as the stone starts glowing. “Wait—no, it’s not time yet, please—” He doesn’t know if he’s pleading from the corpse or to Viktor or to the universe at large. As if in response, the dream shifts. The light expands, casting the clearing in stark shades of blue and white—above them, the sky darkens, the sweeping arm of a galaxy cutting across the darkness. Jayce closes his eyes against the blinding light from his hand, bringing the other up to shield his face when that proves inadequate. He opens his mouth to scream but no sound emerges—his voice is swallowed by the high-pitched ringing that now fills the clearing, barely audible over the rush of blood in his head. Jayce	ghost bird Wind howls over the ruined city, but far above in the sunlit field atop the ruins of the Hexgate tower, all is quiet. Some might even call it peaceful, so long as they keep their gaze fixed upwards. Jayce slumps over, knees pressed into the hard ground before his own corpse. Dragonflies flit around its moss-covered shoulders, the breeze whistling gently through the hollowed out skull, stirring the flowers within. He knows it is a dream. Unlike the last time he was in this place, his scalp doesn’t itch with the buildup of weeks without bathing, his stomach isn’t a churning mix of nausea and hunger, his mouth is clear of the lingering taste of corrupted lizard guts. His leg, too—the pain is ever-present but it is no longer the bone-deep burning sensation that had been his only tangible companion in the pit. It’s mitigated now to the point where Jayce could almost forget it even exists—a luxury he only is afforded in dreams. “Viktor?” he calls out, thinking maybe the mage will make an appearance. Silence is his only response. Jayce’s shoulders drop although in relief or disappointment he cannot say. To see the mage, to see Viktor’s face again, that lonely devastation in every crease of his papery skin—would that constitute a dream or a nightmare? Who the hell is he kidding. He’d crawl across broken glass to see Viktor again in any form. But apparently he will not get to see him tonight, as the dream continues and all that happens is a butterfly landing on one of the spiked shards of the corpse’s skull. This dream is strange, he thinks as he examines the white porcelain face in front of him. It is different from the regular rotation of nightmares that have plagued him since his return from the broken future. The nightmares that have kept him from staying at his mother’s house—she doesn’t need to hear his gasping, choked sobs every night as he begs for a dead man’s forgiveness, Viktor’s corpse staring at him in judgement from the darkness, blood and Arcane corruption dripping from the hole in its chest. His own corpse, by contrast, is devoid of emotion, brittle and empty, everything within replaced by fungal growth and flowers. Its blank eyes stare forward, no sign of movement in its frozen features. Jayce blows out a breath and rearranges himself to a more comfortable position, stretching his braced leg out to the side. “So he’s abandoned you too, huh?” Jayce says, as he massages his ruined knee. “Figures.” The corpse doesn’t respond. A few more insects buzz around, one landing on the pale, outstretched hands. Jayce examines the hands now curled around nothing, the broken fingers half torn away after he’d wrenched the hammer out from the figure’s grasp. “Sorry about that,” he says, gesturing to the ruined hand. “I didn’t know you were so, uh, fragile.” It’s a lie. He’s always known about his own frailties—numerous fault lines run through him, only increasing in number as he’d grown. Hit the right spot and he’d shatter to pieces. His mother once called him delicate—his father called him soft, whispered conversations where they thought Jayce couldn’t hear, about how the world would break him. Their fears weren’t unfounded. Even after everything, under the muscle and the shoulder pads of his starched white jacket, he’d remained that soft, delicate little boy, the one who couldn’t handle even a hint of rejection or disappointment, facade crumbling even as he scrambled to keep everyone happy. An impossible task. The only difference between him and the statue in front of him is that now the exterior of the other Jayce matches how he is inside—fragile, hollow. Broken. “At least something beautiful grew inside you,” he muses. “He kept you here in the sunshine, full of flowers. We didn’t spend enough time outside, did we? All that time locked away in the lab, no sunlight or anything. No wonder we both went a little crazy.” He shifts, moving closer, curling his body around the kneeling corpse. “Were you scared, at the end? You didn’t know…at least I knew what was happening—what’s going to happen. Did you think…” He blinks, looks down as he swallows back a lump. “Did you still have hope? That you could save him, before he turned you into this—or did you know he was gone?” Jayce has wondered how the world ended the first time, the version of his universe without the mage’s interference. If Jayce had never been brought to the apocalyptic future, how would the sequence of events play out? “I suppose it doesn’t matter. You ended up here anyway.” Jayce reaches out a hand and tentatively strokes a fingertip down the smooth, spongy cheek. “Was it quick? Or did you linger here, as you turned into this? Did he…” his voice catches. “I can picture him coming here, talking to you, eventually. He was so lonely, he must have needed…I don’t know. Something. Someone to bounce ideas off of, like we used to.” Jayce sighs as he brings his head forward to rest against the statue’s shoulder. “Or maybe not. V didn’t need us the way we needed him. Maybe he kept you here as a punishment. For what we did to him. Turning him into something else against his will—and then leaving him alone.” His eyes burn and blur as tears spring up. “Did we deserve it? Is this still what needs to happen to me, to make up for it? I…I know it’s inevitable. I can feel it happening inside me even now.” The crystal at his wrist pulses and he grits his teeth against the throb and ache in his arm. It’s killing him, just like the rot in his leg, just like the arcane-corrupted meat he’d consumed to survive, poisoning him from the inside out. The irony is that the corruption of wild magic at the base of the ravine—the sticky webbing that blistered over his open wounds and now spreads across his skin with every blast of his hammer—it saved his life. Had he not been exposed to it, his mobility would have been shot, even with an improvised leg brace. He’d have died at the base of the ravine from starvation and exposure. It wasn’t just a guess, either—he’d confirmed it. The surgeon he’d consulted when he’d returned had been baffled as to how he was walking. The scans had come back…wrong. Strange growths in his leg that took the place of bone and muscle, growing around the shattered fragments of his tibia, fibula and femur—the Arcane corruption changing his body from the inside out. The doctor had wanted to examine him more, had wanted biopsies, discussing his options for treatment but Jayce had simply thanked her for her time and left, never looking back. Even if he followed her advice and amputated his leg, the rot would persist. It’s too deep in his bones, his blood. Jayce doesn’t know how long he has until he mirrors the statue in front of him, but it hardly matters. Arcane rot will not be what kills him. Keeping his head pillowed in the moss of his counterpart’s shoulder, Jayce reaches out to gently brush the back of his knuckles against the outstretched hand. “I hope, at least…” He sighs, drawing the words up from deep in his chest like poison from a wound. It’s just a dream—he can admit this in a dream. “If I fail, do you think he’ll grow flowers for me too?” Silence, undercut with the buzz of insects and the distant roar of the storm below answers him. “Ha,” Jayce says, huffing a laugh. “Yeah, probably not.” He sits there for a long while, the dream lingering. The heat from the sun is surprisingly realistic—conjured from some memory from his childhood, maybe, a warm summer’s day spent running through the fields in Ixtal. Jayce closes his eyes, breathing in the sweet verdant scent of the moss, the heady perfume of the flowers that surrounded the corpse. ”I should probably hate you,” Jayce murmurs. “Or resent you, at the least. You’re the one who had it easy. You didn’t know what was coming, you poor, stupid bastard. You didn’t have to…” He closes his eyes, the blinding light of the hammer blast obliterating Viktor’s soft smile flashing behind his eyes. “He smiled, when he saw you. You didn’t kill him.” “Gods. You didn’t kill him. I take it back. You’re a lucky son of a bitch—ah. Sorry, Mom.” He cuts his eyes to the placid face and grimaces. “Lucky fucker.” Jayce slumps into the body heavily, allowing it to take more of his weight. Something soft crumbles underneath him and he pulls back hastily. “Sorry—sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to break more of you.” Whatever broke isn’t immediately visible, unlike the fingers. Jayce runs a gentle hand down his future corpse’s side, checking for internal damage. To his shock, the hollowed out exposed sides expand, causing him to drop his hand in alarm. He blinks a few times, trying to discern if it was just the wind but no—the statue is breathing. Jayce glances up hastily at the frozen face and startles as he sees shimmering tears streak from its eyes, burnished golden-bronze in the sunlight. “Oh gods, did I hurt you?” he murmurs, reaching a finger up to wipe away the tears. The liquid lingers on his finger, not water but something else, something that’s almost the same blue as the runestone now embedded in his wrist. The liquid trembles on his fingertip before the tension breaks and it slides down his hand, right for the runestone. Jayce gasps as the droplet hits the crystal and a loud, clear chime echoes around him. He doubles over, clutching his wrist as the stone starts glowing. “Wait—no, it’s not time yet, please—” He doesn’t know if he’s pleading from the corpse or to Viktor or to the universe at large. As if in response, the dream shifts. The light expands, casting the clearing in stark shades of blue and white—above them, the sky darkens, the sweeping arm of a galaxy cutting across the darkness. Jayce closes his eyes against the blinding light from his hand, bringing the other up to shield his face when that proves inadequate. He opens his mouth to scream but no sound emerges—his voice is swallowed by the high-pitched ringing that now fills the clearing, barely audible over the rush of blood in his head. Jayce tries to brace himself but he’s paralyzed, as frozen as the statue in front of him. Or maybe not. Jayce cannot move his limbs, but he feels something shift beneath him, a quiet groan, the creak of stone, faint beneath the ringing in his ears. The soft sound of crumbling dirt and moving rock intensifies and the figure beneath Jayce sways dangerously, throwing his balance off. For a wild moment he thinks the entire structure of the Hexgates is about to collapse—but it’s far too quiet, too intimate for that. The ground remains steady beneath him but the support of the statue is gone, causing Jayce to pitch forward. He gasps in alarm, trying to open his eyes, unable to throw his hands out to stop himself from crashing towards the ground. Before he can do so though, two strong arms embrace him, halting his fall. Instead of the hard surface of the Hexgate tower, Jayce’s face lands in the warmth of a broad shoulder. The rich scent of sandalwood layered under a floral and earthy smell hits his nose, and beneath a sharper, more industrial note. Jayce inhales automatically, registering the smoke-tinged smell of iron and coal. For one wild second he thinks…Dad? A huff of laughter brushes over his ear and he frowns, pulling back slightly as his eyes flutter open. The arms hold him steady, big warm hands gripping his biceps. It’s not the warm brown eyes of his father that greet him, though—instead he meets a very familiar hazel gaze, one he hasn’t seen reflected back at him since before he fell into the pit. “Hello, Jayce,” the statue—no longer a statue—says. “You—” He’s older than expected. Jayce knows his own face is ruined after the months in the pit—crevasses between his brows, lines of pain around his mouth hidden by the beard, similar creases around his eyes, too, which he cannot hide as easily. But as Jayce takes in this other version of himself, moss clinging to his coat, white marble crumbling away to reveal more of his features—he sees a man not just aged by trauma but by time. That’s not the only difference. This Jayce has no beard, just a few days’ worth of stubble growth, his hair cropped on the sides and back and significantly more salt than pepper. His skin is thinner, more weathered, tanned darker by the sun, contrasting Jayce’s anemic complexion after months in the dark. Lines also crease his mouth, his eyes, furrows as deep as Zaun’s fissures in his forehead that speak of years of worry, stress, grief. Embedded in his forehead are four strange marks—shining, bejeweled fingerprints, sunken into his skin so deep that Jayce suspects they reach bone. He thinks of the marks he saw on the faces of the people in Viktor’s commune, the delicate webbing that stretched across their skin, marking them as the Herald’s victims. The same webbing creeps up this other Jayce’s jawline, corruption spreading similar to the lines on Jayce’s leg, his wrist. All of it tells Jayce one thing—this man had not led a happy life before his death. It shouldn’t be a surprise, given his eventual fate, but the pain etched in his face nearly takes Jayce’s breath away. His eyes though—his eyes are warm, the gold softened by a brown-green ring around the irises. Jayce’s own eyes have no such color variation anymore, he knows after a brief glimpse in the mirror after his first shower in months—stripped of all traces of hazel-brown, they are an uncanny shade of gold, giving him a piercing, crazed stare more like an animal than a man. He’d not examined his reflection much since. “I waited in the lab for weeks before I went after him,” the other Jayce says. Jayce opens his mouth but shuts it immediately at the look on the other man’s face. “He left—and eventually so did I. I followed him down to the Undercity—to Zaun. Stumbled into his nest, dragging my hammer behind me, telling myself it was to undo my mistake, to allow my partner the death I’d denied him. But he smiled and—” He breathes out a laugh, gently, sadly. “It was over then, for me.” The older man sighs, settles back on his heels. Jayce makes to shuffle away but is stopped by a gentle hand on his cheek. He stares up into those oh-so-human eyes, unable to move. The creases around the other man’s eyes deepen as he smiles, soft and sad. His voice is hoarse with disuse, crackling over the words, giving out in places but growing in strength as he continues to speak. “You would have followed the same path as me, had he not intervened. Staying in the commune for months, trying to convince yourself that Viktor was still there, that he was doing good—you were both doing good.” Jayce startles slightly as he feels a hand in his hair but relaxes immediately as long fingers begin combing through the grown-out locks. He bites his lip as the other Jayce scratches at the base of his scalp, just the way they both like it, failing to stifle a groan. Mercifully, the other Jayce ignores it and just keeps talking. “He would have bedded you, you know. Taken you as his consort. And you would have spent every night underneath him trying desperately to ignore the voice in your head telling you that the man fucking you was not your partner, was not your Viktor.” The statement is delivered gently, the fingers in his hair never ceasing their soothing, repetitive motion. Jayce sighs, leaning into the touch, turning the information over in his mind like he’d done the first bite of cooked meat after the pit—slowly, reverently, and with the overwhelming urge to vomit it back up upon swallowing. He’d known. Of course he’d known—is it any surprise that the version of himself that failed first, failed hardest, was led astray by his dick? He’d practically been throwing himself at Viktor the minute he stepped out of the Hexcore cocoon. If he’d ended up at the commune before Heimerdinger and Ekko had broken into the lab, it would have only taken one look from Viktor to get him to cave. As it was he’d barely succeeded. Even with his mind broken from months of starvation and pain he’d had to fight every atom in his being from dropping the hammer and reaching towards Viktor, floating above him like an ethereal god, suspended in light. Had he not had the crystal pulsing in his wrist, the promise to the mage driving him forward, he would never have had the strength to lift the hammer and fire a beam directly into— Even in a dream, the nausea he feels at the memory of Viktor’s corpse is shockingly visceral. The same sick wave of dizziness hits him as it had after he’d stumbled away, haunted by the image of Viktor’s sparking, hollowed out chest cavity, the dying light in his eyes. Jayce had puked up lizard-flavored bile three times before he’d made it out of the chaos of the commune. If he’d stayed—if he’d lowered the hammer. Moved his broken body forward, collapsed to his knees before Viktor, lifting up his tired head as Viktor’s smooth metallic fingers touched his cheek— Blood rushes south at the thought. A better man would feel shame over that, but one lesson the pit had taught him—Jayce was not and is never going to be the better man. His other self allows him to lean in close, tucking his face into his neck like they’d done with their father when they were small. A hand grips him around his waist, broad against his starved frame, the other clutching the back of his neck and holding him close. Jayce shudders, the combination of horny/nausea/comfort that his body is flipping through leaving him off-kilter, vulnerable, shaking. He leans into the warmth of this older, dead Jayce, trying to focus on the touch rather than the conflict raging inside himself. It’s as he sinks into the feeling of just being held he realizes—the other Jayce’s hands are now unbroken. The fingers that had cracked off the statue with the corrupted hammer are now reformed, just as his hollowed out skull is filled once more, the bone white of his ribs now hidden behind flesh and muscle and cloth. “When I left him,” the other man continues in that rusty voice. “The commune failed. I should have killed him—I could not. He knew it too—he made love to me the night before, fucking me open as I cried and begged him for it, his needy slut even as I pictured myself blasting his heart open with the hammer. And then when I walked out of there with his come still inside me, a final rejection of our partnership—he broke. I could hear the screams even as I fled back to Piltover, but I didn’t look back.” Jayce closes his eyes, remembering the thick smell of blood that had filled the commune, the cries of Noxian soldiers as they fell, the roars of the gigantic beast as it tore through them like paper. The fallen commune members had not moved or screamed in pain as the beast’s claws slashed at them, or the soldiers’ wayward blades sliced through their flesh. Like Viktor, the commune members had been long dead before their bodies fell but even so, the high-pitched shriek of the broken connection to their Herald was one he’d never forget. Instead of the eerie screams of the commune, he focuses on the other Jayce’s voice as he continues, letting the low, deep burr of it rumble from the other man’s chest and into his very soul. It lulls him, and he feels his mind sink further, so much so that he almost misses the next words. “The battle against him took years. I don’t know—I don’t know how long. Piltover and Zaun became war zones, our forces dwindling the more he captured and evolved. And…” The other’s voice has remained steady throughout but now it wavers, crests and breaks. “The night I left him was not the last time I let him—” The hand on the back of Jayce’s neck trembles as it grips him tight. “No matter what I vowed, the promises I made to myself—when I met him on the battlefield, inevitably it would end with me split open on his cock, begging him for it like I’d never left, still his whore to the very end.” Jayce can picture it—the strange, otherworldly being that Viktor had become, will become, pinning him down with inhuman strength, playing his body like a fiddle, the other Jayce succumbing eventually and spreading his legs willingly. He’d gotten a taste of it in the Council chambers, the creature Viktor had been puppeting holding him tight, its legs wrapped firmly around his waist, sending a throbbing pulse to his groin. If Mel hadn’t been there— The other Jayce hums, as if sensing his thoughts. “I wanted to believe it was something he’d done to me, in the commune, making me need him so bad that I nearly let him take me in front of an entire army. That he had some kind of—some hold on my mind, that made me weak. But no, it was all me. Every time I bent over for him, every time I cried out his name in pleasure, it was my own weakness.” His counterpart’s voice aches with shame, regret, hatred, but most of all an unbridled longing—the craving of an addict, still dreaming of the very vice that killed them. “You miss it,” Jayce breathes, lips brushing against the other’s neck. He feels the pulse flutter beneath his mouth, an answering skip in his own heartbeat. Jayce can no longer tell if the arousal is his own or if it is the others’ he’s feeling—or maybe it’s both, in this shared dreamscape with a ghost of man he will never become. “I do,” the other Jayce responds. There is no shame in his admission now. It is just a fact. And how could Jayce blame him, when the spectre of Viktor’s touch sparking across his consciousness is enough to get his blood pumping, the memories carried from his other self. Jayce knows it will hurt, to wake up with the echo of knowledge that isn’t his and never will be—but like his other self he is too weak to push it away, instead chasing the memory, arousal coursing through his veins. He shudders at the borrowed memory of a transformed Viktor pinning him against the core of the Hexgates, the metal cold against his bare skin but the heat of Viktor’s strange cock burning through him as he sobs and chokes and comes. Heat rushes to his face—not out of embarrassment or shame, but pure arousal. His own hole clenches, far too empty, the long-buried desire to be stuffed full resurfacing after months. Jayce shifts slightly, rocking his hips in a barely-perceptible motion but the other man catches it. He runs his hand down Jayce’s side to rest over his hip, squeezing slightly to still Jayce’s movements. Jayce bites back a whine, face now flushing with the shame of being caught. The hand on his hip slides down to rest over his brace, fingers gripping the thick muscle, not in condemnation but a silent order—not yet. He closes his eyes again and nods against the other man’s neck. The big hand across his thigh squeezes once, then relaxes as the other man keeps talking. “You know where it led me. I fought Viktor for longer than I thought possible, until Piltover was a ruin. I thought I knew what I was fighting for, even if our city died I was still protecting the world. Instead, I was merely prolonging the inevitable. I’d allowed him to amass too much power—he took control of the anomaly and once it was in his grasp it was all over. We had one last fuck, and one last fight—and then—” Jayce sees himself, slumped over on the torn open golden dome of the Hexgates, broken and bloody, clutching his hammer. An army of white-faced porcelain puppets surrounds him, and above it all is the Herald, transformed, evolved—beautiful and terrible. Another squeeze to his thigh draws him back from the vision and he sucks in a breath. His other self murmurs low into his ear, voice deep and hypnotic. “He may have brought you here, shown you what your future held. But he was never going to tell you about this—how when I knelt before him it was almost a relief, to be on my knees for him one last time. I opened my mouth—he’d trained me well, after all. But he had no more use for me then. He understood—no matter how much I craved his body, his touch, I would never join him willingly. And I knew the same. I was fighting for a dead city, a dead planet. It was inevitable, a lost cause. And so…” The Jayce in the vision doesn’t cry out when Viktor’s long fingers pierce his forehead from behind. There is no pain on his face, only relief. Jayce knows it well—the relief that comes with the inevitability of the end. He watches the memory, doesn’t look away as the anomaly burns bright over the whole city, swallowing up the remaining inhabitants. In a flash, every living being in the city is frozen, flesh and bone transformed into inorganic corrupt arcane matter. The memory is unsettling—it was bad enough seeing the corpses of those destroyed in Viktor’s “glorious evolution” when they were worn away by time and the elements, but seeing the city full of life-like statues of terrified citizens is devastating. “I felt no pain, or fear—but they did,” the other man whispers, answering the question Jayce had asked at the commencement of the dream. “But I didn’t—I couldn’t care. I just wanted it to be over.” The citizens of the city below are frozen in expressions of terror and agony, but above them their supposed defender holds a peaceful, calm expression, eyes closed, marble lips curved upwards almost in a smile. The Herald lifts his hand from the corpse’s forehead, leaving four long, glowing streaks. It cocks its head, staring down at the body, then turns and leaves. For a time, the area at the top of the Hexgates churns with the same storm as the rest of the city. Jayce can tell the vision is taking him through years—he watches the lonely body of his future self decay, the features wearing away beneath the heavy dust storms, the howling winds. Rot creeps up the sides of the tower from below, streaking over the golden surface and covering it in arcane webbing. The hammer warps and decays, moss begins to creep up the corpse’s legs. The marks on its forehead are the first to collapse—the skull underneath them made fragile and thin, more susceptible to the corruption’s decay than that of the rest of his body. Jayce watches as his own forehead starts to cave in, his face still frozen in its expression of placid acceptance. The strange growths of the anomaly streak up the sides of the Hexgate tower, covering it as it does the rest of the city and with it comes the corrupted plant life, snaking its way across the metal dome until it reaches the solitary kneeling figure. Vines snake up its legs and then begin to grow out of the hollows of the skull, spiked growths budding along the small tendrils until they burst open in a spray of acrid pollen, blowing out the back of the skull like a gunshot. Slowly, the features of the corpse begin to fade, its nose worn down by the harsh storm, cheeks and lips sandblasted off until it is a smooth porcelain mask. The clothes rot away entirely, the skeleton held together only by moss and fungal growth. And then—the storm dies down. The memory quiets, softens. Sunlight peeks through the thick cloud, catching on the golden tips of the shattered skull—the air goes thick, syrupy, before he clouds part entirely and the clearing is as Jayce first saw it, an oasis of green, the peaceful eye of a raging hurricane. The vision lingers long enough for Jayce to see a white-robed figure loom behind the body, long fingers reaching to the shoulder— And then he’s back in the arms of his other self, held tight while he gasps and shakes. “Do you understand, Jayce?” He does. Of course he does. But he can’t respond, voice trapped in his choked throat. Held tight in the strong arms of his other self, his mind drifts. They’d wanted to build a statue. Not for his death, not like the memorial for those killed in the bombing but before—the Council had proposed it back when they were planning the Man of Progress branding campaign. A giant golden statue standing tall in front of the Hexgates—Jayce had stared incredulously down at the sketches when they’d been presented to him, then looked up to see the expectant faces of the council members. The statue had been alone. A pit had opened up in his stomach. That would be how he was remembered—the Golden Boy, the Man of Progress, triumphant in front of the miracle he alone had gifted to Piltover. He’d vetoed it outright. The Council had been surprised, confused and disappointed, but they’d been appeased by his agreeing to the blimps. He never told Viktor. In the end, the Council got their Man of Progress statue. Not the lone golden monument to a fraud, but a crumbling figure, kneeling in defeat, barely recognizable as human. Still alone. Had the Council proposed that as their memorial to Piltover’s golden boy…well. Jayce would have given it a bit more thought. Jayce shifts slightly, leaning more fully against his counterpart. He reaches down and grabs the other’s hand, bringing it up to his eyes. The other man has run out of words it seems, just silently allowing Jayce to press their palms together. His hands are no bigger than Jayce’s own—still the same broad palm, the same long, squared fingers. But the skin is tanned, calloused and weathered in a way that speaks to years of manual work outside the lab. If Jayce closes his eyes, he can hear the clash between the Mercury Hammer and the Hexclaw, see the scarred hands grip the handle beneath the blazing heat of the Piltover sun. The other Jayce watches his silent examination, glittering hazel eyes lidded. Jayce stares back, gaze just as heavy as he draws the hand closer to him and presses a kiss to the calloused palm. He lingers, tongue trapped behind his teeth but mouth watering, eyes holding a question— His other self answers. Jayce is dragged upwards and close, so close to the other that his eyes cross before burning lips are crushed against his. The other’s hands feel huge on his arms, the muscle leeched from months without access to the forge or proper nutrition. He barely has time to kiss back before the other man wrenches away, chest heaving, eyes wide. Jayce sorts through the clash of emotions he finds there—the aching loneliness, the desperate need for connection conflicting with the profound fear of reaching out. He doesn’t need a mirror to confirm his eyes hold the same storm, a reflection of the other in their mismatched gaze. Strangely, seeing the fear in his other self melts away the panic that had begun to build in Jayce’s spine, the worry that this is wrong, that something fundamental has broken within him that this is what he dreams of instead of the torture that he has rightly earned after killing— He shakes it off. Viktor’s corpse will haunt him another night. The other man is still as frozen as he was in his porcelain form, paralyzed with indecision and fear despite the want singing through them both. Hazel eyes flicker down to Jayce’s lips and then away again, clouding with shame. Jayce doesn’t give him the chance to retreat, just reaches up to grip him by the front of his jacket and haul him forwards, crashing their mouths together again. Apparently not even months of self-recrimination and pain were enough to kill his inflated ego, because now that Jayce has had a taste of himself he finds he’s addicted, running his tongue along his older self’s mouth until the man opens with a groan. It’s a different kind of hunger than what he faced in the pit but no less sharp as it cleaves through his body and suddenly he’s wild with it, throwing himself against the other man shamelessly, crawling up his body like a cat in heat as he sucks one of those plush, unscarred lips into his mouth and bites. In response he’s nearly bucked off the other man’s lap and he throws his arms around those broad shoulders to brace himself. Jayce whines into the other’s mouth when he feels the thick, heavy weight of his cock grind up against his ass and he angles himself backwards so that the next thrust is angled at just the right way to drag over the cleft between his cheeks, brushing over his greedy hole. The other Jayce breaks the kiss with a harsh swear. He adjusts his grip to grab a handful of Jayce’s ass in each palm and holds him steady as he begins to thrust up again, each movement a sparking tease. Even through layers of fabric Jayce can feel the wet heat of his cock on his rim. “Still a slut, despite everything he did to you,” the older man grunts. “I’m surprised you didn’t bend over in front of my corpse and beg him to fuck you after you crawled out of that hole.” Jayce throws his head back with a wild, harsh laugh as he bears down. “Almost did,” he gasps, breaking off with a choked moan as his other self bites a mark into the side of his neck. “He was so—so sad, but the way that he looked at me—it was like—” The other man gentles his bite, turning it into a sucking kiss with soft lips as he hums against Jayce’s throat. “I know. Like you’re the only one in the world—the only one in his world. And you were, in that moment. He had all of creation, the entire universe at his fingertips. And all he wanted was you. It’s…” “Glorious,” Jayce gasps, his cock hard enough to hurt, his pants soaked through with precum. “Please, please—” “I’m not him,” his other self mumbles against his lips. “I can’t…” “I don’t care,” Jayce says, voice nearly pitched to a sob. “I’m not him either. You saw what he did to me, what I did—what I still need to do but I—I want—” “Shh, ssh, kid, it’s okay,” the other man hushes him with a kiss and Jayce does not want to admit what being called kid does to him. “I got you. I got you.” The world tilts suddenly as Jayce is turned, stomach swooping with the feeling of weightlessness before his back hits the ground. He’s held steady with one big hand cradling the nape of his neck and the other hot and warm against the small of his back as the older man slots himself between Jayce’s legs in one smooth move. The brace clinks against the ground as his legs fall open automatically, Jayce blinking up into the other’s face with wide eyes. The other Jayce is looking down at him with a smirk, eyes roaming hot and heavy over Jayce’s chest as his lungs heave, the dark green material stretching tight with the motion. His hands follow the path his eyes took, running down Jayce’s sides and squeezing at the dip in his waist and Jayce shudders at the realization that those big, scarred hands—his big, scarred hands—can wrap nearly entirely around him. Perhaps there is some upside to his emaciated frame, rather than just another reminder of his failure. ”Nice outfit,” is the only commentary his other self offers, eyebrow cocked. Jayce scoffs, ears going hot but he manages a theatrical once-over of the other man’s outfit in return. “Yours too,” he gasps out, his retort cut off at the feeling of a muscled thigh pressing between his legs. He’s not being facetious, though—the thick leather coat and shearling-lined collar look damn good on the other man, the gold armored detailing emphasizing his broad shoulders. Jayce hooks an arm up over the older Jayce’s shoulders and runs the other down a dark leather sleeve, admiring. “It’s a good color on us.” “I wanted to get away from white,” his counterpart murmurs. Jayce nods, understanding. “You, though—the green is nice.” Where’s a note of sincere admiration in his voice—no matter how much their lives may have diverged Jayce Talis has an eye for good tailoring. He can’t respond as the other man’s hands slide further down his torso, fingers nearly touching at the small of his back. Even under the belt and high-waisted pants and the other man’s gloves, Jayce can feel the burning heat of him and arches into the touch, breath coming hotter, faster as big palms squeeze at his sides and down to his hips. He can feel the strength in the other’s grip, not just from the forge but from years of combat experience that Jayce lacks. A whine slips from his throat and he catches behind his teeth as he thinks about the bruises the other man could leave on him—wonders if they would follow him into the waking world. Hopes they will. His cock aches between his legs and he presses upwards, trying to find purchase against the leg pressed between his legs. The other man shifts slightly, giving him a surface to grind against and this time the whine slips from between his lips as he thrusts upwards. Gods, he could come from just this— The smirk on his counterpart’s face widens, as if he’d come to the same realization. Jayce flushes but holds his gaze, just rolls his hips upwards in another slow sensuous glide. The other man’s eyes flutter at the drag of his cock, lips open on a silent groan. Jayce licks his lips, tongue catching on the scar as he feels his other self’s answering hardness. He shudders as the man’s lids go heavy, arching up again as the man leans in close, lips brushing against Jayce’s ear as he speaks, low and dark. “We could, like this, you know,” he says, rolling his hips in an answering motion to Jayce’s stuttering rhythm. “Rut here in the dirt, not even bothering to get naked. Under his sky, in his world, knowing he’s watching us frot like desperate teenagers.” “Nnngh,” Jayce manages, going slightly crosseyed at a particularly hard thrust. Then he focuses, shaking his head. “N—no. You—” he uses the grasp he has around the other’s neck to pull him even closer, his voice coming out in a hiss. “You are going to fuck me. While he watches.” “Fuck,” the other man muttters, his pupils going huge and dark as he stares down at Jayce. “Alright, kid.” He pulls back slightly, removing his leg from between Jayce’s own to strip off his coat, leaving him in a form-fitting black shirt with gold detailing. He keeps the gloves on. Jayce starts to sit up, reaching for his brace but is stopped by a hand on his wrist. Hazel eyes, dark with want and a strange guilt, meet his own. “Allow me?” The other man asks, softly, and Jayce can only nod silently in response. Deft fingers begin to work at the mechanisms of the brace, quickly, efficiently, no hesitation—why would there be, no matter that this Jayce had never needed a brace. They know their own mind, their own work, that any Jayce Talis would be able to assemble and disassemble a device of their own crafting in seconds. And of course this Jayce would have known instantly the basis of the design—he’d lived the same life up until a certain point, would have clear memories of designing Viktor’s braces over the years, the days spent agonizing over the prototypes, discussing their functionality and form with Viktor. Jayce’s brace served a different purpose than Viktor’s having no need for correction, just stability, but the quick-release mechanism is the same, the one they’d perfected after hours. It’s strange, though, being on the other end of this process. He stares down at the dark head between his legs as his other self makes quick work of the brace, disassembling it and stowing it neatly to the side. Is this what it had been like for Viktor, Jayce knelt between his legs as he measured the fittings of the brace, careful not to let his touch linger on Viktor’s bare skin, no matter how much he wanted? He wanted so much—and Viktor had too, he knows now. Viktor’s eyes like molten honey on him as Jayce had swayed forward slightly, the slight shift of Viktor’s legs creating a wider cradle for him to lean in to, nearly close enough to press his face against the heat between Viktor’s thighs— A gloved finger in his open mouth pulls him back to the present and he gags a little in surprise. “Easy, kid,” the other man says. “This may be a dream but I still need to do some prep. Be a good boy and get my fingers nice and wet for me.” Saliva floods his mouth and his jaw drops automatically as another finger is added. He tongues around the leather, face burning, the humiliation scoured out of him by pure arousal at the other’s words. The older Jayce gives him a knowing look as he presses his fingers deeper, easing past his gag reflex with mathematical precision to fuck slowly into Jayce’s mouth. “Good, very good,” he says, voice a low rumble in his chest. He shifts around slightly and Jayce realizes with some surprise that his lower half is bare, exposed to the gentle breeze, his clothing having been stripped along with his brace without him realizing. He blinks a few times in surprise but lies back and spreads his legs willingly at a slight nudge from the other man, allowing him to bend his knees and carefully push his legs backwards until he can hook one leg over the other man’s shoulder. His hips twinge slightly with the stretch but it feels—good, his body buzzing with pleasure instead of pain for the first time since he fell. The other Jayce gives him a glance upwards from between his thighs as he holds Jayce’s ruined leg. “Is that okay?” Jayce licks his lips as he nods eagerly. His ears are on fire but he knows his pupils are blown, mouth still flooded with saliva as he stares at his other self between his legs, his erection not having flagged at all. “The corruption replaced most of the muscle and bone, and some of the tissue. The brace is more for, ah, stabilization, since my mobility is limited without it.” The older man hums in response. “Good to know. So I can do…” He pulls Jayce’s bad leg over his shoulder to match the right one and curls forward. Jayce barely has time to react before he feels the other man’s breath gust over his perineum and he slaps a hand over his mouth to stifle his yelp when his other self drags his tongue, hot and slick, directly over his hole. “I thought you—ah—what was the point of the fingers—” Jayce tries to snark but can’t get the words out, his voice utterly broken as an unexpectedly talented tongue begins to lick him open. Soft lips kiss and suck at his rim, drawing out high, needy sounds from his mouth that Jayce hardly knew he was capable of making. He’s panting, drooling in mere minutes, eyes rolling back into his skull, marveling that this other version of himself possesses such a skill, lost in the filthy pleasure of it and then— He jolts as he’s breached by the point of the other man’s tongue, cock bobbing and smearing a line of precome over his belly at the moan from the other that reverberates through him, directly up to his dick. He manages to crane his neck down to look and sees the other’s eyes closed in bliss as he fucks his tongue deep inside Jayce, looking for all the world as though his only desire is to be here, in this liminal dreamscape, buried between Jayce’s legs. It shouldn’t be this much of a surprise that his other self loves this, is as turned on as Jayce himself just from the mere act. He loves giving head, and has always delighted in using his mouth to bring his partners pleasure, calculating the exact rhythm and spots to make his bedmates cry with ecstasy. And here there is no learning curve needed to explore another’s body—his other self knows exactly where to press and lick and suck to reduce Jayce to base, animal pleasure, wiping all higher brain function from between his ears. Still though—while Jayce considers himself relatively experienced when it comes to sex, he’d not had much of a chance to do…this. And none of his past partners had ever performed this on him, even when they’d taken the lead. Had this Jayce learned it with his Viktor? Had he— The image comes unbidden of this other man—of himself—kneeling between Viktor’s legs, using his mouth to lick his Herald open…Viktor’s dispassionate voice directing him to go further, deeper, a strange metallic taste lingering in his mouth for days afterwards— Jayce also knows that Viktor too had his future self face down in his bed, ass raised and tears streaming down his face as Viktor’s tongue speared him open again and again, sometimes in preparation to be broken open on Viktor’s cock, sometimes licking his own taste out of Jayce’s hole after having fucked him full. The thought alone is addicting—Jayce could hardly blame this other man for failing, if that was the temptation that awaited him in the Herald’s bed. He’s close, he’s so close from this alone. The man isn’t even going that deep, keeping his thrusts shallow and focusing more on his rim but the intimacy, the warmth and heat and slickness of it all has him on the brink. The bite of stubble against soft skin only adds to the sensation, contrasting against the velvet tongue licking him open. He reaches down to grasp at his cock, knowing it’ll only take the lightest of touches to get him off but a gloved hand slaps him away and he opens his watery eyes to meet a hazel glare. “Don’t touch yourself,” the other man rasps before he goes back to the task at hand and Jayce lets out a sob but obediently digs his hands into the spongy ground. It doesn’t matter, his cock is leaking all over his stomach, a pool of precome having already formed and running down the sharp angles of his hipbones with every shuddering inhale. The second one of the spit-soaked gloved fingers breaches his hole, Jayce jerks like he’s been shot, back arching as he comes all over himself. His orgasm isn’t enough to slow the other man down, if anything he presses in harder as Jayce shudders in the aftermath, ears ringing, eyes blurred with tears. The spit is hardly enough to ease the way, having mostly dried and even with the work the other man’s mouth had done he’s still tight. The dry drag of the leather borders on painful, the stretch unfamiliar with how long it’s been, but Jayce’s erection barely flags, stiffening up again in what feels like seconds after his first orgasm. “Good boy,” his older self purrs, having pulled his mouth away in favor of working another finger into Jayce. Were this anything but a dream it would be impossible but reality’s grasp is tenuous here, allowing Jayce to easily take two, then three fingers practically dry and beg for more. “Please,” he moans, pushing back down against the other’s hand as he begins to scissor him open, avoiding his prostate in what can only be a deliberate tease. His eyes flutter shut again and more tears stream down his cheeks. “Please, I need more.” His counterpart hums, tilting his head to the side. “Greedy. We always were.” Jayce cracks an eye open to glare at him through his tears. “You’re one to talk. Showing me—that. That’s—” he breaks off in a groan as the tip of one glove teases against his prostate before pulling back. “Cheating.” “Thought you’d learned by now not to play fair,” the bastard murmurs as he runs that damn mouth along Jayce’s inner thigh, his stubble catching on the soft downy hairs. “He taught us better than that.” “He taught you a lot of things,” Jayce manages to gasp out. That earns him a sharp look but he doesn’t back down, just rolls his hips and squeezes around the other’s fingers, bringing them right up against the bundle of nerves inside him that the other had been avoiding. He doesn’t look away as he begins to fuck himself on the older man’s fingers, teasing himself now as he begins to build up a rhythm. “You spent so long begging for his cock, did you forget how to use yours? Or has it been too long and it just doesn’t work—” That gets him a frustrated huff and a sharp bite to his ass, which only causes Jayce’s dick to jump, a speck of precome hitting his lip with the force of it. He licks the taste from his lips absently then startles at the sting of teeth digging into his thigh more insistently. “Brat,” the other man says, rusty voice practically a growl before he lowers Jayce’s legs down to a more horizontal position. Jayce thinks about how it would sound after having a cock down his throat—his own throat clicks at the thought, imagining the fucked-out rasp whispering in his ear as he takes him slow, telling him what a good boy he is, how sweet he tastes— “Oh, now that’s not playing fair.” The voice breaks into his reverie and he meets his counterpart’s narrowed eyes, a little sheepish before he realizes the other man has his dick out, the tip already kissing his rim. Jayce swallows, mouth flooding again at the sight. He knows what his own cock looks like, knows he’s well-proportioned to his height but thick enough that some partners have struggled to get their hands fully around him. But seeing it from this angle, hard length jutting out from a wiry, silver thatch of hair, gripped in his counterpart’s leather gloves, precome beading at the head—Jayce grits his teeth against a pitiful whine. “This proof enough for you, kid?” the other man says as he thumbs at the head, smearing fluid down his own length. Jayce licks his lips again, tongue jutting out to stop himself from literally drooling in anticipation. He clears his throat. “Gonna need more than just a theory, old man,” he says, trying to pitch his voice lower, mimicking the other’s growl but it just comes out sounding plaintive, the whine threading itself into his words. “Give me—ha—proof of concept. Show me what we can do.” That earns him a chuckle, but the only other response he gets is the fat, slick head of the other’s cock pressing against his hole. He tries to relax, unclenching his thighs and letting the tip slip into him with surprising ease. They both gasp as an inch slides in with hardly any resistance, an easy glide despite barely any lubricant. Jayce nods when his other self looks up to him with a question and it’s all the permission the other needs before he’s pressing further, sinking himself fully into Jayce’s hole until he’s bottomed out, heavy balls pressed snug to the curve of Jayce’s ass, leaning down over him until their foreheads are practically touching. “Oh,” Jayce breathes into the scant distance between their mouths, all attempts at teasing gone. He swallows, hole fluttering around the thick length spearing him open, clenching and unclenching to revel in the fullness, the ache, something he’s not had for—shit, months? Years? “Easy, kid,” the older man says, although his voice and face are equally wrecked. He looks broken open, chest heaving as he holds himself statue-still above Jayce. “You—fuck—” Jayce can’t wait any longer. He clenches down again, rocking his hips slightly, desperation naked on his face but he doesn’t care. “Please,” he gasps, and that one word is a catalyst, the floodgates opening. “Please, please, please, please, please—” He breaks off into a high keen as the other pulls back only to press back into Jayce. It’s not enough, it’s— “Too slow,” he says, begging. “Please, I need to feel it, need to feel you—fuck, Jayce—” That gets him a wild look, hazel eyes widening but then setting in determination as the other man pulls out and slams back into Jayce. His whole back arches with the force of it, knocking the breath from him. The other man has to pull back again and adjust slightly to give himself more leverage, locking Jayce’s legs around his waist and gripping him firm by the hips, then thrusting back in hard enough that Jayce sees stars. He’s out of words now as his older self starts fucking him in earnest, only capable of gasps and sobs, crying out at each precise thrust right against his prostate. He hardly notices when he comes again, hot and thick all over his chest, droplets hitting his chin and catching in his beard. As before, his orgasm does nothing to slow the other man down who only picks up his brutal pace, face creasing in near-agony at the hot clench of Jayce’s hole around him. Jayce tries to catch his breath, sucking in deep lungfuls of air as he watches the other’s face screw up tight, his eyes squeezing shut. A tear works itself from one corner, lingering on the curve of his cheekbone before it falls with the next hard thrust, burning as it lands on Jayce’s thigh. “It’s—it’s okay,” he tries to say, his voice coming out in a croak. He swallows and tries again. “Jayce. Look at me.” The other man slows somewhat, but doesn’t stop entirely as he carefully lifts his bowed head, red-rimmed eyes opening. Another tear falls and Jayce feels his own eyes well up in a sympathetic response—or maybe he, too, is grieving, grieving for Viktor, maybe, or for this older, broken, dead version of himself, for the naive boys they both were, for the man that they both could have been. “I’m sorry, I—” “It’s okay,” Jayce says again, reaching up to place a hand against the other Jayce’s worn cheek. The older man gasps out a harsh sob but leans into the touch, eyes fluttering closed again. Jayce reaches up with his other hand and pulls the older man’s face close to him again, forcing him to curl his body around Jayce’s until their foreheads touch. He brushes a kiss to the other’s lips, whispering, “Come in me, Jayce. Please. Fill me up—come for me.” “Jayce,” his other self says, broken open and raw. “I—I can’t—” “You can.” He’s crying too, their tears mingling together on his face, salt and sweat tinged with that sharp, almost metallic taste of the Arcane. He thinks he’s hard again but it hardly matters, their bodies and souls so entwined that it could be the other’s erection he’s feeling. “Please.” For such a battle-hardened, scarred and worn man, he comes softly, with a sweet little cry that Jayce swallows down in another kiss. He’s coming too, practically dry now, his hole clenching around the other to make sure nothing is wasted. It’s been so long since he was filled like this—before the break in at the lab, before Mel, before Viktor even got sick and he’s missed it, missed that heavy feeling in his gut, the way he has to grip tight to keep the other’s cock inside him. Perhaps that was the purpose of the dream—one last good, hard fuck before he destroys himself and the man he loves in order to save the world. The other man collapses forward, stopping himself just in time so as not to crush Jayce beneath him. Jayce keeps his legs locked tight around his waist, using the last of his strength to roll them both onto their sides, cradling his other self’s head with one hand, running a soothing hand down his side in a reversal of their earlier positions. He tucks the older man’s head against his neck, letting him continue to sob but shushing him as soon as the other begins apologizing. “I’m sorry I failed—I did this to you, I’m the reason we—” “None of that,” Jayce murmurs, pressing a kiss to the other man’s temple as he runs a hand through his short hair. “But I—” “One of us was always going to fail. We had to, in order to get to this point. I’m just sorry it was you.” There’s another lull, broken only by their combined sniffling. Then the other man pulls back slightly, just enough to look Jayce in the eye, not enough to pull out. “You believe you will die, if you follow his plan.” Jayce manages a shrug, eyes flitting away. “I’m dead either way. I was dead the moment I fell in the pit.” The other man hums, blinking the last of his tears away. He catches Jayce’s hand on the next pass through his hair, gripping him tight around the wrist as he draws it to him, hazel eyes flickering down to the crystal embedded there, the corruption spiraling outwards across his skin. He presses a kiss to the base of Jayce’s palm, then takes a breath and kisses the crystal, letting his tongue flicker out to trace the rune carved into it. Jayce gasps at the feel—the whole clearing dims and then brightens again, that same chime from before ringing out, fainter now. He blinks, trying to clear his vision of spots of light but then he realizes the lights remain—emanating from the four strange crystalline points in the other’s forehead. The other Jayce doesn’t seem to notice. “You—” “Acceleration. The best use-case is time manipulation, but that’s not all it’s capable of. You know this—the Hexgates functioned on the concept of mass displacement.” The other man grips his wrist tight, bruising, his bones creaking under the force of it. “The one who gave this to you, who set you on this path—he lost one Jayce already, and it destroyed him. He did not lie to you, but he hasn’t told you the whole truth. He cannot bear to lose another of us. There is still a chance, still a possibility that you can save yourself. Save your Viktor.” “Don’t…please. Don’t give me…” Jayce drops his head down, unable to maintain the other’s gaze. “Don’t let me hope. I already killed him twice now—right now he’s turning into something else and I…” his voice breaks. “I don’t know if I can reach him, let alone—” “Only you,” the other murmurs, brushing a soft kiss against his forehead. “I won’t make you any promises, and I won’t ask anything of you in return, not like he did. But Jayce…think. The man that I left in the commune, the one who killed me, he’s long dead. What remains in his place is a creature of regret, who is trying to do the one thing that the universe seems bent on preventing. Saving you.” “You could just be my own mind, telling me what I want to hear,” Jayce mutters, although he doesn’t believe it. “Or if you’re just trying to give me false hope to-to fuck with me, or to make it easier to accept my fate…” He didn’t have to fuck him to get Jayce to cling to any thread of a possibility that Viktor could be saved, after all. He should have known that. “Mm. Believe what you want. But I know us. You can do what neither I or my Viktor could manage. Just—” The grip loosens, although the gaze doesn’t diminish in intensity. “Don’t let him go.” The instruction drops into his mind like a stone in water and Jayce reels momentarily, seeing the vision as clear as he had on his knees in front of the mage. Lying half naked in the grass with his other self’s cock still in his ass is a far more intimate setting than last time but as he’d already made one promise, what was another? “I won’t fail,” he murmurs, twining the other’s hand in his own to press a kiss against the leather. “I swear it.” Hazel eyes glimmer beneath the glowing points of light that glitter like a crown across the other’s forehead, then the other’s eyes close slowly. Jayce eases back slightly, thinking him asleep but then stops as he hears something—a strange rustling from beneath them. He looks down and to his horror, sees the entire lower half of the other’s body is now covered in moss and plant life, already creeping up his legs to his torso. Jayce scrambles upright, wincing slightly at the tug as the other’s dick slips from his ass but then reeling backwards as he sees the other’s legs and cock begin to transform back into that strange, smooth, spongy marble. “Jayce, Jayce please wake up, you’re—” He tugs at the other’s face, trying to get him upright, trying to rip at the plants that are quickly encasing his body but it’s no use. The other Jayce’s face remains placid as his clothes degrade, as his flesh rots away until the hollow bone of his ribcage is exposed, until his skull collapses inwards under the pressure of the glowing fingerprints in his forehead. Soon he’s reverted back to the form he started this dream with, a hollowed out statue, now lying on its side, no sign that just moments before he had been a living, breathing man. “I—” Jayce chokes, hands trembling as he holds them over the other’s face. “I’m so sor—” His apology is cut off by another chime that echoes through the clearing and he doubles over, his wrist burning. The dream is fracturing, he can tell, and he grasps at his wrist waiting to wake up screaming like he’s done so many times. A flutter of something in the distance catches his eye—a white robed figure stands on the platform where this other Jayce once knelt for an eternity, face shrouded in shadow but Jayce can see the glint of strange, pale eyes staring directly at him. He opens his mouth to cry out and then— — Jayce wakes, gently. A novel sensation. His leg aches all the way up into his back, knee throbbing as it always does in the mornings, but it’s a distant pain for once. His throat is not scraped bloody from screaming, his mind is not clouded in shadows, no lingering ghosts haunt him from the corners of the room. He lies there for a moment, watching the sun stream through the windows. It’s a beautiful morning in Piltover. The last one he will ever see—today is the day that Noxus will attack the Hexgates. Jayce raises his wrist slowly, holding the crystal up so it catches the light and stops. Stares. There’s a strange discoloration on his skin—different from the pinks and greens of the spreading corruption. He turns his wrist back and forth, making sure it isn’t just a trick of the light, but no, it’s still there even after several minutes. The distinct finger-shaped marks of a bruise ring his wrist, framing the crystal neatly. Jayce reaches up with his other hand to grip around the prints, his own fingers fitting the bruise exactly. Don’t let him go. And he won’t. He swears it.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75726386	{"authors": ["notsolstice"], "language": "English", "title": "ghost bird"}
Together We Are One “You always have a choice.” Sonic reaches out a hand towards Shadow, who hesitates for a moment, then takes it with determination in his eyes. “But making the right one is never easy.” Sonic pulls Shadow up so they are both standing. “One more thing I learned is that when you really screw something up, you can’t fix it on your own.” Shadow looks at him with a fire in his eyes, then they use their free hand to dab each other up. A beam of light shines between them, chaos emeralds circling. The light creates a dome around the two hedgehogs, causing them to only see white. Sonic can feel every fiber of his being shifting into something. It doesn’t hurt, but he can tell something is changing about him and Shadow. As the light dissipated, Sonic felt a surge of strength unlike when he went super before. It’s as if his strength were combined with someone else's. His quills are held upward, the tips fading into flames. Instead of his fur being yellow like when he went super before, it’s white. Out of Sonic’s view, on his head, his quills have orange highlights on them. He has Shadow’s weird bracelet things on his wrist and ankles for some reason, but as long as they don’t slow him down, he can ignore them. Sonic squats on the moon, one hand on the surface and the other balled into a fist, his body in a stance ready to take off into space to stop the Ark from destroying the Earth. “Gotta go fast.” “Will you focus. We don’t have a lot of time before the Ark explodes.” What the hell. How is Shadow’s voice talking to him in his head? “It’s because we fused, you idiot. I believe we have to be completely on the same page with everything to be at our strongest. So focus, so we can stop the Ark,” Shadow explained impatiently. “WHAT?” Sonic’s jaw dropped—well, it didn’t drop because Shadow didn’t want it to, but if he were in his normal body, it would’ve. Shadow groans, “Just focus.” Shadow’s right. He can aura farm later. Now, the fate of billions of humans on Earth lies in his hands. He can’t let them down. With both their brains on the same page, the now fused Super Sonic and Shadow take off into space. There’s about two seconds of nothing before they come across a cluster of robots. They don’t slow down, headbutting the first robot they see, causing it to fly back into five more, destroying them. They’re completely outnumbered, yet panic is the last thing they feel. The crunch of metal hitting their fist is satisfying, knowing that they’re getting closer and closer to the Ark to stop it from destroying Earth. They lead a group of robots upwards, making them form a line. Once ten or fifteen of them are following, the fused hedgehog punches them all down in a middle split. Going back up, they knock out more robots, throwing kicks and punches left and right. “These tin cans have me convinced there’s no such thing as friendly robots,” Sonic smirks as they cut through the mechs like a hot knife chopping butter. Shadow ignores the comment, keeping his focus on their target. They teleport to where the robots were closest to the Ark. Then they make a circle with their arms, dozens of chaos spears forming in front of them, ready to fire. They release their arms from the circle position, and the chaos spears fire into any and every robot in proximity to them. The explosions go off in rapid succession like fireworks during Independence Day. With the chaos spears taking out most of the robots, they head closer to the Ark, which is almost one-hundred percent powered up. They make it to the Ark right as it’s about to fire the laser. It fires, creating a shockwave of light, forcing them to grab hold of the energy the laser’s emitting. It’s strong. Stronger than Sonic anticipated, or maybe he just underestimated its power. “So this was your plan?” Shadow grumbled, shifting their hands in an attempt to get a better grip on the laser to no avail. “Yeah…” Sonic admits sheepishly. They clenched their teeth together, holding the laser at bay with all their might. “To the left.” Shadow starts steering them in that direction, to which Sonic follows soon after. Together, they slowly but surely move the laser out of the trajectory of Earth. Sonic chokes on his own saliva, seeing what’s about to happen. “Whoever’s steering this thing inside needs to aim it down. It’s gonna hit the…” The laser drags across the surface of the moon, then aims into the nothingness of space. “...moon.” They wince for a second at the damage to the space rock orbiting Earth, not losing. Sonic struggles to stay conscious. Shadow is clearly working overtime to maintain their fused form. He tells himself to be strong for the innocent people on Earth, for the beautiful things they built, the breathtaking natural formations, for Tom and Maddie’s sake. They hiss as the hot energy from the laser seeps into their hands through their gloves. Despite all their efforts to push the Ark, they were too slow. Sonic never thought he’d think those words, but here he was. Shadow teleports them inside. Robotnik jumped. “What’s going on?” they ask. “The reactor core is overloading.” Robotnik paused, glancing down at Earth, “It’s only a matter of time before it blows.” “So what does that mean for Earth?” “A radioactive atmosphere. Rain that kills crops and melts your flesh. Other than that—” He’s cut off. “We’re not done here!” They push Robotnik to the side, “You try to stabilize the reactor. Buy us some time. We’ll push the station away from Earth before it explodes.” They teleport out before Robotnik can question why they referred to themself as ‘we’ and ‘us’. Outside the Ark, they grab hold of it and start pushing, desperate to get it at a distance far away from Earth. They’re using all their strength, but it’s not enough; they’re still too slow. They weren’t going to make it. They have to either keep pushing the Ark away from Earth and get caught in the explosion, or flee from the Ark and it explodes, destroying Earth along with it. Those were their two options, and neither of them was good. Sonic could feel himself detaching from Shadow again, as if he were being pushed away. He fights to stay, refusing to let this be a one-hedgehog mission. “Dude, what are you doing? Why are you trying to separate?” He grunts, readjusting their grip on the laser. “I’m trying to save you. You have so much to lose. You have people who care about you, a family that will miss you if you die, I don’t.” Shadow splits his focus on pushing the laser and separating himself from Sonic. Sonic remembers the picture he saw of Shadow inside the lab. The one person who truly saw Shadow as a friend is gone. He has nothing to live for on Earth. No wonder he’s trying to separate; he must want Sonic to keep living the life he never got to experience. Despite Shadow’s words, Sonic isn’t going to let that happen. He’s not going to let an ally struggle when he’s standing beside him, linked together inside each other, to help. “No way am I leaving you here to push the Ark alone. I know I have family that wants me to be safe, but so do the other billions of people on Earth.” He gulps, the realization of what he’s gotten himself into settling in his stomach, “So what if we die? At least we’d go down as badass heroes.” Shadow stares at him like he’s grown two heads. His gaze then shifts to one of understanding. Understanding that despite having a family, Sonic’s willing to sacrifice himself so that other people get to live. He nods, and they both put their focus on pushing the Ark as far as possible, even though they’re moving slowly. “It’s gonna blow,” Sonic announces. The Ark explodes. They’re blinded by white light, along with blue, purple, and orange sparks. The explosion sends them flying back towards Earth at speeds faster than Sonic and Shadow can run combined. They struggle to stay conscious under the intense pressure. Once they hit Earth’s mesosphere, the heat knocks them unconscious; the only reason they don’t burn up during their descent is their fused super form. — Everything hurts. Sonic’s head is throbbing, his brain practically screaming to be let out of his skull. His limbs feel like jello, a never-ending, sharp throb rippling through them. He opens his eyes. It’s hard for him to figure out where he is. All he sees is dirt and sediment and a slope that leads up to trees. Everything looks like it’s wider and blurrier than normal. Looking up, he sees the remnants of the Ark explosion. It looks kind of beautiful if you ignore how it got there. “I have to make sure Shadow is okay and get back to the others.” He barely lifts his arm two inches off the ground before an intense, hot, stinging pain infiltrates his arm, traveling to the rest of his limbs. Tears roll down his face. He just has to get home to Maddie so she can clean up his injuries, then he can come back out to wherever he is now so he can find Shadow. The problem is that he can’t get to Maddie if he can’t lift his arm without feeling pain. If he feels this bad just lifting his arm, imagine how bad it’s going to be when he tries to run. Getting home immediately isn’t going to work. He looks to his left—using his eyes—then his right, and sees Shadow on the ground about five feet away from him. It looks like he’s not breathing. Sonic squints to get a better look. He can’t see his chest rising and falling. “No,” he says breathlessly. “Shadow can’t be dead.” Sonic tries to get up again, only to feel the same intense, stinging pain from earlier. It’s like he’s forced into paralysis if he doesn’t want to be in pain. Fat tears run down his muzzle onto the dirt, mourning the loss of a strong ally and a potential friend.	Together We Are One “You always have a choice.” Sonic reaches out a hand towards Shadow, who hesitates for a moment, then takes it with determination in his eyes. “But making the right one is never easy.” Sonic pulls Shadow up so they are both standing. “One more thing I learned is that when you really screw something up, you can’t fix it on your own.” Shadow looks at him with a fire in his eyes, then they use their free hand to dab each other up. A beam of light shines between them, chaos emeralds circling. The light creates a dome around the two hedgehogs, causing them to only see white. Sonic can feel every fiber of his being shifting into something. It doesn’t hurt, but he can tell something is changing about him and Shadow. As the light dissipated, Sonic felt a surge of strength unlike when he went super before. It’s as if his strength were combined with someone else's. His quills are held upward, the tips fading into flames. Instead of his fur being yellow like when he went super before, it’s white. Out of Sonic’s view, on his head, his quills have orange highlights on them. He has Shadow’s weird bracelet things on his wrist and ankles for some reason, but as long as they don’t slow him down, he can ignore them. Sonic squats on the moon, one hand on the surface and the other balled into a fist, his body in a stance ready to take off into space to stop the Ark from destroying the Earth. “Gotta go fast.” “Will you focus. We don’t have a lot of time before the Ark explodes.” What the hell. How is Shadow’s voice talking to him in his head? “It’s because we fused, you idiot. I believe we have to be completely on the same page with everything to be at our strongest. So focus, so we can stop the Ark,” Shadow explained impatiently. “WHAT?” Sonic’s jaw dropped—well, it didn’t drop because Shadow didn’t want it to, but if he were in his normal body, it would’ve. Shadow groans, “Just focus.” Shadow’s right. He can aura farm later. Now, the fate of billions of humans on Earth lies in his hands. He can’t let them down. With both their brains on the same page, the now fused Super Sonic and Shadow take off into space. There’s about two seconds of nothing before they come across a cluster of robots. They don’t slow down, headbutting the first robot they see, causing it to fly back into five more, destroying them. They’re completely outnumbered, yet panic is the last thing they feel. The crunch of metal hitting their fist is satisfying, knowing that they’re getting closer and closer to the Ark to stop it from destroying Earth. They lead a group of robots upwards, making them form a line. Once ten or fifteen of them are following, the fused hedgehog punches them all down in a middle split. Going back up, they knock out more robots, throwing kicks and punches left and right. “These tin cans have me convinced there’s no such thing as friendly robots,” Sonic smirks as they cut through the mechs like a hot knife chopping butter. Shadow ignores the comment, keeping his focus on their target. They teleport to where the robots were closest to the Ark. Then they make a circle with their arms, dozens of chaos spears forming in front of them, ready to fire. They release their arms from the circle position, and the chaos spears fire into any and every robot in proximity to them. The explosions go off in rapid succession like fireworks during Independence Day. With the chaos spears taking out most of the robots, they head closer to the Ark, which is almost one-hundred percent powered up. They make it to the Ark right as it’s about to fire the laser. It fires, creating a shockwave of light, forcing them to grab hold of the energy the laser’s emitting. It’s strong. Stronger than Sonic anticipated, or maybe he just underestimated its power. “So this was your plan?” Shadow grumbled, shifting their hands in an attempt to get a better grip on the laser to no avail. “Yeah…” Sonic admits sheepishly. They clenched their teeth together, holding the laser at bay with all their might. “To the left.” Shadow starts steering them in that direction, to which Sonic follows soon after. Together, they slowly but surely move the laser out of the trajectory of Earth. Sonic chokes on his own saliva, seeing what’s about to happen. “Whoever’s steering this thing inside needs to aim it down. It’s gonna hit the…” The laser drags across the surface of the moon, then aims into the nothingness of space. “...moon.” They wince for a second at the damage to the space rock orbiting Earth, not losing. Sonic struggles to stay conscious. Shadow is clearly working overtime to maintain their fused form. He tells himself to be strong for the innocent people on Earth, for the beautiful things they built, the breathtaking natural formations, for Tom and Maddie’s sake. They hiss as the hot energy from the laser seeps into their hands through their gloves. Despite all their efforts to push the Ark, they were too slow. Sonic never thought he’d think those words, but here he was. Shadow teleports them inside. Robotnik jumped. “What’s going on?” they ask. “The reactor core is overloading.” Robotnik paused, glancing down at Earth, “It’s only a matter of time before it blows.” “So what does that mean for Earth?” “A radioactive atmosphere. Rain that kills crops and melts your flesh. Other than that—” He’s cut off. “We’re not done here!” They push Robotnik to the side, “You try to stabilize the reactor. Buy us some time. We’ll push the station away from Earth before it explodes.” They teleport out before Robotnik can question why they referred to themself as ‘we’ and ‘us’. Outside the Ark, they grab hold of it and start pushing, desperate to get it at a distance far away from Earth. They’re using all their strength, but it’s not enough; they’re still too slow. They weren’t going to make it. They have to either keep pushing the Ark away from Earth and get caught in the explosion, or flee from the Ark and it explodes, destroying Earth along with it. Those were their two options, and neither of them was good. Sonic could feel himself detaching from Shadow again, as if he were being pushed away. He fights to stay, refusing to let this be a one-hedgehog mission. “Dude, what are you doing? Why are you trying to separate?” He grunts, readjusting their grip on the laser. “I’m trying to save you. You have so much to lose. You have people who care about you, a family that will miss you if you die, I don’t.” Shadow splits his focus on pushing the laser and separating himself from Sonic. Sonic remembers the picture he saw of Shadow inside the lab. The one person who truly saw Shadow as a friend is gone. He has nothing to live for on Earth. No wonder he’s trying to separate; he must want Sonic to keep living the life he never got to experience. Despite Shadow’s words, Sonic isn’t going to let that happen. He’s not going to let an ally struggle when he’s standing beside him, linked together inside each other, to help. “No way am I leaving you here to push the Ark alone. I know I have family that wants me to be safe, but so do the other billions of people on Earth.” He gulps, the realization of what he’s gotten himself into settling in his stomach, “So what if we die? At least we’d go down as badass heroes.” Shadow stares at him like he’s grown two heads. His gaze then shifts to one of understanding. Understanding that despite having a family, Sonic’s willing to sacrifice himself so that other people get to live. He nods, and they both put their focus on pushing the Ark as far as possible, even though they’re moving slowly. “It’s gonna blow,” Sonic announces. The Ark explodes. They’re blinded by white light, along with blue, purple, and orange sparks. The explosion sends them flying back towards Earth at speeds faster than Sonic and Shadow can run combined. They struggle to stay conscious under the intense pressure. Once they hit Earth’s mesosphere, the heat knocks them unconscious; the only reason they don’t burn up during their descent is their fused super form. — Everything hurts. Sonic’s head is throbbing, his brain practically screaming to be let out of his skull. His limbs feel like jello, a never-ending, sharp throb rippling through them. He opens his eyes. It’s hard for him to figure out where he is. All he sees is dirt and sediment and a slope that leads up to trees. Everything looks like it’s wider and blurrier than normal. Looking up, he sees the remnants of the Ark explosion. It looks kind of beautiful if you ignore how it got there. “I have to make sure Shadow is okay and get back to the others.” He barely lifts his arm two inches off the ground before an intense, hot, stinging pain infiltrates his arm, traveling to the rest of his limbs. Tears roll down his face. He just has to get home to Maddie so she can clean up his injuries, then he can come back out to wherever he is now so he can find Shadow. The problem is that he can’t get to Maddie if he can’t lift his arm without feeling pain. If he feels this bad just lifting his arm, imagine how bad it’s going to be when he tries to run. Getting home immediately isn’t going to work. He looks to his left—using his eyes—then his right, and sees Shadow on the ground about five feet away from him. It looks like he’s not breathing. Sonic squints to get a better look. He can’t see his chest rising and falling. “No,” he says breathlessly. “Shadow can’t be dead.” Sonic tries to get up again, only to feel the same intense, stinging pain from earlier. It’s like he’s forced into paralysis if he doesn’t want to be in pain. Fat tears run down his muzzle onto the dirt, mourning the loss of a strong ally and a potential friend.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75725181/chapters/198058416	{"authors": ["mayosp1ngas"], "language": "English", "title": "Together We Are One"}
gonna kill you if you don't beat me to it Lottie’s always known Nat is beautiful. Strong. A little terrifying. And a crack-shot with a rifle. One of the most intimidating women she’s ever met (height aside), as well as one of the most stunning. Lottie thinks her strength has a lot to do with that. Nat knocked her on her ass with one swing the first time they met, and it still wows her to think about. Like—wow, what a woman. Arm wrestling on the 2525 that one time, too. Nat would’ve beat her if Mari didn’t step in and tell the two of them to quit comparing dick sizes and focus on the mission, and Lottie would’ve liked being beat. “You know,” Nat says, “you’re not so tough-looking without your battle suit.” She’s grinning at Lottie and Lottie likes that, too. That smile is powerful. Sly and cocky, a little crooked, and so full of well-earned pride. Nat’s got plenty to be proud of. “You’re not so scary either,” Lottie says. She digs her fingertips in and pulls Nat’s hips against her. She can’t remember the last time she was this close to a woman—if she’s ever been this close to a woman—but if Nat never gets any farther away from her than she is now, Lottie will die happy. “Now that you don’t pull guns on me for fun anymore.” Nat’s eyes twinkle and for a moment Lottie forgets where she is. On a stolen jet with her legs stretched out on the floor of the bridge. She’d been trying to nap, to sleep off the emotional weight of the last forty-eight hours. Thought it might do her some good to close her eyes and forget the world for a little while. Then Nat ditched the pilot’s seat and pulled her out of her dreams (and right into another one). Not that she’s upset about it. She isn’t, she’d like to make that clear. More like Lottie’s tickled that it took Nat fifteen minutes to make the decision, and surprised it took her that long at all. “Is that what you want me to do?” Nat’s not looking at her. Or she is, but only at her lips. Her hand drifts from Lottie’s chest to the handgun holstered at her side. She thumbs open the securing strap and pushes the other hand through Lottie’s hair, wrenching her head back. “Pull a pistol on you?” Lottie’s expression doesn’t change. Gloved fingers flex against Nat’s hips, drawing her down with the subtlest of motions. But Nat catches every movement, seamlessly following Lottie’s guidance, letting her notch their hips together like the last two pieces of a puzzle. And Lottie knows it’s all her doing, that they wouldn’t be in this position if Nat didn’t want them to be, that this is all going to be on her terms. Lottie isn’t sure any other way is plausible, really, because ever since Lottie walked away from her old life she’s been a lost hiker without a trail map. She hasn’t known what to do, what to think, how to feel—shit, she’s barely known what to say most days. She’s resorted to self-isolation when possible and varying levels of selective muteness otherwise. Gunning her way through the Yellowjackets compound to root out security faults, and because she could, was easier than this. Putting down her first big bad was easier, too. So was throwing hands with The Butcher. Most things have been easier than what Lottie is doing right now. There’s no more mission, no more threat, no more risk—just Nat and a stolen jet and too much time on her hands. It’s one of the very first times since early childhood that she’s been able to relax, really relax, and Lottie wants no part of it. She’d take back the bullets, the espionage, the threats, the risk, all of it, if it meant she no longer had to feel this empty. Without purpose. So if Nat wants to take all of that away, ease the trillion-ton weight on her shoulders, even if just for a while, Lottie is okay with that. She hears her belt click open. The heavy buckle hits the ground before she feels the cold kiss of a barrel pressing into the soft skin beneath her chin. For a moment she tastes danger again. It makes her smile, dopey and crooked. “You’re a little more damaged than I thought, aren’t you?” Nat’s eyes narrow a fraction of an inch. “Would it get you all excited if I told you it’s loaded?” “Yes,” Lottie says. A warm hand works its way into her pants, pressing against the heat of her cunt through her underwear. “And yes.” She hears a click, a soft one, and she knows exactly what it is. Something cracks open in Lottie’s chest. Something weighty and all-encompassing. It ripples through her veins and blossoms in her core. Thrill. “Safety’s off,” Nat says, but Lottie already knows. She grinds the heel of her hand into Lottie’s clit, pushing her dampening underwear against the give of her entrance. “Still excited?” “Yes, ma’am.” Nat laughs. Lottie doesn’t dare move her head. She sucks in a sharp breath, eyes falling shut. Nat would shoot if it came down to it. Lottie knows her well enough to know that if she broke open and released the torrent that lives inside of her (if the reason she’s a liability came to fruition), Nat would shoot. And maybe that scares her a little, having her would-be executioner so close, but Lottie’s fear lives in the same place as her arousal. A place with the power to make her heart pound and her ears ring and the coil in her belly start to burn. Fear pressurizes everything, fits it all to burst, threatening to spit shrapnel into anyone unfortunate enough to be near, and Lottie likes that feeling. She likes wondering what would happen if every little thing bottled up inside of her just… blew. Kaboom. She wonders if there would be any survivors. “You’re not even listening to me,” Nat says somewhere far off, and Lottie yanks herself back. “I’m really not.” “Look at me.” Lottie looks. Nat’s eyes bore into hers. Inquisitive and green, probing as she searches for a window to peer into Lottie’s soul. She doesn’t worry about Nat finding what she wants in her own eyes, dark and hungry as they are. Nat always finds exactly what she needs. “That look—you’re pleading,” Nat says after a moment, brow furrowing. “I’m not sure I know how to feel about that.” A slow, lazy smile slides across Lottie’s face. “But?” “But at least you’re fucking wet,” Nat mumbles, finally slipping her hand beneath Lottie’s underwear. She drags her fingers through slick lips, finds her clit and lingers there, and smirks. “Honestly? Jesus, Lot.” Do it, Lottie thinks, tilting her head until the metal of the barrel digs into her skin enough to sting, I dare you. And then something changes. Maybe it’s the heat—the sweat sticking Lottie’s shirt to her chest, the warm buzz in her ears between words, the fire rising in her belly—or maybe she’s just losing it. Maybe that last mission flipped a switch inside of her. Maybe this is the culmination of every moment spent training with the Yellowjackets, the aria at the height of the show where her heart splits open and suddenly she’s looking at things differently, seeing things she never wanted to see before, all because of the people she’s allowed into her life. Or maybe her programming has gone to shit; like Nat, Lottie was built to be a weapon, a machine capable of decimation and deception without remorse. All Lottie knows is that something is happening. It takes her another moment or two to realize that it’s not actually something happening to her. It’s Nat. Her hand stills between Lottie’s legs. The pressure of the barrel under Lottie’s chin lessens. Nat looks—scared? It’s not something Lottie’s ever seen on her face before. “You actually think I’d do it,” she says, voice dropping to a hum, eyes threatening to close off and keep Lottie from reading too far in. “You really fucking think I’d shoot you.” “Wouldn’t you?” “God.” She’s laughing, but it’s pained. Incredulous and disheartening. “When Cap told me you were fucked up, I didn’t expect… this. It’s like—like you want me to do it.” Nat starts to drop her hand, to pull the gun from Lottie’s head, to holster it again, but Lottie catches it before she can. Her hands clamp tight around Nat’s wrist, unrelenting, and she pulls it back until the tip of the barrel digs so deep beneath her chin that it’s a little hard to breathe. “Don’t,” Lottie growls. And now she truly is pleading, begging with her eyes, desperation written so clearly across her face that it scares her. The fear still feels good. “Just…” Weakness slips into her tone, seeps into her eyes. Nat looks at her with something between pity and horror. “If you won’t kill me, just fuck me.” She won’t. Not until Lottie lets her flip the safety back on, which she does even though it dampens the adrenaline and makes her consider rolling back over and going back to sleep. But she doesn’t want to upset Nat, doesn’t want to close the door on whatever this is between them, so she allows it. And she does still want to get off, wants to break beneath Nat’s touch and slump into ecstasy when she’s through, but she wanted it a certain way. A dangerous way. It was Nat’s fear that did it. The worry on her face, the disbelief that rocked her the moment she figured Lottie out. Her own relationship with fear is one thing, but she didn’t like seeing Nat afraid. It made her want to soften, apologize, and offer up a version of herself that doesn't exist. She’s never been one to cater to anyone’s emotions like that before. It’s all new. For both of them. But Nat adapts. So does Lottie. It helps that Nat is smiling again now that she’s safeteyed-up and Lottie’s hands are back on her waist, guiding her in a steady grind on Lottie’s thigh while she takes her. “That’s good, isn’t it?” Cold metal kisses Lottie’s temple and she closes her eyes. Warm fingers spread her cunt, push in, and stroke her from the inside. “You like being touched with a gun to your head?” Lottie considers. Then she tells the truth: “Feels forced,” she mutters, biting at the inside of her cheek, “now that I know you won’t use it.” “Fuck off,” Nat says, stretching her open with a third finger. “Just fuck me.” She doesn’t. Instead Nat slips her hand out of Lottie’s	gonna kill you if you don't beat me to it Lottie’s always known Nat is beautiful. Strong. A little terrifying. And a crack-shot with a rifle. One of the most intimidating women she’s ever met (height aside), as well as one of the most stunning. Lottie thinks her strength has a lot to do with that. Nat knocked her on her ass with one swing the first time they met, and it still wows her to think about. Like—wow, what a woman. Arm wrestling on the 2525 that one time, too. Nat would’ve beat her if Mari didn’t step in and tell the two of them to quit comparing dick sizes and focus on the mission, and Lottie would’ve liked being beat. “You know,” Nat says, “you’re not so tough-looking without your battle suit.” She’s grinning at Lottie and Lottie likes that, too. That smile is powerful. Sly and cocky, a little crooked, and so full of well-earned pride. Nat’s got plenty to be proud of. “You’re not so scary either,” Lottie says. She digs her fingertips in and pulls Nat’s hips against her. She can’t remember the last time she was this close to a woman—if she’s ever been this close to a woman—but if Nat never gets any farther away from her than she is now, Lottie will die happy. “Now that you don’t pull guns on me for fun anymore.” Nat’s eyes twinkle and for a moment Lottie forgets where she is. On a stolen jet with her legs stretched out on the floor of the bridge. She’d been trying to nap, to sleep off the emotional weight of the last forty-eight hours. Thought it might do her some good to close her eyes and forget the world for a little while. Then Nat ditched the pilot’s seat and pulled her out of her dreams (and right into another one). Not that she’s upset about it. She isn’t, she’d like to make that clear. More like Lottie’s tickled that it took Nat fifteen minutes to make the decision, and surprised it took her that long at all. “Is that what you want me to do?” Nat’s not looking at her. Or she is, but only at her lips. Her hand drifts from Lottie’s chest to the handgun holstered at her side. She thumbs open the securing strap and pushes the other hand through Lottie’s hair, wrenching her head back. “Pull a pistol on you?” Lottie’s expression doesn’t change. Gloved fingers flex against Nat’s hips, drawing her down with the subtlest of motions. But Nat catches every movement, seamlessly following Lottie’s guidance, letting her notch their hips together like the last two pieces of a puzzle. And Lottie knows it’s all her doing, that they wouldn’t be in this position if Nat didn’t want them to be, that this is all going to be on her terms. Lottie isn’t sure any other way is plausible, really, because ever since Lottie walked away from her old life she’s been a lost hiker without a trail map. She hasn’t known what to do, what to think, how to feel—shit, she’s barely known what to say most days. She’s resorted to self-isolation when possible and varying levels of selective muteness otherwise. Gunning her way through the Yellowjackets compound to root out security faults, and because she could, was easier than this. Putting down her first big bad was easier, too. So was throwing hands with The Butcher. Most things have been easier than what Lottie is doing right now. There’s no more mission, no more threat, no more risk—just Nat and a stolen jet and too much time on her hands. It’s one of the very first times since early childhood that she’s been able to relax, really relax, and Lottie wants no part of it. She’d take back the bullets, the espionage, the threats, the risk, all of it, if it meant she no longer had to feel this empty. Without purpose. So if Nat wants to take all of that away, ease the trillion-ton weight on her shoulders, even if just for a while, Lottie is okay with that. She hears her belt click open. The heavy buckle hits the ground before she feels the cold kiss of a barrel pressing into the soft skin beneath her chin. For a moment she tastes danger again. It makes her smile, dopey and crooked. “You’re a little more damaged than I thought, aren’t you?” Nat’s eyes narrow a fraction of an inch. “Would it get you all excited if I told you it’s loaded?” “Yes,” Lottie says. A warm hand works its way into her pants, pressing against the heat of her cunt through her underwear. “And yes.” She hears a click, a soft one, and she knows exactly what it is. Something cracks open in Lottie’s chest. Something weighty and all-encompassing. It ripples through her veins and blossoms in her core. Thrill. “Safety’s off,” Nat says, but Lottie already knows. She grinds the heel of her hand into Lottie’s clit, pushing her dampening underwear against the give of her entrance. “Still excited?” “Yes, ma’am.” Nat laughs. Lottie doesn’t dare move her head. She sucks in a sharp breath, eyes falling shut. Nat would shoot if it came down to it. Lottie knows her well enough to know that if she broke open and released the torrent that lives inside of her (if the reason she’s a liability came to fruition), Nat would shoot. And maybe that scares her a little, having her would-be executioner so close, but Lottie’s fear lives in the same place as her arousal. A place with the power to make her heart pound and her ears ring and the coil in her belly start to burn. Fear pressurizes everything, fits it all to burst, threatening to spit shrapnel into anyone unfortunate enough to be near, and Lottie likes that feeling. She likes wondering what would happen if every little thing bottled up inside of her just… blew. Kaboom. She wonders if there would be any survivors. “You’re not even listening to me,” Nat says somewhere far off, and Lottie yanks herself back. “I’m really not.” “Look at me.” Lottie looks. Nat’s eyes bore into hers. Inquisitive and green, probing as she searches for a window to peer into Lottie’s soul. She doesn’t worry about Nat finding what she wants in her own eyes, dark and hungry as they are. Nat always finds exactly what she needs. “That look—you’re pleading,” Nat says after a moment, brow furrowing. “I’m not sure I know how to feel about that.” A slow, lazy smile slides across Lottie’s face. “But?” “But at least you’re fucking wet,” Nat mumbles, finally slipping her hand beneath Lottie’s underwear. She drags her fingers through slick lips, finds her clit and lingers there, and smirks. “Honestly? Jesus, Lot.” Do it, Lottie thinks, tilting her head until the metal of the barrel digs into her skin enough to sting, I dare you. And then something changes. Maybe it’s the heat—the sweat sticking Lottie’s shirt to her chest, the warm buzz in her ears between words, the fire rising in her belly—or maybe she’s just losing it. Maybe that last mission flipped a switch inside of her. Maybe this is the culmination of every moment spent training with the Yellowjackets, the aria at the height of the show where her heart splits open and suddenly she’s looking at things differently, seeing things she never wanted to see before, all because of the people she’s allowed into her life. Or maybe her programming has gone to shit; like Nat, Lottie was built to be a weapon, a machine capable of decimation and deception without remorse. All Lottie knows is that something is happening. It takes her another moment or two to realize that it’s not actually something happening to her. It’s Nat. Her hand stills between Lottie’s legs. The pressure of the barrel under Lottie’s chin lessens. Nat looks—scared? It’s not something Lottie’s ever seen on her face before. “You actually think I’d do it,” she says, voice dropping to a hum, eyes threatening to close off and keep Lottie from reading too far in. “You really fucking think I’d shoot you.” “Wouldn’t you?” “God.” She’s laughing, but it’s pained. Incredulous and disheartening. “When Cap told me you were fucked up, I didn’t expect… this. It’s like—like you want me to do it.” Nat starts to drop her hand, to pull the gun from Lottie’s head, to holster it again, but Lottie catches it before she can. Her hands clamp tight around Nat’s wrist, unrelenting, and she pulls it back until the tip of the barrel digs so deep beneath her chin that it’s a little hard to breathe. “Don’t,” Lottie growls. And now she truly is pleading, begging with her eyes, desperation written so clearly across her face that it scares her. The fear still feels good. “Just…” Weakness slips into her tone, seeps into her eyes. Nat looks at her with something between pity and horror. “If you won’t kill me, just fuck me.” She won’t. Not until Lottie lets her flip the safety back on, which she does even though it dampens the adrenaline and makes her consider rolling back over and going back to sleep. But she doesn’t want to upset Nat, doesn’t want to close the door on whatever this is between them, so she allows it. And she does still want to get off, wants to break beneath Nat’s touch and slump into ecstasy when she’s through, but she wanted it a certain way. A dangerous way. It was Nat’s fear that did it. The worry on her face, the disbelief that rocked her the moment she figured Lottie out. Her own relationship with fear is one thing, but she didn’t like seeing Nat afraid. It made her want to soften, apologize, and offer up a version of herself that doesn't exist. She’s never been one to cater to anyone’s emotions like that before. It’s all new. For both of them. But Nat adapts. So does Lottie. It helps that Nat is smiling again now that she’s safeteyed-up and Lottie’s hands are back on her waist, guiding her in a steady grind on Lottie’s thigh while she takes her. “That’s good, isn’t it?” Cold metal kisses Lottie’s temple and she closes her eyes. Warm fingers spread her cunt, push in, and stroke her from the inside. “You like being touched with a gun to your head?” Lottie considers. Then she tells the truth: “Feels forced,” she mutters, biting at the inside of her cheek, “now that I know you won’t use it.” “Fuck off,” Nat says, stretching her open with a third finger. “Just fuck me.” She doesn’t. Instead Nat slips her hand out of Lottie’s underwear and moves off of her lap. “Focus,” she says after she’s shucked her pants and dragged Lottie onto her back. She swings a leg over Lottie’s head and hovers inches above her mouth. “I trust you can manage that.” Lottie clamps her hands around Nat’s thighs and pulls her down. Heaven on her tongue, thick and heady and wet. Fingertips dig into pale skin, pulling Nat against Lottie’s open mouth as her tongue glides through her wetness. It’s only when Lottie lifts her head from the floor, eager for more, desperate to spear her tongue into the depths of Nat’s cunt, that she pulls the gun on her again. Presses it to the middle of Lottie’s forehead and forces her head back to the ground with a dull thud that sends a ripple of shock through her system. “Look at me,” Nat says, and Lottie does, forcing her eyes open. “Stop thinking,” she says next, rubbing a thumb over Lottie’s cheek. “Forget everything that isn’t my pussy. Can you do that for me?” Lottie wants to please her, she realizes, because she’s already nodding without thinking, and somehow that’s worse than not wanting to upset her. Not wanting to upset her is passive, or it can be, but this isn’t, and it can’t be. This is wanting to act in a way that Nat will like, that she’ll remember, approve of, that she’ll still be thinking about two days from now when they’re back in New Jersey and going their separate ways. This is wanting to rip off her gloves and dig her nails into Nat’s thighs because she wants to feel the sting, not because Lottie wants to make her feel it. It’s wanting to keep her eyes open because it’s what Nat told her to do, not because it’s what she’s pretending she would’ve done anyway. Wanting to please Nat is forcing herself to stop caring about whether or not the gun is loaded, whether the safety is on or off, and whether Nat would actually shoot her or not; wrenching her thoughts away from the doom and the gloom and the buzz it brings her is not easy, but the taste of Nat filling her mouth makes it easier. Lottie nods. “Good girl.” A sound rumbles from Lottie’s throat, a groan and a growl all at once, and its effect is immediate: Nat shudders, thighs trembling in her grip, and she hunches over, digging the metal of her gun into Lottie’s forehead so hard she’s certain it’ll cut deep enough to scar over. Lottie closes her mouth over Nat’s clit and sucks, rolling her tongue against the swollen bud, coaxing her on, drinking her in, all while Nat fists a hand in her hair and ruts against her face. Lottie might care about how hard it’s getting to breathe if the lips of Nat’s cunt didn’t spread so easily around her tongue, swallowing it so smoothly, wrapping her in heaven and offering her a taste of salvation. “Fuck,” Nat hisses, and, “Just like that,” and, “For someone who doesn’t talk much, you’re—shit—you’re so damn good with your mouth.” Lottie would smirk if she wasn’t so busy. Instead she just hums, slow and steady, dull vibrations sent up through Nat’s clit as she fucks her with her tongue. When Nat comes with a cry it spills out of her hole in waves, gushing onto Lottie’s tongue each time she clenches. It coats her lips, slicks up her chin, and when Nat slumps off of her and the gun goes clattering to the floor, all Lottie can think about is her heart trying to beat its way out of her chest and the taste of Nat on her tongue. “I’m telling Cap to send you for a psych eval when we get back,” Nat says after a moment. Lottie turns her head, too cum-drunk and hazy to let her eyes focus, and, “Par for the course,” she mumbles, her own pleasure entirely forgotten. Giving Nat hers was enough. Nat reaches for her, touching her forehead with sweaty fingers. “You’re bleeding,” she says. When she pulls away her fingertips are wet and red with blood. “Sorry.” “Don’t be,” Lottie tells her, pulling at her wrist and kissing the blood from her fingertips. It tastes like a prayer.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75726331/chapters/198061521	{"authors": [], "language": "English", "title": "gonna kill you if you don't beat me to it"}
I love you, Red Seattle was a beautiful city. Powerful. Surrounded by water, mountains, evergreen forests, and mile after mile of green space. Two weeks ago, Harleen hadn’t known that. The only thing that had ever interested her about Seattle was its massive tech industry. Her curiosity hadn’t stretched much further than the futuristic Space Needle—a relic of the ’62 World’s Fair, yet still the city’s most iconic landmark. So the question was: what had made Harleen start caring about the environment of Puget Sound instead of Amazon’s or Microsoft’s headquarters? That had an answer as well. First of all, she wasn’t from Seattle. She was only visiting with her entire class, dragged along to attend an environmental tour at a botanical garden. They were perfectly fine back in Gotham, studying psychology. They didn’t need to talk about environmentalism. Harleen was fairly certain she would have preferred—about a thousand times more—to turn on the TV and listen to reports about Batman’s sporadic fights or the latest crimes committed by yet another masked lunatic. They didn’t need to go out of their way to hear about plants. That was, until she met her. Pamela Lilian Isley—the botanist who gave the lecture and guided the tour through the Kruckeberg Botanical Garden. She spoke about Dr. Arthur R. Kruckeberg and his living legacy in the Shoreline gardens, founded in 1958. Facts Harleen didn’t need, details she would never have paid attention to under normal circumstances. But that was Miss Isley’s fault. Her marble-like beauty was framed by perfect cherry-red lips, and her voice—oh, her voice—was a gift to Harleen’s ears. Smooth as silk, low and intimate, laced with something dangerously close to seduction. Harleen’s skin prickled. Her body went tense all at once. Fine. She found the woman attractive. The problem was that two days had passed since that damn tour, and Harleen still saw her every time she closed her eyes. They had a week in Seattle. She’d enjoyed one day at the botanical garden and wasted two more sighing over Pamela. Four days remained, and Harleen was certain she didn’t want to spend them yearning over a woman she barely knew. And yet—she couldn’t stop thinking about her. She closed her eyes and— Blood. She hated blood. Hated how sticky and cloying it was, the way it splattered everywhere. And yet the scarlet shade was beautiful. It was the same blazing red as Pamela Isley’s hair. Harleen couldn’t separate the two, no matter how hard she tried. Pamela was taller than her by a head. Her rich caramel complexion was crowned with a mass of dark red curls. Long legs. Deadly curves. Harleen felt her cheeks heat embarrassingly at the memory, suddenly transported back to being a shy high school girl all over again. Pamela wasn’t the first woman she’d been attracted to—but it had never gone further than that. She’d always just labeled them attractive, admired them from afar, never tried anything. Never dared to cross that line. Now, she felt embarrassed—and curious—about the urge to look for Pamela and try something. Anything at all. Pathetic. So she decided to clear her head. She wanted to stop thinking about full, treacherous lips. To banish that intoxicating red from her mind. To stop tensing, to stop feeling fire rush beneath her skin like a spreading wildfire. It was time to put it out. Harleen stepped outside, determined to extinguish her absurd crush. She passed a pretty flower shop. The roses reminded her of the fiery crimson of Pamela’s hair. She quickened her pace. Then the vibrant green of a Starbucks logo made her think of Pamela’s beautiful, iris-colored eyes. Everything whispered her name. Everything seemed to echo her presence. Until the realization settled all at once. Pamela was unavoidable. The truth settled in her chest with surprising calm. Harleen surrendered. She would fade from her thoughts sooner or later… right? She walked on in quiet resignation. When a sharp, cold breeze swept toward her, she found herself at the entrance of a charming little plaza. Call it fate—but Pamela Isley was there too. Harleen’s cheeks flushed deep red, her heart bolting wildly in her chest. The redhead stood in the square wearing a long, flowing skirt and playful wedge heels, holding a wide-brimmed hat in one hand. Harleen assumed it was for the incoming rain. She didn’t know Seattle well; she hadn’t expected it to rain when she left, so she’d dressed for a mild spring day. It was oddly comforting to know Pamela had come prepared. Harleen walked toward her. She didn’t know what she was doing, or why she was doing it. Her legs moved on their own, desperate for just one more look at the slender, intoxicating woman. Her cheeks burned with the awareness of it. Her attraction to women had never bothered her. But she’d never dared to explore it. Too shy. Too unsure. So what possessed her to rush toward the redhead without reason, without a plan? “H-hey…” she greeted, her voice barely more than a muted murmur. Pamela turned slowly and offered her a small, knowing smile. “Hey… I know you,” Pamela said softly. “You’re from the University of Gotham group, right?” Harleen nodded, unable to swallow the knot in her throat. Pamela studied her with a long, appreciative gaze, as if committing her to memory. “Harleen Quinzel,” Lilian said, tasting the name deliberately. A faint smile curved her lips, and Harleen thought her name sounded dangerously good coming from those matte red lips. “Y-yes,” Harleen breathed, forcing herself to focus. “How did you—?” “Your professor never stops talking about you, Dr. Quinzel,” Pamela said warmly. “You’re one of the few wildflowers in Gotham’s jungle.” Harleen was certain her face combusted. “Are you waiting for someone?” she asked nervously. Pamela regarded her again, thoughtful. “No, not really. But the weather here is harsh. I know a place with good coffee and indoor plants that can survive this cold. Want to join me? You’re shivering.” Harleen nodded, relieved that the trembling could be blamed on the cold. When they returned home, they kept talking through texts. It wasn’t much, but it was constant, steady, reassuring. Harleen had thought that becoming friends with Pamela would make her crush fade. Instead, it multiplied. Instead, it grew. Messages. Emails. Calls. Even video calls. Pamela told her about her dates—because of course she did. Pamela was stunning; anyone would be an idiot not to ask her out. Harleen listened. She smiled. She congratulated her. Eventually, it began to hurt. “You sound like you’re on the edge of collapse,” Pamela said one night, her tired voice crackling through the phone. “Are you okay, Harleen?” “I’m just… a little tired, Pam.” “That’s enough, little bud. You need rest to grow,” she murmured gently. “Go to sleep.” She hung up with her eyes burning, chest aching with unshed tears. Pamela was confusing—gentle, attentive, effortlessly close. The sweetness of her words and the concern in her voice made Harleen’s heart pound wildly. The phrases that brushed shamelessly close to flirtation filled her with both hope and doubt. Maybe her feelings weren’t one-sided. Or maybe it was all in her head. Harleen knew loving Pamela promised pain. She only hoped Pamela wouldn’t leave. As long as she stayed, everything would work out. Everything would be fine. Harleen got a part-time job on weekends and during breaks at a small café in Gotham. Her calls with Pamela grew longer, becoming an intimate ritual before she fell asleep each night. That was why she didn’t expect to see a mass of rich, crimson curls walking down the street toward the café one afternoon. Harleen froze behind the counter. Gotham’s streets were loud, dirty, unforgiving—filled with drunks and exhausted workers, the city holding its breath as evening crept closer. After dark, no one sane went out alone. The door chimed. “P-Pamela…” The redhead blinked, startled. “No more ‘Pammie’?” she teased softly, tired but amused. “What are you doing here?” “Have you forgotten your own graduation?” Pamela smiled. “Surprise.” Pamela was here for her. The realization hit Harleen all at once, knocking the air from her lungs. “Red…” she whispered. “That’s new,” Pamela said, smiling in return. Harleen swallowed. “I think I like you. Romantically.” She didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t wait for courage. She kissed her—clumsy, trembling, real. The kiss tasted of coffee and mint, brief but electric, burning itself into her memory. When she pulled back, Pamela’s eyes were shining with surprise—and something warmer. “I like you too,” Pamela murmured, cupping Harleen’s cheek, thumb brushing over her blush. Some say love is pain. If that was true, Harleen would accept it gladly. “Do you have somewhere to stay?” Harleen asked quietly. “I’ll find a hotel.” “No,” Harleen said, smiling despite herself. “Come with me.” Pamela’s gaze softened. And red became Harleen’s favorite color again. Just like the day she met her in Seattle. After all—it was Pamela’s color.	I love you, Red Seattle was a beautiful city. Powerful. Surrounded by water, mountains, evergreen forests, and mile after mile of green space. Two weeks ago, Harleen hadn’t known that. The only thing that had ever interested her about Seattle was its massive tech industry. Her curiosity hadn’t stretched much further than the futuristic Space Needle—a relic of the ’62 World’s Fair, yet still the city’s most iconic landmark. So the question was: what had made Harleen start caring about the environment of Puget Sound instead of Amazon’s or Microsoft’s headquarters? That had an answer as well. First of all, she wasn’t from Seattle. She was only visiting with her entire class, dragged along to attend an environmental tour at a botanical garden. They were perfectly fine back in Gotham, studying psychology. They didn’t need to talk about environmentalism. Harleen was fairly certain she would have preferred—about a thousand times more—to turn on the TV and listen to reports about Batman’s sporadic fights or the latest crimes committed by yet another masked lunatic. They didn’t need to go out of their way to hear about plants. That was, until she met her. Pamela Lilian Isley—the botanist who gave the lecture and guided the tour through the Kruckeberg Botanical Garden. She spoke about Dr. Arthur R. Kruckeberg and his living legacy in the Shoreline gardens, founded in 1958. Facts Harleen didn’t need, details she would never have paid attention to under normal circumstances. But that was Miss Isley’s fault. Her marble-like beauty was framed by perfect cherry-red lips, and her voice—oh, her voice—was a gift to Harleen’s ears. Smooth as silk, low and intimate, laced with something dangerously close to seduction. Harleen’s skin prickled. Her body went tense all at once. Fine. She found the woman attractive. The problem was that two days had passed since that damn tour, and Harleen still saw her every time she closed her eyes. They had a week in Seattle. She’d enjoyed one day at the botanical garden and wasted two more sighing over Pamela. Four days remained, and Harleen was certain she didn’t want to spend them yearning over a woman she barely knew. And yet—she couldn’t stop thinking about her. She closed her eyes and— Blood. She hated blood. Hated how sticky and cloying it was, the way it splattered everywhere. And yet the scarlet shade was beautiful. It was the same blazing red as Pamela Isley’s hair. Harleen couldn’t separate the two, no matter how hard she tried. Pamela was taller than her by a head. Her rich caramel complexion was crowned with a mass of dark red curls. Long legs. Deadly curves. Harleen felt her cheeks heat embarrassingly at the memory, suddenly transported back to being a shy high school girl all over again. Pamela wasn’t the first woman she’d been attracted to—but it had never gone further than that. She’d always just labeled them attractive, admired them from afar, never tried anything. Never dared to cross that line. Now, she felt embarrassed—and curious—about the urge to look for Pamela and try something. Anything at all. Pathetic. So she decided to clear her head. She wanted to stop thinking about full, treacherous lips. To banish that intoxicating red from her mind. To stop tensing, to stop feeling fire rush beneath her skin like a spreading wildfire. It was time to put it out. Harleen stepped outside, determined to extinguish her absurd crush. She passed a pretty flower shop. The roses reminded her of the fiery crimson of Pamela’s hair. She quickened her pace. Then the vibrant green of a Starbucks logo made her think of Pamela’s beautiful, iris-colored eyes. Everything whispered her name. Everything seemed to echo her presence. Until the realization settled all at once. Pamela was unavoidable. The truth settled in her chest with surprising calm. Harleen surrendered. She would fade from her thoughts sooner or later… right? She walked on in quiet resignation. When a sharp, cold breeze swept toward her, she found herself at the entrance of a charming little plaza. Call it fate—but Pamela Isley was there too. Harleen’s cheeks flushed deep red, her heart bolting wildly in her chest. The redhead stood in the square wearing a long, flowing skirt and playful wedge heels, holding a wide-brimmed hat in one hand. Harleen assumed it was for the incoming rain. She didn’t know Seattle well; she hadn’t expected it to rain when she left, so she’d dressed for a mild spring day. It was oddly comforting to know Pamela had come prepared. Harleen walked toward her. She didn’t know what she was doing, or why she was doing it. Her legs moved on their own, desperate for just one more look at the slender, intoxicating woman. Her cheeks burned with the awareness of it. Her attraction to women had never bothered her. But she’d never dared to explore it. Too shy. Too unsure. So what possessed her to rush toward the redhead without reason, without a plan? “H-hey…” she greeted, her voice barely more than a muted murmur. Pamela turned slowly and offered her a small, knowing smile. “Hey… I know you,” Pamela said softly. “You’re from the University of Gotham group, right?” Harleen nodded, unable to swallow the knot in her throat. Pamela studied her with a long, appreciative gaze, as if committing her to memory. “Harleen Quinzel,” Lilian said, tasting the name deliberately. A faint smile curved her lips, and Harleen thought her name sounded dangerously good coming from those matte red lips. “Y-yes,” Harleen breathed, forcing herself to focus. “How did you—?” “Your professor never stops talking about you, Dr. Quinzel,” Pamela said warmly. “You’re one of the few wildflowers in Gotham’s jungle.” Harleen was certain her face combusted. “Are you waiting for someone?” she asked nervously. Pamela regarded her again, thoughtful. “No, not really. But the weather here is harsh. I know a place with good coffee and indoor plants that can survive this cold. Want to join me? You’re shivering.” Harleen nodded, relieved that the trembling could be blamed on the cold. When they returned home, they kept talking through texts. It wasn’t much, but it was constant, steady, reassuring. Harleen had thought that becoming friends with Pamela would make her crush fade. Instead, it multiplied. Instead, it grew. Messages. Emails. Calls. Even video calls. Pamela told her about her dates—because of course she did. Pamela was stunning; anyone would be an idiot not to ask her out. Harleen listened. She smiled. She congratulated her. Eventually, it began to hurt. “You sound like you’re on the edge of collapse,” Pamela said one night, her tired voice crackling through the phone. “Are you okay, Harleen?” “I’m just… a little tired, Pam.” “That’s enough, little bud. You need rest to grow,” she murmured gently. “Go to sleep.” She hung up with her eyes burning, chest aching with unshed tears. Pamela was confusing—gentle, attentive, effortlessly close. The sweetness of her words and the concern in her voice made Harleen’s heart pound wildly. The phrases that brushed shamelessly close to flirtation filled her with both hope and doubt. Maybe her feelings weren’t one-sided. Or maybe it was all in her head. Harleen knew loving Pamela promised pain. She only hoped Pamela wouldn’t leave. As long as she stayed, everything would work out. Everything would be fine. Harleen got a part-time job on weekends and during breaks at a small café in Gotham. Her calls with Pamela grew longer, becoming an intimate ritual before she fell asleep each night. That was why she didn’t expect to see a mass of rich, crimson curls walking down the street toward the café one afternoon. Harleen froze behind the counter. Gotham’s streets were loud, dirty, unforgiving—filled with drunks and exhausted workers, the city holding its breath as evening crept closer. After dark, no one sane went out alone. The door chimed. “P-Pamela…” The redhead blinked, startled. “No more ‘Pammie’?” she teased softly, tired but amused. “What are you doing here?” “Have you forgotten your own graduation?” Pamela smiled. “Surprise.” Pamela was here for her. The realization hit Harleen all at once, knocking the air from her lungs. “Red…” she whispered. “That’s new,” Pamela said, smiling in return. Harleen swallowed. “I think I like you. Romantically.” She didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t wait for courage. She kissed her—clumsy, trembling, real. The kiss tasted of coffee and mint, brief but electric, burning itself into her memory. When she pulled back, Pamela’s eyes were shining with surprise—and something warmer. “I like you too,” Pamela murmured, cupping Harleen’s cheek, thumb brushing over her blush. Some say love is pain. If that was true, Harleen would accept it gladly. “Do you have somewhere to stay?” Harleen asked quietly. “I’ll find a hotel.” “No,” Harleen said, smiling despite herself. “Come with me.” Pamela’s gaze softened. And red became Harleen’s favorite color again. Just like the day she met her in Seattle. After all—it was Pamela’s color.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75720966	{"authors": ["wailcount"], "language": "English", "title": "I love you, Red"}
Electronic Love “YOU’RE NOT LISTENING TO ME” “THEN STOP YELLING AT ME” “ALL I ASK IS THAT YOU SHUT UP FOR ONCE-“ “IF YOU WANT ME TO SHUT UP SO BAD THEN WHY DONT YOU-“ “Break up with you? Ok, done. I want you out of here by the end of the month.” Gumi walked out the front door & slammed it shut. Teto beeped low. It was already the 18th, & she had to find a new place before September? Teto grabbed her phone & walked out of the living room where she had been standing & walked to her room. Well, Gumi’s now. Teto closed the door behind her & plopped down onto the bed, legs hanging off of the frame. She held her phone high up above her face, staring at the screen, wondering what to do. Y’know, I haven’t talked to Rin in a while. I should probably see what she’s up to. Teto opened up her messages app & tapped Rin’s picture. Rin picked up surprisingly fast. “Yyyello! What are you doing Teto?” “Gumi broke up with me.” “Oh…I’m so sorry…Why?” Teto then proceeded to ramble to Rin for at least fifteen minutes, pacing around the bedroom. “-& like i can understa-FUUUUCK” Teto screeched. “Are-are you ok? What happened?” Rin responded, incredibly concerned. “I HIT MY ELBOW AGAINST THE TABLE” “Are you ok?” “NO! I HIT MY ELBOW AGAINST THE TABLE!” Teto audibly sat back back down on the bed, putting her phone beside her. “So…Why are you calling me in the first place” “Becuase I need to be out of the house by the end of August, Miku lives two hours away, Neru is having her own financial troubles right now, I’m still not on speaking terms with MEIKO, & KAITO is at work.” “…I think Len has an apartment he could Len-d you. I’ll call him now.” “Isn’t he also at work right now?” “Sibling privileges.” Teto watched as the screen flashed & went back to texts. She rolled over to her side & started to cry. She watched as her tears rolled down her face & onto the blue bedsheets. Teto rolled back up onto her back & sniffled. She looked at the bedside table that she had hit her elbow against, with nothing but a lamp & a framed picture of her & Gumi kissing. She could vaugly see the lesbian flag hung on the wall behind her. As light shimmered from a window, she peered at a beanbag chair in the corner with a little stuffed penguin sitting on it, wired headphones lazily places on the windowsill. Before Teto could finish their look-around her phone started buzzing again, Rin’s name & photo shining on the screen. “So what did Len say?” Spoke Teto, trying to remove all signs that she possibly could have ever been crying from her voice. “He said that you could stay with him, but you two are going to have to be roommates.” “Ok, that’s…Fine I guess. I can deal with that.” “Sweet! Len gets off of work at 4:30 so he should be able to pick at 45.” Once again Rin hung up & Teto looked at the time, 2:25. Teto had lost track of the time. She sat in the living room, with a suitcase beside the end of the couch. Teto guessed that Gumi had went to her mom’s house, since she lives within walking distance. As Teto sat there, aimlessly scrolling through shows, she heard a car honk outside. She picked up her phone & looked at the time, 4:46.	Electronic Love “YOU’RE NOT LISTENING TO ME” “THEN STOP YELLING AT ME” “ALL I ASK IS THAT YOU SHUT UP FOR ONCE-“ “IF YOU WANT ME TO SHUT UP SO BAD THEN WHY DONT YOU-“ “Break up with you? Ok, done. I want you out of here by the end of the month.” Gumi walked out the front door & slammed it shut. Teto beeped low. It was already the 18th, & she had to find a new place before September? Teto grabbed her phone & walked out of the living room where she had been standing & walked to her room. Well, Gumi’s now. Teto closed the door behind her & plopped down onto the bed, legs hanging off of the frame. She held her phone high up above her face, staring at the screen, wondering what to do. Y’know, I haven’t talked to Rin in a while. I should probably see what she’s up to. Teto opened up her messages app & tapped Rin’s picture. Rin picked up surprisingly fast. “Yyyello! What are you doing Teto?” “Gumi broke up with me.” “Oh…I’m so sorry…Why?” Teto then proceeded to ramble to Rin for at least fifteen minutes, pacing around the bedroom. “-& like i can understa-FUUUUCK” Teto screeched. “Are-are you ok? What happened?” Rin responded, incredibly concerned. “I HIT MY ELBOW AGAINST THE TABLE” “Are you ok?” “NO! I HIT MY ELBOW AGAINST THE TABLE!” Teto audibly sat back back down on the bed, putting her phone beside her. “So…Why are you calling me in the first place” “Becuase I need to be out of the house by the end of August, Miku lives two hours away, Neru is having her own financial troubles right now, I’m still not on speaking terms with MEIKO, & KAITO is at work.” “…I think Len has an apartment he could Len-d you. I’ll call him now.” “Isn’t he also at work right now?” “Sibling privileges.” Teto watched as the screen flashed & went back to texts. She rolled over to her side & started to cry. She watched as her tears rolled down her face & onto the blue bedsheets. Teto rolled back up onto her back & sniffled. She looked at the bedside table that she had hit her elbow against, with nothing but a lamp & a framed picture of her & Gumi kissing. She could vaugly see the lesbian flag hung on the wall behind her. As light shimmered from a window, she peered at a beanbag chair in the corner with a little stuffed penguin sitting on it, wired headphones lazily places on the windowsill. Before Teto could finish their look-around her phone started buzzing again, Rin’s name & photo shining on the screen. “So what did Len say?” Spoke Teto, trying to remove all signs that she possibly could have ever been crying from her voice. “He said that you could stay with him, but you two are going to have to be roommates.” “Ok, that’s…Fine I guess. I can deal with that.” “Sweet! Len gets off of work at 4:30 so he should be able to pick at 45.” Once again Rin hung up & Teto looked at the time, 2:25. Teto had lost track of the time. She sat in the living room, with a suitcase beside the end of the couch. Teto guessed that Gumi had went to her mom’s house, since she lives within walking distance. As Teto sat there, aimlessly scrolling through shows, she heard a car honk outside. She picked up her phone & looked at the time, 4:46.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75720976	{"authors": ["SOUP_bat"], "language": "English", "title": "Electronic Love"}
I don't think you need to earn this hope (I think it lives in you) Tim tries, tired and a bit hazy, not to feel too jilted by you leaving right now. He can hear you in the kitchen, opening cupboard doors gently and flicking on the stove, something like a plate or a mug clinking as you put it on the counter. He shifts to crane his head from where he's lying on the couch as if he'll be able to see you through the doorway, but the movement pulls at one of his bandages, and he winces instead. "You're supposed to be resting in there," you shout from the kitchen, and he sort of wonders if you can see through walls. "Will you relax for just a minute, please?" Tim exhales deeply, his fingers fidgeting with a bandage that's stretched across his abdomen. Everything aches, he finds. Something about the bruises and the cuts and how they'd mixed with the frigid, wet winter of Gotham has everything throbbing in a way that it doesn't normally. As he lets his head loll to the side so that his cheek presses against the pillow, the lights on your shared Christmas tree twinkle in bright little specs that make him dizzy. Or maybe that's the concussion, he thinks wryly. What a way to spend Christmas. "Can you make a noise or something?" you call from the kitchen. "I don't like it when you don't answer me, it makes me think you're dying or something." "I can't be dying," he calls back, admittedly a bit more winded and wavering than his voice usually carries. "You did too well." "Well, as fond as I am of flattery, you know anything could happen, still," you point out as you make your way back into the living room. You really don't mean to do it, he thinks - you don't say it to crack open his chest and build a home for guilt there, but he can't really help it, and neither can you. He remembers it sort of reluctantly, the nights that you'd sleep pressed up against him, your hand on a bandage as if your touch could make him whole. He still thinks, every now and then, when something awful creeps in, about the night he'd woken up to you sleeping on his chest, your ear against his heart and your fingers pressed against his inner wrist. I just couldn't sleep, you'd said. I wanted to make sure you weren't… "Hey," you tap his forehead ever so gently as you sit down on the coffee table in front of him. "How's your head?" "What's that?" he asks in lieu of answering, eyeing the mug in your hands. It's hot chocolate, he thinks vaguely, with whipped cream piled high, cinnamon sprinkled on it, and a candy cane delicately leaning on the edge of the mug. "Can you sit up?" you ask - and it's not much of an answer, he thinks, but his body seems to move anyway. He wonders, as he shifts slowly and your hand hovers nearby to help him, when he started acting like this - when he started leaning into whatever you ask of him. "It's for you," you say once he's settled with his back against the armrest, legs stretched out across the cushions. You take one of his hands in yours to wrap it around the handle of the mug, then meticulously take his other hand to press it against the warm side of the ceramic. "I'm not dying," he reminds you, thrown a bit off kilter by it all - by the kindness and the tenderness. "I really don't want you to drop it," you respond sort of sheepishly, and he levels you with a look over the whipped cream. "Seriously?" he quips. "I'm steady, baby, really." "You tripped on your way in here," you point out. "Drink it while it's hot." "I was bleeding out," he retorts as he brings the mug up to his lips obediently. "Yes," you agree wryly. "Very recently. Doesn't give me a lot of faith." Tim's sort of quiet at that, then, letting the heat of the mug seep into his palm as he watches the whipped cream melt and pool into the hot chocolate. He's not sure what to say, very often, when this comes up - when he stumbles in from the balcony, bleeding and battered. He's not sure how to assure you that the inevitable won't happen. He's not sure how to assure himself. "Where's yours?" he asks instead. "Hm?" "Did you only make one for me?" he clarifies, tapping the edge of the mug. "Oh," you straighten where you're still sitting perched on the coffee table. "Yea. I might have one later." "You feeling ok?" he asks gently, his eyes flickering over your face as he does his best to focus, to zero in on you. "Are you?" you throw back at him, and he exhales sharply, sipping again. "I don't want to drink alone," he says softly, and you melt a little bit, reaching to brush some of his hair out of his eyes. "You're not really drinking. And you're not really alone," you point out, but he doesn't budge. He stares at you, still, until you roll your eyes and pluck the candy cane from his mug, and then he watches as you scoop some whipped cream up with it and put it in your mouth. "I didn't think you really…" Tim drifts off, and his eyes track your movements as you twirl the candy cane through the whipped cream again, stealing more of it for yourself. "Did things like this." "I know how to heat up milk on a stove," you say pointedly, and the laugh he answers with tugs on his injuries with a twinge and a flinch. "I meant… Christmas. Candy canes and cinnamon sprinkles," he says gently as he stares down at the whipped cream. "Yea," you acknowledge, abandoning the candy cane in his mug and watching as it slips down further into the hot chocolate. "I probably wouldn't do it for myself." "Then why for me?" he asks, and your brows lift. "Do you not like it?" "No, I do," Tim insists, curling the mug a bit closer to his chest like you might try to take it away from him. But you just smile, a self-assured sort of thing that he thinks, dazed and wavering from his concussion, looks very at home on you. "It's Christmas," you say pointedly. "Not yet," he retorts gently. "It's Christmas time," you correct yourself long sufferingly. "I don't think vigilantes really get Christmas off, baby," he murmurs, and as he leans his head back a bit, the lights from the tree reflect in his eyes and shimmer in a thousand different colours. The snow outside drifts against the windows and sends streaks of shadows and light in, painting him in the silhouette of the holiday. "No, they don't," you acknowledge easily. "But they can still have this, can't they?" "Maybe," he murmurs, because it's supposed to feel wrong, he thinks - it's supposed to feel like it doesn't belong to him. But the mug is warm in his hands, and the pillows that you've stacked up for him smell like pine and winter, and he finds that he can't really find any reason to deny himself something so kind. "It's still Christmas," you murmur, smiling at him like you think he deserves it all. "Even for you." And Tim thinks, as he closes his eyes and feels you gently pry the mug from his fingers to set it safely on the coffee table next to you, that he might not mind Christmas so much after all. He thinks that he might not mind this life of his at all.	I don't think you need to earn this hope (I think it lives in you) Tim tries, tired and a bit hazy, not to feel too jilted by you leaving right now. He can hear you in the kitchen, opening cupboard doors gently and flicking on the stove, something like a plate or a mug clinking as you put it on the counter. He shifts to crane his head from where he's lying on the couch as if he'll be able to see you through the doorway, but the movement pulls at one of his bandages, and he winces instead. "You're supposed to be resting in there," you shout from the kitchen, and he sort of wonders if you can see through walls. "Will you relax for just a minute, please?" Tim exhales deeply, his fingers fidgeting with a bandage that's stretched across his abdomen. Everything aches, he finds. Something about the bruises and the cuts and how they'd mixed with the frigid, wet winter of Gotham has everything throbbing in a way that it doesn't normally. As he lets his head loll to the side so that his cheek presses against the pillow, the lights on your shared Christmas tree twinkle in bright little specs that make him dizzy. Or maybe that's the concussion, he thinks wryly. What a way to spend Christmas. "Can you make a noise or something?" you call from the kitchen. "I don't like it when you don't answer me, it makes me think you're dying or something." "I can't be dying," he calls back, admittedly a bit more winded and wavering than his voice usually carries. "You did too well." "Well, as fond as I am of flattery, you know anything could happen, still," you point out as you make your way back into the living room. You really don't mean to do it, he thinks - you don't say it to crack open his chest and build a home for guilt there, but he can't really help it, and neither can you. He remembers it sort of reluctantly, the nights that you'd sleep pressed up against him, your hand on a bandage as if your touch could make him whole. He still thinks, every now and then, when something awful creeps in, about the night he'd woken up to you sleeping on his chest, your ear against his heart and your fingers pressed against his inner wrist. I just couldn't sleep, you'd said. I wanted to make sure you weren't… "Hey," you tap his forehead ever so gently as you sit down on the coffee table in front of him. "How's your head?" "What's that?" he asks in lieu of answering, eyeing the mug in your hands. It's hot chocolate, he thinks vaguely, with whipped cream piled high, cinnamon sprinkled on it, and a candy cane delicately leaning on the edge of the mug. "Can you sit up?" you ask - and it's not much of an answer, he thinks, but his body seems to move anyway. He wonders, as he shifts slowly and your hand hovers nearby to help him, when he started acting like this - when he started leaning into whatever you ask of him. "It's for you," you say once he's settled with his back against the armrest, legs stretched out across the cushions. You take one of his hands in yours to wrap it around the handle of the mug, then meticulously take his other hand to press it against the warm side of the ceramic. "I'm not dying," he reminds you, thrown a bit off kilter by it all - by the kindness and the tenderness. "I really don't want you to drop it," you respond sort of sheepishly, and he levels you with a look over the whipped cream. "Seriously?" he quips. "I'm steady, baby, really." "You tripped on your way in here," you point out. "Drink it while it's hot." "I was bleeding out," he retorts as he brings the mug up to his lips obediently. "Yes," you agree wryly. "Very recently. Doesn't give me a lot of faith." Tim's sort of quiet at that, then, letting the heat of the mug seep into his palm as he watches the whipped cream melt and pool into the hot chocolate. He's not sure what to say, very often, when this comes up - when he stumbles in from the balcony, bleeding and battered. He's not sure how to assure you that the inevitable won't happen. He's not sure how to assure himself. "Where's yours?" he asks instead. "Hm?" "Did you only make one for me?" he clarifies, tapping the edge of the mug. "Oh," you straighten where you're still sitting perched on the coffee table. "Yea. I might have one later." "You feeling ok?" he asks gently, his eyes flickering over your face as he does his best to focus, to zero in on you. "Are you?" you throw back at him, and he exhales sharply, sipping again. "I don't want to drink alone," he says softly, and you melt a little bit, reaching to brush some of his hair out of his eyes. "You're not really drinking. And you're not really alone," you point out, but he doesn't budge. He stares at you, still, until you roll your eyes and pluck the candy cane from his mug, and then he watches as you scoop some whipped cream up with it and put it in your mouth. "I didn't think you really…" Tim drifts off, and his eyes track your movements as you twirl the candy cane through the whipped cream again, stealing more of it for yourself. "Did things like this." "I know how to heat up milk on a stove," you say pointedly, and the laugh he answers with tugs on his injuries with a twinge and a flinch. "I meant… Christmas. Candy canes and cinnamon sprinkles," he says gently as he stares down at the whipped cream. "Yea," you acknowledge, abandoning the candy cane in his mug and watching as it slips down further into the hot chocolate. "I probably wouldn't do it for myself." "Then why for me?" he asks, and your brows lift. "Do you not like it?" "No, I do," Tim insists, curling the mug a bit closer to his chest like you might try to take it away from him. But you just smile, a self-assured sort of thing that he thinks, dazed and wavering from his concussion, looks very at home on you. "It's Christmas," you say pointedly. "Not yet," he retorts gently. "It's Christmas time," you correct yourself long sufferingly. "I don't think vigilantes really get Christmas off, baby," he murmurs, and as he leans his head back a bit, the lights from the tree reflect in his eyes and shimmer in a thousand different colours. The snow outside drifts against the windows and sends streaks of shadows and light in, painting him in the silhouette of the holiday. "No, they don't," you acknowledge easily. "But they can still have this, can't they?" "Maybe," he murmurs, because it's supposed to feel wrong, he thinks - it's supposed to feel like it doesn't belong to him. But the mug is warm in his hands, and the pillows that you've stacked up for him smell like pine and winter, and he finds that he can't really find any reason to deny himself something so kind. "It's still Christmas," you murmur, smiling at him like you think he deserves it all. "Even for you." And Tim thinks, as he closes his eyes and feels you gently pry the mug from his fingers to set it safely on the coffee table next to you, that he might not mind Christmas so much after all. He thinks that he might not mind this life of his at all.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75721021	{"authors": ["thenyoumightaswellwrestleangels"], "language": "English", "title": "I don't think you need to earn this hope (I think it lives in you)"}
it's a creation story Should I call you Dad? No, no, no need for that. Sensei will do. Sensei always takes care of his hands. It doesn't matter to him that Tomura's hands are dangerous, that his skin is red and angry, that his tiny fingers stretched and killed her family. He takes care of them, small branches he could break with ease. He never spares a look at his family's embalmed hands on the shelf. Sometimes, Tomura places Father on his face and lets himself be choked. He can't really remember Father, only his statuesque face twisted in disdain. He can feel destruction building on his fingertips. It lives under his skin, always, in thrum with his breath. His lungs feel like they’re filled with dust.He wants to rip his skin off. Sensei doesn't let him. Sensei takes him to the bed and sits him down after his bath, after he has made sure he's clean. He helps him wash his hair, his big hands threading through his skull. His voice, as he talks, rattles inside it. When he's clean, he takes him to the bed, and then Tomura will count the star stickers his room is decorated with as his Sensei’s voice washes over him. Tonight, Sensei takes Tomura's little hands into his, and begins clipping Tomura's nails with sharp little scissors, the sort one might use for a small child or a dog. He lathers them in cream, and keeps his hand on him as they dry. It's itchy and uncomfortable and he wants to wash them until it's gone. Then he bandages his fingers, one by one. This, he does every night. Tomura can't be trusted not to accidentally decay the bed he's laying on. The band-aids are always colorful, bright like hard candy. Polka dots in red and pink, purple spaceships on neon green background, a white kitty with a red bow, lions and fawns drawn like doodles and standing still next to each other. The only time the predator and the prey can be together without gore following violence, in a child's hands. He can't trust him not to hurt himself in his sleep. There's scratches all over his body to prove it. Red lines and irritation on the dermis. Sensei has his hand on his shoulder blade, and Tomura reaches blindly to his side, where a dog plushie lays as immobile as him. He wraps his hand around the paw. What's your favorite color, Sensei? Why do you ask? I— It doesn't matter. I was just curious. Is that so? Hmm. Green. White and green. Tomura oversees the horizon. He sits at the edge of the table and he oversees the horizon, the jagged lines of the buildings reaching for the bruising sky, for the pale glint of the scattered stars. You can’t see the night sky in the city as well as you can in the country. Someone told him this. Sensei lives on a skyscraper, the skyline at his fingertips. Tomura never wants to leave, even if it means eating the healthy foods that the Doctor—Sensei's best friend, that's how he introduced him, a round, bald man with thick glasses that looks several years older than Sensei, even with his white hair—prescribes him, saying it's so he can make up for the malnutrition of the streets and a dog house. He chokes down the foods, even when they make rashes appear on his skin. Sensei told him the doctor was going to give him some medicine for his allergies to food the next time he came. The Doctor had nodded affably, and then Sensei had taken him to the table. They're talking about grown-up things, talking about expansion and growth and progress, and they’re drinking the sharp smelling, red juice flowing from the fancy bottle the Doctor brought over. It’s not the only thing he brought over. Trailing after him came a voiceless girl, head lowered. A little helper, the Doctor had said, before Sensei sent her to the kitchen and then the slow and steady orchestra of something cooking began, the slam of the knife against the cutting board, the sizzling of the pan, the whirring of the blender. The food is tasty. He forces himself to chew and scrapes the flat of his tongue into his palate, feeling the ridges of the structure, trying to soothe the biting sensation of his allergies coming to life. The meat always makes his mouth itch and his teeth rattle. It’s lamb, the Doctor says. Sensei nods. The meat of an infant sheep, young Tomura. Do you know why we kill their juveniles? No, Sensei. Here one must picture him leaning forward, cupping his hands to catch the wisdom Sensei will deliver. The meat of their young is more tender than mutton from older sheep. Easier to cut, easier to chew. The Doctor nods. Sensei drinks the deep red liquid in his cup. Tomura looks down at his plate. He pushes the food around a little, until his mouth itches a little less. He hates the feeling of meat in his mouth, the fibers giving way under the enamel, the itchiness that invariably follows. He forces himself to do it, anyway. It was Sensei’s order. When he’s done, he curls next to the wall, gazing at the skyline. If Tomura were to fall, his neck would twist and break. But he won't, because there's a protective layer of thick glass between the world and him, the world of everyone else and the world Sensei exists. He flattens his gloved hands against the hardwood, stares at the world moving underneath like little ants. He can’t see anyone from here, only the lights down the streets, the ones the contamination doesn't let him see in the sky. Who? Who was it that told him that you can see the stars better out of the city? The room Sensei says is his, is nice. It's painted white, has a green coverlet, and a large mirror staring him down. He doesn't like it a lot, but it's okay. Sensei says he likes looking at his reflection. He comes and talks with Tomura every night before it's his time to sleep. He is a lot more interested when Tomura asks him to regale him with tales of his youth. Tomura lives his life with his hands sheathed in soft leather, his fingers wrapped in band-aids when Sensei comes to visit. Sensei still makes him take them off every time he reaches to touch his family. Only four fingertips at a time. He wants him to know them, only by their texture and weight in his hand, even in his sleep. He runs his index over his sister, and Mother, and Father, wipes away the dust with ethanol-based industrial cleaning solution. They smell of formaldehyde. Sensei has a hand of his own. He keeps it in his office, cradled behind a thick glass. It's a slender hand, with rounded nails, pale like little seashells. Tomura can see the bony knuckles, the bones under thin skin. It's quite easy to imagine the way the veins would shift and stretch in motion. He doesn't dare to reach in its direction, doesn't disturb its resting place under the mirror Sensei keeps in his office. He could destroy the glass easily. Sensei likes dead things. He has taxidermized animals adorning his house, more mausoleum than home. He cradles his brother's hand close to his body, puts it against his cheek to simulate being cradled. Tomura knows it’s his brother’s, because he keeps a faded picture of him next to it. In it, a young Shigaraki Zen is wearing a pale gray, more silvery suit with a tie of the same color over a black shirt. He is smiling smugly, arm draped confidently around a high-backed red chair. In it, an elfin young man, thin and with a slender face, glared forward defiantly at the camera; black suit, black tie, white shirt, his brother’s inverse. His fingers are wrapped tightly around the armrest. It is clear that he needs to hold himself up to appear poised in the picture. The sickly little brother Sensei mentioned. It makes him uncomfortable, how alike they look, with the same sweep of the curve of the cheek and the egg-shell white hair. Their eyes are different though. Where the little brother lurches forward with his defiant green eyes, Sensei’s luminous gray ones merely curved in a smile. Tomura bites the inside of his lip until something breaks. There, blood. You are going to be my successor, Sensei says. Tomura has no idea why a man that is more natural disaster than human would wish for a successor. He doesn't even know what Sensei does or why he has this nice apartment all high up where he looks down on all those walking down the streets. You'll learn, Sensei assures him. Tomura doesn't go to school. He shyly asks Sensei about it once, tugging at his sleeve, looking at the floor. Sensei's word is the law, as good as a god's. Sensei says that Tomura doesn't need to go to school, that he can bring teachers to him instead. The teacher is a nice young woman with eyes like stars. She teaches him to read and write and sum and rest and divide. He likes her. One day, when Sensei is out, she takes him by the wrist, helps him change into nice clothes, and takes him outside. They get ice cream and she asks Tomura-kun, don't you ever get tired of living here? There's a homeless man curled under a tree, and people give him a wide berth. His teacher’s hand clutches at him when he wants to go, gives him a tight smile. How about we try another route, Tomura-kun? He thinks he likes her less. He shakes his head no. She hesitates when she sees a hero, but Tomura doesn't notice it then. On their way back he pets a stray with a stained, fluffy white coat. Sensei comes back three days later, and then he never sees that teacher again. He has this recurring nightmare where he's locked in a closet. (He is small and afraid and his skin doesn't feel wrong where it cling to his body. He is pathetic and tiny. The side of his face stings. He is trapped in a small tiny space and he can't breathe, can't speak, can only emit pained animal howls, a raw primitive sound that begs for someone, anyone, to help him. He is choking, he is drowning, he can't breathe, they're going to suffocate him, heavy weight a top of him, a typhoon or a storm— Why doesn't anyone care? Why are they letting him die? He struggles. He doesn't let himself stop, blindly shaking in the confined space, clawing at the door, but it is dark and he doesn't see that there's sharp objects, can only feel the sting on	it's a creation story Should I call you Dad? No, no, no need for that. Sensei will do. Sensei always takes care of his hands. It doesn't matter to him that Tomura's hands are dangerous, that his skin is red and angry, that his tiny fingers stretched and killed her family. He takes care of them, small branches he could break with ease. He never spares a look at his family's embalmed hands on the shelf. Sometimes, Tomura places Father on his face and lets himself be choked. He can't really remember Father, only his statuesque face twisted in disdain. He can feel destruction building on his fingertips. It lives under his skin, always, in thrum with his breath. His lungs feel like they’re filled with dust.He wants to rip his skin off. Sensei doesn't let him. Sensei takes him to the bed and sits him down after his bath, after he has made sure he's clean. He helps him wash his hair, his big hands threading through his skull. His voice, as he talks, rattles inside it. When he's clean, he takes him to the bed, and then Tomura will count the star stickers his room is decorated with as his Sensei’s voice washes over him. Tonight, Sensei takes Tomura's little hands into his, and begins clipping Tomura's nails with sharp little scissors, the sort one might use for a small child or a dog. He lathers them in cream, and keeps his hand on him as they dry. It's itchy and uncomfortable and he wants to wash them until it's gone. Then he bandages his fingers, one by one. This, he does every night. Tomura can't be trusted not to accidentally decay the bed he's laying on. The band-aids are always colorful, bright like hard candy. Polka dots in red and pink, purple spaceships on neon green background, a white kitty with a red bow, lions and fawns drawn like doodles and standing still next to each other. The only time the predator and the prey can be together without gore following violence, in a child's hands. He can't trust him not to hurt himself in his sleep. There's scratches all over his body to prove it. Red lines and irritation on the dermis. Sensei has his hand on his shoulder blade, and Tomura reaches blindly to his side, where a dog plushie lays as immobile as him. He wraps his hand around the paw. What's your favorite color, Sensei? Why do you ask? I— It doesn't matter. I was just curious. Is that so? Hmm. Green. White and green. Tomura oversees the horizon. He sits at the edge of the table and he oversees the horizon, the jagged lines of the buildings reaching for the bruising sky, for the pale glint of the scattered stars. You can’t see the night sky in the city as well as you can in the country. Someone told him this. Sensei lives on a skyscraper, the skyline at his fingertips. Tomura never wants to leave, even if it means eating the healthy foods that the Doctor—Sensei's best friend, that's how he introduced him, a round, bald man with thick glasses that looks several years older than Sensei, even with his white hair—prescribes him, saying it's so he can make up for the malnutrition of the streets and a dog house. He chokes down the foods, even when they make rashes appear on his skin. Sensei told him the doctor was going to give him some medicine for his allergies to food the next time he came. The Doctor had nodded affably, and then Sensei had taken him to the table. They're talking about grown-up things, talking about expansion and growth and progress, and they’re drinking the sharp smelling, red juice flowing from the fancy bottle the Doctor brought over. It’s not the only thing he brought over. Trailing after him came a voiceless girl, head lowered. A little helper, the Doctor had said, before Sensei sent her to the kitchen and then the slow and steady orchestra of something cooking began, the slam of the knife against the cutting board, the sizzling of the pan, the whirring of the blender. The food is tasty. He forces himself to chew and scrapes the flat of his tongue into his palate, feeling the ridges of the structure, trying to soothe the biting sensation of his allergies coming to life. The meat always makes his mouth itch and his teeth rattle. It’s lamb, the Doctor says. Sensei nods. The meat of an infant sheep, young Tomura. Do you know why we kill their juveniles? No, Sensei. Here one must picture him leaning forward, cupping his hands to catch the wisdom Sensei will deliver. The meat of their young is more tender than mutton from older sheep. Easier to cut, easier to chew. The Doctor nods. Sensei drinks the deep red liquid in his cup. Tomura looks down at his plate. He pushes the food around a little, until his mouth itches a little less. He hates the feeling of meat in his mouth, the fibers giving way under the enamel, the itchiness that invariably follows. He forces himself to do it, anyway. It was Sensei’s order. When he’s done, he curls next to the wall, gazing at the skyline. If Tomura were to fall, his neck would twist and break. But he won't, because there's a protective layer of thick glass between the world and him, the world of everyone else and the world Sensei exists. He flattens his gloved hands against the hardwood, stares at the world moving underneath like little ants. He can’t see anyone from here, only the lights down the streets, the ones the contamination doesn't let him see in the sky. Who? Who was it that told him that you can see the stars better out of the city? The room Sensei says is his, is nice. It's painted white, has a green coverlet, and a large mirror staring him down. He doesn't like it a lot, but it's okay. Sensei says he likes looking at his reflection. He comes and talks with Tomura every night before it's his time to sleep. He is a lot more interested when Tomura asks him to regale him with tales of his youth. Tomura lives his life with his hands sheathed in soft leather, his fingers wrapped in band-aids when Sensei comes to visit. Sensei still makes him take them off every time he reaches to touch his family. Only four fingertips at a time. He wants him to know them, only by their texture and weight in his hand, even in his sleep. He runs his index over his sister, and Mother, and Father, wipes away the dust with ethanol-based industrial cleaning solution. They smell of formaldehyde. Sensei has a hand of his own. He keeps it in his office, cradled behind a thick glass. It's a slender hand, with rounded nails, pale like little seashells. Tomura can see the bony knuckles, the bones under thin skin. It's quite easy to imagine the way the veins would shift and stretch in motion. He doesn't dare to reach in its direction, doesn't disturb its resting place under the mirror Sensei keeps in his office. He could destroy the glass easily. Sensei likes dead things. He has taxidermized animals adorning his house, more mausoleum than home. He cradles his brother's hand close to his body, puts it against his cheek to simulate being cradled. Tomura knows it’s his brother’s, because he keeps a faded picture of him next to it. In it, a young Shigaraki Zen is wearing a pale gray, more silvery suit with a tie of the same color over a black shirt. He is smiling smugly, arm draped confidently around a high-backed red chair. In it, an elfin young man, thin and with a slender face, glared forward defiantly at the camera; black suit, black tie, white shirt, his brother’s inverse. His fingers are wrapped tightly around the armrest. It is clear that he needs to hold himself up to appear poised in the picture. The sickly little brother Sensei mentioned. It makes him uncomfortable, how alike they look, with the same sweep of the curve of the cheek and the egg-shell white hair. Their eyes are different though. Where the little brother lurches forward with his defiant green eyes, Sensei’s luminous gray ones merely curved in a smile. Tomura bites the inside of his lip until something breaks. There, blood. You are going to be my successor, Sensei says. Tomura has no idea why a man that is more natural disaster than human would wish for a successor. He doesn't even know what Sensei does or why he has this nice apartment all high up where he looks down on all those walking down the streets. You'll learn, Sensei assures him. Tomura doesn't go to school. He shyly asks Sensei about it once, tugging at his sleeve, looking at the floor. Sensei's word is the law, as good as a god's. Sensei says that Tomura doesn't need to go to school, that he can bring teachers to him instead. The teacher is a nice young woman with eyes like stars. She teaches him to read and write and sum and rest and divide. He likes her. One day, when Sensei is out, she takes him by the wrist, helps him change into nice clothes, and takes him outside. They get ice cream and she asks Tomura-kun, don't you ever get tired of living here? There's a homeless man curled under a tree, and people give him a wide berth. His teacher’s hand clutches at him when he wants to go, gives him a tight smile. How about we try another route, Tomura-kun? He thinks he likes her less. He shakes his head no. She hesitates when she sees a hero, but Tomura doesn't notice it then. On their way back he pets a stray with a stained, fluffy white coat. Sensei comes back three days later, and then he never sees that teacher again. He has this recurring nightmare where he's locked in a closet. (He is small and afraid and his skin doesn't feel wrong where it cling to his body. He is pathetic and tiny. The side of his face stings. He is trapped in a small tiny space and he can't breathe, can't speak, can only emit pained animal howls, a raw primitive sound that begs for someone, anyone, to help him. He is choking, he is drowning, he can't breathe, they're going to suffocate him, heavy weight a top of him, a typhoon or a storm— Why doesn't anyone care? Why are they letting him die? He struggles. He doesn't let himself stop, blindly shaking in the confined space, clawing at the door, but it is dark and he doesn't see that there's sharp objects, can only feel the sting on his skin. He makes a sound like a kicked dog when the cold metal finally breaches, doing more than just gracing the dermis, caving in. He takes it out with desperation. He can't breathe and he's scared and now there is a wound in his stomach. The blood drips steadily onto the wooden floor. (Above him, someone says, you're wonderful, giving me this, wonderful.) He was bad, he knows, but surely Father wouldn't let him die like this if he knew. Father is angry and he hurts him because Tenko is bad and he needs to be disciplined but Father does that because he loves him, he said so, because he wants him to be good. So Father must not be around. He digs one finger in as he is being split in two. The digit goes easy, blood flowing harder, and he can touch viscera and gore. He hooks another one in, hoping to— What is he searching for? Underneath his skin, someone reaches back. Something else is going to come out.) He usually doesn't remember it when he wakes up, can only feel like there's not enough air in his lungs. The scrap of a chair, a hand on the back of his neck. Young Tomura, this is Kurogiri. He will be your caretaker from now on. He nods, and bites his tongue to stop himself from begging for Sensei to not abandon him. His word is as good as a god’s. Sensei must see it on his face. Sensei sees everything on his face. Tomura is an open book to the man that saved him. I’ll still visit, child. Don’t worry about that. But I must not delay with my work, and I cannot watch over you every day. This is what Kurogiri exists for. He’ll care for you. Won’t you? Kurogiri makes an agreeing noise. Of course. He is all incorporeal, looking at him hurts. Tomura does anyway. He looks at this dark mist twisted into human shape, at the two eyes like lamps, at the brace where the neck might be. He thinks of flying, and falling, and broken necks. Kurogiri becomes the easy axis around which his life begins to orbit, though neither of them pretend they're not under Sensei's gravitational pull. He becomes the one that teaches Tomura and the one that cooks and cleans and keeps an attentive eye on him. He’s nowhere near as scary as Sensei. They decorate his room together, Kurogiri and him. He is nice. Tomura lets go of Sensei’s hand, because that was his order, and instead he clings to Kurogiri's misty body. His room is on the second floor, above the bar. Down the street there is an herbalist store, a faded sign reading DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE? next to a bakery where Kurogiri got crispy chocolate cookies. It's not quiet here like it was with Sensei, he can hear the patrons up all night, laughing, the soft rock of the music, the occasional brawl. They paint it blue and put posters up the walls. They install the console, and Kurogiri even valiantly tries to help him organize his video games. They stick fake stars on the ceiling. They look at him all night. Sometimes he can’t sleep and he pads down to the kitchen on his footfalls. He’s hungry, but it’s two am, and Kurogiri is tending bar. He can make himself something quick, then go back to playing league. He cracks open an egg—double-yolked. The misshapen yolks sit swollen at the center, vibrant and golden, suspended within the glassy egg white, cushioned by a formless halo. Something inside him lurches. A need to vomit rises within him. He turns off the stove, throws the egg and the white down the drain. Possessed by some strange madness, he opens up a tab on his phone and searches up double yolk eggs. His eyes scroll through the information. The odds of a hen laying a double yolk are about one in a thousand. It’s got a whole lot of superstition attached to it. Some even say they mean twins. Usually the work of a young hen. Their reproductive systems are not fully matured, so they make two. Sensei may have told Tomura to not call him Father, but it doesn’t change that he’s the closest to one he has. (Kurogiri doesn’t count. Kurogiri, who cares for him and is always at the ready, waiting with his love, who he sees everyday is more like his m—) They don’t let him see Sensei after he nearly dies. No matter how much he screams. And oh, does he scream. Cotton and linen. That’s what most of his clothes are made of. Doctor’s orders. His skin breaks out under almost anything else, and he gets rashes all over. And being stuck in his body is just a special type of hell on the best of days, when everything hurts, when everything feels wrong. The Doctor doesn’t do Tomura’s trimonthly checks on the bar, he does them in his lab, makes him undress and redress into a hospital gown, lays him down on the metal table. He hates it, the way he hates everything the doctor has ever done except Kurogiri, but he submits to it, because that’s how Sensei commands it, and he pretends that the photos the Doctor takes (for your file!) don’t make him want to curl into himself. He pretends that the bodies in suspension down the hallway aren’t stitched together from kids his age. Growing stronger and taller by the day, is the Doctor’s verdict, as it almost always is. Less time playing video games, young man, if you want to make it to twenty without needing glasses. Young man, he thinks. He wonders when that happened. I’ll forward your vitamin prescription to Kurogiri, as well as your allergy medication, and you better take them. He makes a non-committal groan. The Doctor pinches him. There is no smile on his face. Your body is a tool of our master’s will. You best remember that. His head is pounding. His hand is already on his jaw. His scalp is covered with thin scars from when he caught chickenpox as a kid and Kurogiri told him not to scratch himself anywhere if he didn't want to end up covered in scars of childish origin. So he settled on hurting himself where no one would see it. Yes, he bites. The Doctor let’s go. Sensei has a collection of old pre-quirk media and it's one of the most baffling things about him. He has comics, books, shows, movies, music cassettes. It used to be my brother's, he said. I want you to take it. He selects the movie at random, and it becomes clear soon enough that Sensei did not consider checking if the movies were for children or not. He watches the movie though, watches the woman’s desperate attempts to keep her youth, her fading star power. Watches her open her spine and create a new her. And then the new her kills her. He'd know Sensei’s face anywhere. Not the face he has now, melted off and ruined. Anyone could recognize him by that alone, ghastly injury that it is. What he means is: the face Sensei had when Tomura was a child and curled into him, an ancient giant, a natural disaster wearing a business suit with hands that could crush a windpipe. The sharp cut of his jaw, the handsome sweep of his cheek, his heavy-lidded eyes, red like the blood on the white sheets, his pale white hair and the soft full curl of it, when he lets it grow out. Yes, he'd know his face anywhere. He can see it looming above him as he lies down in his room in the middle of the night, thinking, I should help Kurogiri clean this place. There’s trash and dust everywhere, his weekly cleaning doing nothing to cull the mess that follows Tomura. Soon there’s going to be rot. He pictures Sensei above him, like he was in the days before his injury, when he could still stand and walk and do other things without the aid of medical equipment. His handsome face, his white hair. Red eyes. They both had red eyes. Tomura always avoided thinking of that. He pictures Sensei with his eyes closed. He pictures him pale and white. Like a pearl. He takes the pearl, cradles it between his teeth of weak enamel. Bites down. His teeth don't break. It cracks inside his mouth like an egg, slides down his throat like silver, bitter. Settles in his stomach. It itches. It's in his lungs, like fungus, feeding off a living thing. It grows with every beat of his heart, pumping blood in a perfect rhythm. He wishes he were more than the half-dead thing he is now. He wishes to rot. It's in his respiratory system. Inhale. Exhale. The itch is under the skin. Tomura brings his hand to his neck. It won't quell until his hands are bloody. The pleasure-pain of dealing with it settles him. He wants Father's hand gripping his face, strangling him, reassuring him. He’ll have to do it on his own. Sensei lives, barely. The Doctor has him strapped to a contraption of tubes and machinery. Come, child, he says, when he sees, because of course he sees, since Sensei does not need his eyes to do that. Let me inflict on you a sad tale. Did you know that my mother was a prostitute? Surprising isn’t it? I have never figured out why she didn’t kill us. It would have been better for her business. And kept her alive, too. Of course, she couldn’t have known that. She died giving birth to me and my brother. I fended for the both of us. You have to understand, it was a wild world back then, far uglier and more brutal than this one, with the false idols and smiles plastered over the brutality. We named each other. You see, we were the only thing each other had. Sensei crooks his finger, beckons him closer. Tomura lays his head at his side, like when he was little. Sensei’s fingers go to his hair, running through it gently, before he stills. Don’t let it grow past your shoulders, he says, at last. Someone could grab it in a fight. Sometimes, there’s not even blood in the sheets. Some days though, his hands rake over his body, nails trying to peel away his skin, trying to find the give. He must find what is hiding underneath. He needs to stop the itch, the wrongness, the feeling of something inside him pressing against his ribs, displacing him. But there’s nothing, he sees when he gets naked in the bathroom, no give, no pull, only him. In the end, he rips off the stars from the ceiling. He doesn't want them to be looking at him anymore. He can't stand them. They're childish, anyway, he tells Kurogiri. He turns sixteen in two weeks. That night, he dreams he can fly.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75721031	{"authors": ["chaosandtwo"], "language": "English", "title": "it's a creation story"}
To His Coy Mistress, rewritten by Ogden Nash If we could live together without death's arrival as an inevitable inbetweener, Your coyness would not be a misdemeanour. We'd spend all eternity discussing each angle afresh, And you'd probably go looking for rubies beside a river in Bangladesh, Whereas I'd predictably end up somewhere really dull Like Hull. My love for you would continue to grow throughout this experience, As slowly as the territorial expansion of the Romans, or the Assyrians. For example, I'd spend a hundred years singing about your forehead's benefits, Then spend another two centuries on each of your many bits, And another three millenia describing all your curves Because that's the sort of timescale that a poem about you deserves. I'd prefer to avoid cutting corners, even when my song Gets extremely long. Let's be honest: the day when we shall all grow old and sickly Is coming quickly, And I have often heard it said by philosophers and sages That when you're dead, you remain dead for ages and ages and ages. People will forget my poetry, and no wonder, When I'm six feet under. And my lusting after you will prove to be a failure, Because there will be nothing left of your body, including your genitalia. I admit that the grave may be a fine and private location But it's an inappropriate setting for fornication. Sooner or later your good looks will fade, So I think you should take advantage of this opportunity to get laid. During the short time when you're young and full of beauty, It's time for some booty. Because although our future centuries of decay are an easily foreseen time, I can think of lots of good ways of you and me having fun in the meantime.	To His Coy Mistress, rewritten by Ogden Nash If we could live together without death's arrival as an inevitable inbetweener, Your coyness would not be a misdemeanour. We'd spend all eternity discussing each angle afresh, And you'd probably go looking for rubies beside a river in Bangladesh, Whereas I'd predictably end up somewhere really dull Like Hull. My love for you would continue to grow throughout this experience, As slowly as the territorial expansion of the Romans, or the Assyrians. For example, I'd spend a hundred years singing about your forehead's benefits, Then spend another two centuries on each of your many bits, And another three millenia describing all your curves Because that's the sort of timescale that a poem about you deserves. I'd prefer to avoid cutting corners, even when my song Gets extremely long. Let's be honest: the day when we shall all grow old and sickly Is coming quickly, And I have often heard it said by philosophers and sages That when you're dead, you remain dead for ages and ages and ages. People will forget my poetry, and no wonder, When I'm six feet under. And my lusting after you will prove to be a failure, Because there will be nothing left of your body, including your genitalia. I admit that the grave may be a fine and private location But it's an inappropriate setting for fornication. Sooner or later your good looks will fade, So I think you should take advantage of this opportunity to get laid. During the short time when you're young and full of beauty, It's time for some booty. Because although our future centuries of decay are an easily foreseen time, I can think of lots of good ways of you and me having fun in the meantime.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75722111	{"authors": ["marnanel"], "language": "English", "title": "To His Coy Mistress, rewritten by Ogden Nash"}
Revered In the weeks following their secrets coming to light, Ignatius visits Three at Walter Manor multiple times. The air is often filled with static when he's there, a low and constant hum of agitation. Three keeps insisting that the only way out is through, that his family will adjust with time but only if Ignatius is there to be seen. So he visits. 　　But it's late one night and most of the Manor is asleep. No one is around to see, to judge, to remark. And Three whispers to Ignatius while lacing his fingers with his, "You know, there's no reason for us to only make love in yourbedroom now. I think it's about time I invite you up." 　　"Noise might still be an issue," Ignatius mutters. "Lots of people around." 　　Three smiles knowingly. "There are three other rooms between mine and the next sleeping quarters. So long as you don't scream, no one will be the wiser until you come down for breakfast." 　　"I make no promises." 　　Ignatius follows Three into his bedroom, one hand light on his lower back. He glances around; dark blue walls, a writing desk, dressers, en suite bathroom, a window that nearly spans the far wall. "Cozy," he says with a smirk. He raises his eyebrows at the queen-sized bed. "And plentyof room for two." 　　Three smiles again and locks the door. "I think my parents just didn't want to have to replace the frame when I got older and 'inevitably' got married. That much room for an eight-year-old was decadent." 　　"Ugh. Rich people," Ignatius teases. "My bedroom was about the size of your closet, andit was right next to my mother's. I learned how to be real quiet when I jerked off." 　　"You? Quiet in bed? I can hardly imagine." Three runs his hand under Ignatius' jacket, across his breast, starting to lift it from his shoulder. "This room has been a lot of things to me. Mostly a sanctuary, mostly a place to be alone. I touched myself for pleasure for the first time in that bed. I nearly died in it, once. But tonight," he lowers his voice, leaning in. "It's not a holy place. Tonight, you ravish me." 　　"Not holy? You sure about that?" Ignatius purrs, sliding his hands around Three's hips. "What's more holy than love, Peter? What's more holy—" He pulls him closer, much closer, letting him feel his desire press against his. "Than worshiping each other's bodies? Because I intend to worship every— single— inch— of you, tonight." 　　"Do it, then," Three whispers into his ear. "Make me feel like a god." 　　Three pulls at Ignatius's clothes as he's driven backward toward the bed. He gasps when pushed down onto the mattress, letting his cane fall from his hand to the floor, and he moans and hikes up his knees as Ignatius climbs on top of him and starts grinding. He slips his hands between their bodies and fumbles with the buttons of his shirt, leaving it on but open. Ignatius moves back, pushing Three's undershirt up to his collarbone. He ducks his head to his chest, licking a nipple into his mouth and making him squirm before yanking his pants and trunks off his narrow hips. 　　"Sit up," Ignatius says, pulling the clothes off Three's legs as he gets off the bed and then kneels at its edge. Three kicks off his shoes and pushes himself up, bracing his hands on the mattress, watching Ignatius take his cock in hand from under half-closed eyelids. "Tell me when you're close. You know I don't mind taking a shot in the mouth, but I'm gonna make you last this time." Three nods and reaches out, weaving his fingers gently into Ignatius's hair. 　　Worship begins with Ignatius licking his lips and trying to stop smiling as he kisses the tip of Three's cock. He sticks out his tongue and lays the end upon it, exhaling a hot breath while rubbing it back and forth. Three moans again, deep in his throat, and just barely tightens his grip on Ignatius's hair. Not pulling— never pulling, even though Ignatius has told him a little would be okay. Three is too gentle a lover to be rough intentionally, but a thought occurs… 　　"Is this your divine praise?" Three murmurs, looking down into Ignatius' eyes. "Setting your lips and tongue to service?" 　　Ignatius lifts his eyebrows as he understands, then he kisses the tip again. "It is, my Revered One," he whispers with his lips brushing the underside of the head. "Does it please You?" 　　"Yes." Three's eyelids flutter as Ignatius runs kisses down his length. 　　"Then I offer all that I have," Ignatius says before taking Three's dick into his mouth. The fingers in his hair tighten again, and he starts to suck fervently, lifting Three's right leg and hooking it over his shoulder. He closes his eyes, the sounds of wet flesh on flesh and soft gasping filling the room, and his own shaft strains against his clothes. 　　Three's breath hitches hard and he begins to push him away. "Close, too close," he whispers. Ignatius drops him from his mouth immediately and Three lets go of his hair, laying back on the bed with a shudder. 　　Ignatius takes the opportunity to extricate himself and start disrobing. Three pushes himself up onto his elbows as he gets down to his undergarments and, after a moment, slowly smiles. 　　"Now you offer tribute?" Three asks. "Presenting yourself as a feast for My eyes?" 　　"I do, for I am. Does it please You?" Ignatius repeats the phrase, pulling his tank top over his head. 　　"Not yet," Three says. "Show Me all that is Mine, and I will judge." 　　"Yes, my Revered One." Ignatius puts a foot on the mattress's edge, next to Three's knee, and snaps loose his garters, rolling the sock down and off, then repeating on the other side. With nothing but his trunks left, he runs his fingers under the hem at his waist teasingly before pulling them down. Three eyes his stiff cock before lifting a hand, index finger pointed downward, and motioning Ignatius to turn in a circle. 　　"Is all I see before Me meant for My enjoyment?" Three asks with stately self-assuredness as Ignatius turns with slow steps. 　　"Of course, my Revered One. Yours and Yours alone." Facing away from Three, Ignatius slyly looks over his shoulder and puts a hand on one ass-cheek. "You want me to bend over while I'm at it?" 　　Three waves the suggestion away. "Keep doing the supplicant bit, I'm having fun." 　　"Glad that makes two of us," Ignatius says. "Did my lord get anything to prep himself with or are we keeping everything on the outside tonight?" 　　"The K-Y and a hand towel are in that nightstand," Three says, pointing. 　　"Oh, how bourgeois,"Ignatius drawls as he retrieves the jar. "A prescription lubricant." 　　"You know Johannsen's practically sells it over-the-counter to speakeasy members," Three says, shrugging. "You just never pay up." 　　"Teacher's paycheck." Ignatius returns to Three. "Okay, where were we?" 　　Three hums thoughtfully before speaking. "Such impudent words from one who claims piety! You give Me reason to doubt your loyalty." As those last words are spoken, they both wince a little; the accusation hits too close to home. Three pauses for a second, then leans into it: "I demand you prove your faith, first by praying for My forgiveness, then by the work of your hands. And when I am satisfied, I will pardon you with a kiss most holy." 　　Ignatius stares at him for a moment, then drops into a kneel between his legs, setting the jar on the floor. He lightly puts his hands on Three's shins, just below his knees, and bows his head. "Forgive me my trespasses, my Most Revered One. Forgive my coarse tongue and weak spirit." 　　Three sits up again and replaces his hand on the top of Ignatius's head, nudging him to look up. He moves to the very edge of the bed and takes his cock in his other hand. "Reflect My words," he says quietly. "And for each entreaty, please Me." 　　"I shall," Ignatius says with a small shiver. 　　"Reflect: you have wronged Me." 　　"I have wronged You." Ignatius opens his mouth as Three pushes forward, sliding the head in on his tongue and immediately back out. They repeat this pattern: 　　"You have been unjust." 　　"I have been unjust." Schlick. 　　"Unkind." 　　"Unkind." Schlick. 　　"Faithless." 　　"Faithless." Schlick. 　　"You will repent and cleanse your soul." 　　"I will repent and cleanse my soul. 　　"To become dedicated to Me once more." 　　"To become dedicated to You once more." Schlick, schlick, schlick—Ignatius closes his lips and sucks on the tip until Three pulls it away. 　　"Now, put action to your vows and prepare My body to receive adoration." Three moves back and brings up his knees, giving Ignatius room to work. He lays his head on the sheets, hands on his stomach, and closes his eyes. 　　Ignatius grabs the jar and stands, scooping the slick gel onto his first two fingers and rubbing it around Three's hole. He takes more and wriggles a finger in; after seven years together, he knows exactly how to go through this pattern, exactly how much he needs. He delves again, thumb to Three's perineum and fingertip to his inner spot. 　　"Careful," Three murmurs, back curving slightly. "I won't last." 　　"Forgive me, my Revered One, for my greed," Ignatius mutters, dropping forward to speak against his lower stomach and plant a kiss there. "My fallible nature overtakes my good sense." He stops pressing against his perineum and inserts a second finger, stretching him without pushing against his spot. 　　"Is it your nature to seek carnal fulfillment in the arms of a God?" Three asks. "To turn your worship fruitful to your cravings?" 　　"It is, my Revered One, but it is no mere craving. As I need food and drink to survive, so too do I need Your love." Ignatius smiles against his skin. "Though I know not if a God needs Their worshipers as much as they need their God." 　　"I need only one." Without opening his eyes. Three strokes Ignatius’s hair. "Lie with Me upon My altar. I have promised you pardon." 　　They move up the bed and Three leans back into the pillows, Ignatius situating himself above him. Three slowly runs his hand around to the back of Ignatius' neck, staring into his eyes. 　　"Hear My words and know	Revered In the weeks following their secrets coming to light, Ignatius visits Three at Walter Manor multiple times. The air is often filled with static when he's there, a low and constant hum of agitation. Three keeps insisting that the only way out is through, that his family will adjust with time but only if Ignatius is there to be seen. So he visits. 　　But it's late one night and most of the Manor is asleep. No one is around to see, to judge, to remark. And Three whispers to Ignatius while lacing his fingers with his, "You know, there's no reason for us to only make love in yourbedroom now. I think it's about time I invite you up." 　　"Noise might still be an issue," Ignatius mutters. "Lots of people around." 　　Three smiles knowingly. "There are three other rooms between mine and the next sleeping quarters. So long as you don't scream, no one will be the wiser until you come down for breakfast." 　　"I make no promises." 　　Ignatius follows Three into his bedroom, one hand light on his lower back. He glances around; dark blue walls, a writing desk, dressers, en suite bathroom, a window that nearly spans the far wall. "Cozy," he says with a smirk. He raises his eyebrows at the queen-sized bed. "And plentyof room for two." 　　Three smiles again and locks the door. "I think my parents just didn't want to have to replace the frame when I got older and 'inevitably' got married. That much room for an eight-year-old was decadent." 　　"Ugh. Rich people," Ignatius teases. "My bedroom was about the size of your closet, andit was right next to my mother's. I learned how to be real quiet when I jerked off." 　　"You? Quiet in bed? I can hardly imagine." Three runs his hand under Ignatius' jacket, across his breast, starting to lift it from his shoulder. "This room has been a lot of things to me. Mostly a sanctuary, mostly a place to be alone. I touched myself for pleasure for the first time in that bed. I nearly died in it, once. But tonight," he lowers his voice, leaning in. "It's not a holy place. Tonight, you ravish me." 　　"Not holy? You sure about that?" Ignatius purrs, sliding his hands around Three's hips. "What's more holy than love, Peter? What's more holy—" He pulls him closer, much closer, letting him feel his desire press against his. "Than worshiping each other's bodies? Because I intend to worship every— single— inch— of you, tonight." 　　"Do it, then," Three whispers into his ear. "Make me feel like a god." 　　Three pulls at Ignatius's clothes as he's driven backward toward the bed. He gasps when pushed down onto the mattress, letting his cane fall from his hand to the floor, and he moans and hikes up his knees as Ignatius climbs on top of him and starts grinding. He slips his hands between their bodies and fumbles with the buttons of his shirt, leaving it on but open. Ignatius moves back, pushing Three's undershirt up to his collarbone. He ducks his head to his chest, licking a nipple into his mouth and making him squirm before yanking his pants and trunks off his narrow hips. 　　"Sit up," Ignatius says, pulling the clothes off Three's legs as he gets off the bed and then kneels at its edge. Three kicks off his shoes and pushes himself up, bracing his hands on the mattress, watching Ignatius take his cock in hand from under half-closed eyelids. "Tell me when you're close. You know I don't mind taking a shot in the mouth, but I'm gonna make you last this time." Three nods and reaches out, weaving his fingers gently into Ignatius's hair. 　　Worship begins with Ignatius licking his lips and trying to stop smiling as he kisses the tip of Three's cock. He sticks out his tongue and lays the end upon it, exhaling a hot breath while rubbing it back and forth. Three moans again, deep in his throat, and just barely tightens his grip on Ignatius's hair. Not pulling— never pulling, even though Ignatius has told him a little would be okay. Three is too gentle a lover to be rough intentionally, but a thought occurs… 　　"Is this your divine praise?" Three murmurs, looking down into Ignatius' eyes. "Setting your lips and tongue to service?" 　　Ignatius lifts his eyebrows as he understands, then he kisses the tip again. "It is, my Revered One," he whispers with his lips brushing the underside of the head. "Does it please You?" 　　"Yes." Three's eyelids flutter as Ignatius runs kisses down his length. 　　"Then I offer all that I have," Ignatius says before taking Three's dick into his mouth. The fingers in his hair tighten again, and he starts to suck fervently, lifting Three's right leg and hooking it over his shoulder. He closes his eyes, the sounds of wet flesh on flesh and soft gasping filling the room, and his own shaft strains against his clothes. 　　Three's breath hitches hard and he begins to push him away. "Close, too close," he whispers. Ignatius drops him from his mouth immediately and Three lets go of his hair, laying back on the bed with a shudder. 　　Ignatius takes the opportunity to extricate himself and start disrobing. Three pushes himself up onto his elbows as he gets down to his undergarments and, after a moment, slowly smiles. 　　"Now you offer tribute?" Three asks. "Presenting yourself as a feast for My eyes?" 　　"I do, for I am. Does it please You?" Ignatius repeats the phrase, pulling his tank top over his head. 　　"Not yet," Three says. "Show Me all that is Mine, and I will judge." 　　"Yes, my Revered One." Ignatius puts a foot on the mattress's edge, next to Three's knee, and snaps loose his garters, rolling the sock down and off, then repeating on the other side. With nothing but his trunks left, he runs his fingers under the hem at his waist teasingly before pulling them down. Three eyes his stiff cock before lifting a hand, index finger pointed downward, and motioning Ignatius to turn in a circle. 　　"Is all I see before Me meant for My enjoyment?" Three asks with stately self-assuredness as Ignatius turns with slow steps. 　　"Of course, my Revered One. Yours and Yours alone." Facing away from Three, Ignatius slyly looks over his shoulder and puts a hand on one ass-cheek. "You want me to bend over while I'm at it?" 　　Three waves the suggestion away. "Keep doing the supplicant bit, I'm having fun." 　　"Glad that makes two of us," Ignatius says. "Did my lord get anything to prep himself with or are we keeping everything on the outside tonight?" 　　"The K-Y and a hand towel are in that nightstand," Three says, pointing. 　　"Oh, how bourgeois,"Ignatius drawls as he retrieves the jar. "A prescription lubricant." 　　"You know Johannsen's practically sells it over-the-counter to speakeasy members," Three says, shrugging. "You just never pay up." 　　"Teacher's paycheck." Ignatius returns to Three. "Okay, where were we?" 　　Three hums thoughtfully before speaking. "Such impudent words from one who claims piety! You give Me reason to doubt your loyalty." As those last words are spoken, they both wince a little; the accusation hits too close to home. Three pauses for a second, then leans into it: "I demand you prove your faith, first by praying for My forgiveness, then by the work of your hands. And when I am satisfied, I will pardon you with a kiss most holy." 　　Ignatius stares at him for a moment, then drops into a kneel between his legs, setting the jar on the floor. He lightly puts his hands on Three's shins, just below his knees, and bows his head. "Forgive me my trespasses, my Most Revered One. Forgive my coarse tongue and weak spirit." 　　Three sits up again and replaces his hand on the top of Ignatius's head, nudging him to look up. He moves to the very edge of the bed and takes his cock in his other hand. "Reflect My words," he says quietly. "And for each entreaty, please Me." 　　"I shall," Ignatius says with a small shiver. 　　"Reflect: you have wronged Me." 　　"I have wronged You." Ignatius opens his mouth as Three pushes forward, sliding the head in on his tongue and immediately back out. They repeat this pattern: 　　"You have been unjust." 　　"I have been unjust." Schlick. 　　"Unkind." 　　"Unkind." Schlick. 　　"Faithless." 　　"Faithless." Schlick. 　　"You will repent and cleanse your soul." 　　"I will repent and cleanse my soul. 　　"To become dedicated to Me once more." 　　"To become dedicated to You once more." Schlick, schlick, schlick—Ignatius closes his lips and sucks on the tip until Three pulls it away. 　　"Now, put action to your vows and prepare My body to receive adoration." Three moves back and brings up his knees, giving Ignatius room to work. He lays his head on the sheets, hands on his stomach, and closes his eyes. 　　Ignatius grabs the jar and stands, scooping the slick gel onto his first two fingers and rubbing it around Three's hole. He takes more and wriggles a finger in; after seven years together, he knows exactly how to go through this pattern, exactly how much he needs. He delves again, thumb to Three's perineum and fingertip to his inner spot. 　　"Careful," Three murmurs, back curving slightly. "I won't last." 　　"Forgive me, my Revered One, for my greed," Ignatius mutters, dropping forward to speak against his lower stomach and plant a kiss there. "My fallible nature overtakes my good sense." He stops pressing against his perineum and inserts a second finger, stretching him without pushing against his spot. 　　"Is it your nature to seek carnal fulfillment in the arms of a God?" Three asks. "To turn your worship fruitful to your cravings?" 　　"It is, my Revered One, but it is no mere craving. As I need food and drink to survive, so too do I need Your love." Ignatius smiles against his skin. "Though I know not if a God needs Their worshipers as much as they need their God." 　　"I need only one." Without opening his eyes. Three strokes Ignatius’s hair. "Lie with Me upon My altar. I have promised you pardon." 　　They move up the bed and Three leans back into the pillows, Ignatius situating himself above him. Three slowly runs his hand around to the back of Ignatius' neck, staring into his eyes. 　　"Hear My words and know them as truth," Three says softly. "You are forgiven in My eyes. Take the ambrosia from My lips and be remade clean." He pulls him down into a kiss that they could make last till dawn, had they not more pressing urges. 　　"Thank you, my Revered One," Ignatius says as he breaks away. "In return, I live as Yours for the rest of my days." 　　"You will give all of your body to act as instrument for My pleasure?" Three asks. "Your hands to hold Me steady, your tongue and teeth to graze My skin, your manhood to pierce and press upon My deepest and most sacred reaches?" 　　Ignatius leans in and mutters against his ear, "Since when are you such a poet, by the way?" 　　"Shhh!" Three whispers back. "Keep going!" 　　Ignatius tries to shake the grin off his face as he straightens up. "I could aspire to no higher honor than to be found worthy of this duty, my Revered One, my Lord, my God. Bless me with Your leave and I will honor Your every desire as hallowed order. So long as it pleases You, I obey." 　　"It pleases Me," Three breathes. "I grant you eternal station at My side, as My sole lover and most prized adherent. Now: come to Me, and be anointed." 　　Ignatius can't hold in his laughter at that, and Three breaks character with a toothy smile. He opens his arms and Ignatius lowers himself into his embrace. 　　"Not a bad poet yourself," Three says. 　　"You want me to try speaking in tongues next?" Ignatius asks cheekily. 　　Three shakes his head against his neck. "No. Just make love to me." He lets Ignatius leave his arms, and he tilts his hips, letting his weaker leg rest as the other lifts to Ignatius' side. With a happy sigh, Three rolls his head back as Ignatius enters him and takes his cock in hand. Ignatius strokes him in time with his thrusts, quickly gaining speed after being untouched throughout their game. As the thrusts grow harder, Three begins to whimper, and Ignatius grins. 　　"Holy language," he breathes. "Sing me a blessing, my God. Sanctify me." 　　When making love between the thin walls of a small apartment, one can only be so loud before the neighbors notice; embarrassing for many couples, dangerous for two men. Here, safe from everything exceptthat embarrassment, Three lets himself moan wantonly. They feed upon each other in a cycle, one driving the other to wilder heights with hammering hips and wordless cries until the cries are no longer wordless. 　　"Cumming!" Three balls his fists in the pillow cases by his head and convulses. "Oh God, Oh God, Ignatius, I—!" 　　Ignatius points Three's cock at himself and takes it on his stomach and chest. Then he leans down and growls in his face, "You're not done yet, Lord."Curling his arms up behind him, he grabs his shoulders and pulls him tight against his slick front, wetting his undershirt, chin nocked next to his neck. Three arches into the embrace, dizzily squeezing his eyes closed, losing count of the times Ignatius pounds into him before finally he too cums with a nearly pained shout. 　　Barely able to keep himself braced on his shuddering legs, Ignatius grinds through his ebbing sparks of pleasure, then he rolls off of Three. "Goddamn," he pants, wiping his arm across his forehead. "I think that was better than when we made up!" 　　Three chuckles in between attempts to catch his breath. "Well, neither of us cried this time," he says. "So points for that." He turns onto his right side and loops his arm over Ignatius' chest, ignoring the cum that gets on his sleeve while settling in to cuddle. "Your 'Revered One,' huh? Is that a reference to something?" 　　"Not that I know of" Ignatius says, shrugging one shoulder while putting his other arm around Three. "I didn't feel like taking any real deities' names in vain, metonyms included." 　　"How respectful." 　　"Don't get used to it." 　　"No?" Three grins. "For someone who likes being assertive, you seemed to be getting real into that role. You even anointed yourself." 　　"And you've been holding out on me with all that confidence!" Ignatius says, chucking him under the chin. "'Reflect my words and blow me while you do it?' I didn't know you wanted to fuck my ego, too." 　　"You liked it," Three says with total certainty. "You wouldn't have done it if you didn't." 　　"Still. You're full of surprises." 　　"So are you." 　　Ignatius raises an eyebrow. "Because I played along?" 　　"No," Three says, leaning in with a glint in his eye. "Because you found religion."	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75722146	{"authors": ["amuseoffirebane"], "language": "English", "title": "Revered"}
Unraveled, Rewoven The passenger side seat to his car sat empty. He rested his hands over the steering wheel, mind beginning to drift off to years past when they would ride in it together. These were normally mundane occurrences, dropping each other off at work, going to the grocery store, visiting parents, etc, he never thought much of them as it was usually the place they were heading to that was important, not the drive itself. He used to think of these drives as nothing more than just a means to an end, nothing much else to think of them honestly. She was kind enough to let him keep the car, he was grateful for that. However, he couldn’t help but notice a hollow feeling whenever he drove it now. Something just felt off. No matter what music he played or air fresheners he put in, driving in it just never felt the same. He never realized how much he’d miss the sound of her voice echoing through the interior or the scent of her sweet perfume lingering when he’d open the door again, until they were no longer there… “Dad?” “Hmm?” Shoto hummed, sitting back up and looking towards the back seat. His son held an earbud in one hand, pushing aside his long tendrils of hair to look at his father. “When can we go inside?” Despite the drowsiness in his eyes, they always gave you a sense they could be piercing into your soul. Shoto always wondered if that was just because of the heterochromia he inherited from him, the left a light blue, the right silver. He also wondered if Momo ever felt the same, but he doesn’t ask her about too many things these days. “Uh, soon, I think. She said she’s just getting dressed.” Haruka says nothing back as he places his ear bud back to where it rested before. He looks back down at his phone screen with his younger sister. He held it up so she could still see from her forward facing car seat. In contrast to the stoic expression of her older brother, the smile never seemed to wipe away from Misaki’s face, as if she was just always happy to be there. Shoto watched his kids as they sat next to each other, noting the differences between the two. Haruka was only eleven and yet he already had enough hair to rival most of his family, falling right past his shoulders. He inherited his mother’s raven dark hair, however bits of his father shone through as a streak of white touched the lower ends of his hair, giving him a nice ombre look. His hair naturally curled up near the bottom of his strands, complementing nice sets of bangs across his forehead. His hair there probably would’ve covered his eyes too if his mother didn’t take it upon herself to cut it for him. She told Shoto the long hair looked beautiful upon him, however he should still be able to see. He agreed that’d be preferable. A XL greyish blue shirt rested comfortably upon him, almost covering up his black shorts. His parents always asked why he didn’t just get a shirt his size, but he’d always simply tell them it just felt more comfortable, more freeing. His eyebags looked a bit better than they had before, but they were still much too visible for a boy his age. Shoto bemoaned his dad for getting him those blackout curtains he asked for Christmas. His fatigue was already bad enough most days and receiving no sunlight in his room could not be helping him. Shoto tried to remember the last time he even saw the boy smile. He looked over towards his daughter, who had always seemed to be the complete opposite of her older brother. Her hair was shorter, resting just above her neck. Like her brother, she inherited the blue eye from her dad, although with her she gained it in both of her eyes. She had on a shirt fashioned with rainbows and stars on it, and a ginormous smile almost seemed to rest upon her face. Unlike her brother Misaki always felt like a bottomless pit of energy. If you were even close to her she’d find some way to make you play or watch something with her. Whenever he’s had to hire a sitter for her, oftentimes he’d come back home and find the sitter completely passed out on the couch. The two could not be any more different from one another, yet in spite of this, Shoto thinks Misaki might’ve spent most of the short amount of time she’s had on this planet with her older brother. He thought back to all of the times he’d seen Haruka walking around the house or spending the day out with the family and it seemed like nine times out of ten his sister was glued to him, even earlier on in the car ride Shoto could hear Misaki from the backseat asking her older brother if he wanted to watch that movie where the musician girls fought demons with her again. He was thankful Haruka was always so patient with her. Most eleven year old boys would rather die than be seen with their five year old sisters, yet Haruka always seemed to be ok with entertaining her. Shoto could even swear he’d see the lines of a smile start to form on Haruka’s face at times around her. His phone vibrated, taking his attention away from his kids. A notification had popped up. Dressed now, heading out the door He shut it off as he turned his attention towards the towering building in front of them. When they were together they had an all around nice house, however her new location made their old one look like a quaint cabin in the woods. A giant fountain in front of the building acted as the center piece to this architectural piece of wonder. Two curving staircases brought you to the door that led to what any person going on a walk nearby can imagine must be a house of wonders. Shoto had heard about the famous Creati Mansion Parties and with a house like this he could only imagine which of the fantastical rumors that were passed around hero inner circles were true. The door opened as Momo walked out, sporting some casual attire. She looked out towards the car and waved as her speed began to pick up. “Ok, she’s here.” Shoto said, the sound of seatbelts unbuckling quickly followed as Shoto opened his car door to greet his ex wife. “Hey, sorry I took so long, there were some work complications I had to deal with.” Momo said, brushing strands of her short hair aside. “It's fine, I understand.” Shoto told her as he looked over at her. He never did find out why she cut it so short. For all the time he had known her, before and during their marriage, she had grown it long and worn it in what was once her signature ponytail hairstyle. Then a month after they had separated he was taken aback as it suddenly seemed to disappear from her entirely, now what remained simply rested above her shoulders, similar to their daughter. She had kept it like this ever since, and despite the initial shock of the sudden change during a time when many sudden changes had taken place within their lives, he couldn’t help but still notice how good it had looked on her. The way it fell across her head seemed to complement her facial features perfectly. When he had first seen it in person, he was too busy taking in the new style to notice the blush on Momo’s cheeks. “I hope the kids weren’t too bored while they waited.” She said as she walked towards the car’s back doors. “No, they were fine.” Shoto said, following her. “Misaki just had Haruka watch that demon musical movie with her again.” Momo laughed. “Aw, poor Haruka. How many times has she made him watch that movie with her by now?” “How many times has she made you watch it with her?” “The same answer as you Shoto, too many.” She said before opening up the car door, leaning down to look at her children. “Hi my babies! I’m so sorry, I got carried away with work.” “Mommy!” Misaki said, completely taking her attention away from the movie she was watching only a second ago. Momo unbuckled her car seat and lifted up her youngest daughter, kissing her on the cheek. “Hi Ms.Misaki!” Momo said before Misaki wrapped her arms around her mother’s chest, squeezing her lungs and causing an “Oof!” to escape from Momo. “H-how was your week?”. She mustered while trying to regain her breath “We saw a kitty mom!” “Oh really?” “There’s a calico that walks around our street sometimes.” Shoto said, standing by the passenger side door of his car. “It’s really fat!” Misaki said, adding her own useful contribution to the conversation. Momo couldn’t help but chuckle. “Sounds like it’s well fed, do you know who it belongs to?” She said, pointing her direction at Shoto. He shrugs. “I’ve tried taking a look at its collar but it never seems to have one on. I’m afraid it’s lost or something.” “Aw, poor thing. I hope she can find her way back to her owners.” Shoto nodded. “Yeah. It usually visits around early evening and then runs off before it gets dark. I’ve started leaving out food for it whenever it comes by.” “It’s really friendly.” Haruka said as he closed his car door behind him. His parents' eyes suddenly dawned on him, he looked down and started fiddling with the strap of his backpack. “I went out to greet it one time and it started meowing at me and rubbing its head against my leg. It has a really crunchy meow.” “Sounds like you have a furry friend now Haruka.” Momo said as she put her daughter back down on the ground. “Hey, could you watch your sister for a moment? I just have to go over some stuff with your father real quick.” Haruka nodded. “Misaki, can you come over here? I’ll listen to you talk about that cartoon you like.” “Ok!” Misaki ran off to her older sibling and almost instantly started yapping off to him. The co-parents looked over them as Haruka gave his full attention to his sister. Shoto and Momo made their way closer to the entrance gate so their two children could not listen in on them. “So, where are Genji and Hifumi?” Momo asked, folding her arms into each other as they came to a stop. “I haven’t heard from them since they texted and said they were heading out before you guys.” “They said they had to stop somewhere, Hifumi texted me a few minutes ago and said they’d be here soon.” “Ok, ok that’s good.” A small moment of silence fell upon the	Unraveled, Rewoven The passenger side seat to his car sat empty. He rested his hands over the steering wheel, mind beginning to drift off to years past when they would ride in it together. These were normally mundane occurrences, dropping each other off at work, going to the grocery store, visiting parents, etc, he never thought much of them as it was usually the place they were heading to that was important, not the drive itself. He used to think of these drives as nothing more than just a means to an end, nothing much else to think of them honestly. She was kind enough to let him keep the car, he was grateful for that. However, he couldn’t help but notice a hollow feeling whenever he drove it now. Something just felt off. No matter what music he played or air fresheners he put in, driving in it just never felt the same. He never realized how much he’d miss the sound of her voice echoing through the interior or the scent of her sweet perfume lingering when he’d open the door again, until they were no longer there… “Dad?” “Hmm?” Shoto hummed, sitting back up and looking towards the back seat. His son held an earbud in one hand, pushing aside his long tendrils of hair to look at his father. “When can we go inside?” Despite the drowsiness in his eyes, they always gave you a sense they could be piercing into your soul. Shoto always wondered if that was just because of the heterochromia he inherited from him, the left a light blue, the right silver. He also wondered if Momo ever felt the same, but he doesn’t ask her about too many things these days. “Uh, soon, I think. She said she’s just getting dressed.” Haruka says nothing back as he places his ear bud back to where it rested before. He looks back down at his phone screen with his younger sister. He held it up so she could still see from her forward facing car seat. In contrast to the stoic expression of her older brother, the smile never seemed to wipe away from Misaki’s face, as if she was just always happy to be there. Shoto watched his kids as they sat next to each other, noting the differences between the two. Haruka was only eleven and yet he already had enough hair to rival most of his family, falling right past his shoulders. He inherited his mother’s raven dark hair, however bits of his father shone through as a streak of white touched the lower ends of his hair, giving him a nice ombre look. His hair naturally curled up near the bottom of his strands, complementing nice sets of bangs across his forehead. His hair there probably would’ve covered his eyes too if his mother didn’t take it upon herself to cut it for him. She told Shoto the long hair looked beautiful upon him, however he should still be able to see. He agreed that’d be preferable. A XL greyish blue shirt rested comfortably upon him, almost covering up his black shorts. His parents always asked why he didn’t just get a shirt his size, but he’d always simply tell them it just felt more comfortable, more freeing. His eyebags looked a bit better than they had before, but they were still much too visible for a boy his age. Shoto bemoaned his dad for getting him those blackout curtains he asked for Christmas. His fatigue was already bad enough most days and receiving no sunlight in his room could not be helping him. Shoto tried to remember the last time he even saw the boy smile. He looked over towards his daughter, who had always seemed to be the complete opposite of her older brother. Her hair was shorter, resting just above her neck. Like her brother, she inherited the blue eye from her dad, although with her she gained it in both of her eyes. She had on a shirt fashioned with rainbows and stars on it, and a ginormous smile almost seemed to rest upon her face. Unlike her brother Misaki always felt like a bottomless pit of energy. If you were even close to her she’d find some way to make you play or watch something with her. Whenever he’s had to hire a sitter for her, oftentimes he’d come back home and find the sitter completely passed out on the couch. The two could not be any more different from one another, yet in spite of this, Shoto thinks Misaki might’ve spent most of the short amount of time she’s had on this planet with her older brother. He thought back to all of the times he’d seen Haruka walking around the house or spending the day out with the family and it seemed like nine times out of ten his sister was glued to him, even earlier on in the car ride Shoto could hear Misaki from the backseat asking her older brother if he wanted to watch that movie where the musician girls fought demons with her again. He was thankful Haruka was always so patient with her. Most eleven year old boys would rather die than be seen with their five year old sisters, yet Haruka always seemed to be ok with entertaining her. Shoto could even swear he’d see the lines of a smile start to form on Haruka’s face at times around her. His phone vibrated, taking his attention away from his kids. A notification had popped up. Dressed now, heading out the door He shut it off as he turned his attention towards the towering building in front of them. When they were together they had an all around nice house, however her new location made their old one look like a quaint cabin in the woods. A giant fountain in front of the building acted as the center piece to this architectural piece of wonder. Two curving staircases brought you to the door that led to what any person going on a walk nearby can imagine must be a house of wonders. Shoto had heard about the famous Creati Mansion Parties and with a house like this he could only imagine which of the fantastical rumors that were passed around hero inner circles were true. The door opened as Momo walked out, sporting some casual attire. She looked out towards the car and waved as her speed began to pick up. “Ok, she’s here.” Shoto said, the sound of seatbelts unbuckling quickly followed as Shoto opened his car door to greet his ex wife. “Hey, sorry I took so long, there were some work complications I had to deal with.” Momo said, brushing strands of her short hair aside. “It's fine, I understand.” Shoto told her as he looked over at her. He never did find out why she cut it so short. For all the time he had known her, before and during their marriage, she had grown it long and worn it in what was once her signature ponytail hairstyle. Then a month after they had separated he was taken aback as it suddenly seemed to disappear from her entirely, now what remained simply rested above her shoulders, similar to their daughter. She had kept it like this ever since, and despite the initial shock of the sudden change during a time when many sudden changes had taken place within their lives, he couldn’t help but still notice how good it had looked on her. The way it fell across her head seemed to complement her facial features perfectly. When he had first seen it in person, he was too busy taking in the new style to notice the blush on Momo’s cheeks. “I hope the kids weren’t too bored while they waited.” She said as she walked towards the car’s back doors. “No, they were fine.” Shoto said, following her. “Misaki just had Haruka watch that demon musical movie with her again.” Momo laughed. “Aw, poor Haruka. How many times has she made him watch that movie with her by now?” “How many times has she made you watch it with her?” “The same answer as you Shoto, too many.” She said before opening up the car door, leaning down to look at her children. “Hi my babies! I’m so sorry, I got carried away with work.” “Mommy!” Misaki said, completely taking her attention away from the movie she was watching only a second ago. Momo unbuckled her car seat and lifted up her youngest daughter, kissing her on the cheek. “Hi Ms.Misaki!” Momo said before Misaki wrapped her arms around her mother’s chest, squeezing her lungs and causing an “Oof!” to escape from Momo. “H-how was your week?”. She mustered while trying to regain her breath “We saw a kitty mom!” “Oh really?” “There’s a calico that walks around our street sometimes.” Shoto said, standing by the passenger side door of his car. “It’s really fat!” Misaki said, adding her own useful contribution to the conversation. Momo couldn’t help but chuckle. “Sounds like it’s well fed, do you know who it belongs to?” She said, pointing her direction at Shoto. He shrugs. “I’ve tried taking a look at its collar but it never seems to have one on. I’m afraid it’s lost or something.” “Aw, poor thing. I hope she can find her way back to her owners.” Shoto nodded. “Yeah. It usually visits around early evening and then runs off before it gets dark. I’ve started leaving out food for it whenever it comes by.” “It’s really friendly.” Haruka said as he closed his car door behind him. His parents' eyes suddenly dawned on him, he looked down and started fiddling with the strap of his backpack. “I went out to greet it one time and it started meowing at me and rubbing its head against my leg. It has a really crunchy meow.” “Sounds like you have a furry friend now Haruka.” Momo said as she put her daughter back down on the ground. “Hey, could you watch your sister for a moment? I just have to go over some stuff with your father real quick.” Haruka nodded. “Misaki, can you come over here? I’ll listen to you talk about that cartoon you like.” “Ok!” Misaki ran off to her older sibling and almost instantly started yapping off to him. The co-parents looked over them as Haruka gave his full attention to his sister. Shoto and Momo made their way closer to the entrance gate so their two children could not listen in on them. “So, where are Genji and Hifumi?” Momo asked, folding her arms into each other as they came to a stop. “I haven’t heard from them since they texted and said they were heading out before you guys.” “They said they had to stop somewhere, Hifumi texted me a few minutes ago and said they’d be here soon.” “Ok, ok that’s good.” A small moment of silence fell upon the two, looking awkwardly around as they tried to think of anything to fill up the empty space between them. Usually switch offs went smoothly and were done by this point. But with their two eldest now driving themselves, the once couple found themselves having to be around one another once again. “...So, what did she actually say?” Momo asked, eyeing Shoto. He looked over their two youngest children, making sure neither one was listening or paying any attention to them. Misaki seemed to just be babbling away while Haruka slowly shook his head, his headphones still lodged in his ears but there was no doubt he was listening to every word his sister said. Shoto smiled before pulling out his phone and going towards his messages. “She said ‘Genji’s being a fuck ass grandma with his driving, ETA seven minutes.’ ” Momo did her best to try and stifle her laughter. “My, where did that girl develop that mouth of hers?” “I’d blame it on Katsuki.” Momo chuckled. “Yeah. If only Mina didn’t back out when we needed a babysitter that one time.” In that brief moment, Shoto’s eyes focused down on her smile. A sight he had seen perhaps a million times in the past, but one that had grown foreign to him over the years. It was so infectious he couldn’t help to flash one back As the laughter began to subside, the silence overtook them again. Awkward, almost agonizing silence. Whatever remnants of little joy they had formed seemed to disperse as they went back to their silent solitude They stood there for a moment, Shoto tapping a finger against his thigh while Momo awkwardly rubbed her shoulders. Shoto looks back towards her, thinking of something to say. “Oh! There they are!” She cut him off before he could get a word out. He turns around to see a car start to make its way towards the gate. Momo began to walk towards where the road led onto her property, Shoto watching behind her before following suit. The white car drew closer to them, a metal song could be heard playing inside the vehicle so loudly even the two youngest Todoroki children stopped their one sided conversation and looked towards its approach. In the car their daughter was fully jamming out in the passenger side as their son, sitting behind the wheel, simply just nodded his head alongside to the beat, lightly typing his fingers against the wheel. It appeared as though he was trying to give the impression that he wasn’t into it, but the smirk on his face striked down any lies he may try to hold up. They pulled to a stop as the chorus began to kick off, and at that point he let all of his inhibitions out and smacked his steering wheel in excitement, his grin turning into a full on smile. He joined his sister as he began to scream out the lyrics alongside his sister. Momo drew closer, listening as their voices were barely drowned out by their car speakers. Shoto followed shortly behind her and the two watched as their children headbanged and belted along to the song to their hearts' fullest content. Their little concert was put to a stop when Momo knocked on the passenger side window, breaking them out of their music induced trance, causing them to jump in their seats. Their son pressed down on a button on his car door, lowering his window as he slowly turned the knob to the radio down, hoping she wouldn’t notice how loud they had been playing the song. “Heeeeey guys, what’s up?” Genji said, hoping their parents wouldn’t point out how they were almost blowing out the speakers to their brand new car. Genji Todoroki was the eldest of all four Todoroki siblings, and the tallest at 5 '11, almost reaching his father’s height. His mother always claimed that his blue eyes must pierce through the hearts of all of the girls at school when he looked their way (though she’s stopped mentioning this as much after she noticed how he shifts uncomfortably whenever she mentions this,) a line of freckles lined across his nose and his silky, silver hair rested just above his shoulders. If the men in this family were to be judged by length of hair, he would rank right below Haruka. Hifumi found herself at the opposite end of her brother, standing at 5'6, her bright red hair, which usually stood in pigtails, was let down nicely across her shoulders on this fine morning. In the category of hair length, she was closer to her younger brother. She opened her car door and hopped out, her pentagram earrings dangling back and forth. Shoto had noticed a brown paper bag she held in one hand, and a burrito encased in tinfoil wrapping in the other, the wrapping had been opened at the top and a bite was already taken out of the breakfast item. Both elder Todoroki siblings seemed to be fitted in a more casual style today, Genji wearing a simple white shirt and grey yoga pants, and Hifumi being a bit more extravagant with her outfit. She followed her brother’s step with wearing a grey set of yoga pants, however was also fitted with a black hoodie, consisting of art featuring with what looked like a black and white clown covered in blood and above the clown read the word “Smile!” in that spikey font all of these types of hoodies seem to have. Like their parents, Genji and Hifumi had ended up entering the hero courses at UA academy through recommendations, finding themselves now venturing through their second year. Their story already would have been well known throughout the school, as twenty years ago the Hero Course students in this very same academy had faced off against and defeated the horrific Zen Shigaraki, more famously known as All for One, saving Japan and perhaps being the most famous set of students the world had ever seen. With Shoto and Momo being the first of their class to have children as well, their children entering UA already would’ve been a humongous story. However, the little details are what make stories interesting, and what made this story even more captivating was when Hifumi had finished her first year of junior high school, they had found she had excelled at her grades, far more than anyone else in her class. Coupled with her handling of her quirk at such a young age, UA had allowed her early entry into their institution on the basis that she could keep up with her studies and pass the entrance exams. She had almost rejected the offer, not wanting to kill herself with an overbearing workload for her age, however with the idea of being able to stick with her brother for her heroing career (and the bragging rights she can gain from skipping two full grades) she said, and as she was quoted, “Eh, fuck it” and passed through her entrance exam with near flying colors. Now Shoto and Momo found themselves at thirty-six and thirty-five respectively, their little babies almost fully grown up, driving around by themselves, and dressed in what were essentially pajama clothes and holding a bag of breakfast burritos after being late to switch off for the week. “Hi you two.” Momo said to them. “Hey mom, what’s up? Hope we didn’t make you guys wait too long.” Hifumi Todoroki said before taking a bite of her burrito. Shoto arched an eyebrow. “You guys got food?” “Mhm.” Hifumi responded while chewing her food. She swiftly swallowed. “There’s a new place that opened nearby and we wanted to try it out.” “You wanted to try it out.” Genji said, stepping out from the driver’s side door. “I wanted to drive straight to here but you kept pestering me to have us go there.” “Quit you’re nagging. You said you wanted more driving experience anyways and we still made it here in one piece.” She looked back towards her dad. “The reviews weren’t lying either, these things are great, it was totally worth the detour and 3,900 Yen they cost.” “Ok, just…was my breakfast not good this morning?” Shoto said, suddenly feeling insecure over the meal he had made for his children before they all ventured off to switch for another week this morning. He had cooked all four of his children a salad consisting of little chunks of ham, fried bell peppers, small pieces of tomato and, at their request, a fried egg on top. He had gotten up two hours early this morning to make sure he got everything just right and dished it out to them as he watched the smiles light up on his children’s face. If you could see Shoto in that instant, you could see the light glimmer in his slightly more sunken to usual eyes. “Oh fuck no dad your breakfast was amazing.” Hifumi said. “Hifumi.” Momo stared down her oldest daughter, motioning towards the two younger children who were looking towards their way. “Oh, right. Sorry mom.” Momo simply nodded her head before Hifumi looked back towards her father. “But yeah, no dad what you made was great, we just have a lot of quirk training today, so I’mma need my calories if I don’t wanna burn myself out, almost literally I should say.” Hifumi took another big bite out of her burrito, letting out a satisfying moan as she chewed. The aroma from the burrito and the steam emitting from it did make Shoto and Momo’s stomachs growl a little bit. “I’m still full from this morning, so all I got was this drink.” Genji lifted up a simple half way drunken bottle of water and lightly shook it in his hand, water pellets splashing around inside of it. “I was mostly just the chau-ffeur.” He said putting a faux elegant accent on the word. Momo rolled her eyes on her elder children’s playfulness. “Well as her ‘chau-ffeur,’ did you guys have a safe drive?” Genji’s relaxed composure seemed to slip a small amount as he became a little tense, the smile dropping from his face only slightly. “Oh, uh…yeah. Mhm. Perfectly smooth drive.” He said, diverting his gaze from his parents as he moved towards the backseat to grab his backpack. “Anyways, me and Hifumi have a lot of hero work we have to get done today so we’ll just head inside now.” Genji shut the car door and locked it shut with his keys before making his way towards the mansion. “See you next week dad, love you.” He stopped to give his dad an awkward half hug before walking towards the mansion. Shoto and Momo watched as their son scurried off before looking back towards Hifumi, who was taking another bite out of her food. “He accidentally went through the entrance lane to the restaurant while trying to leave and some cars were trying to enter and began honking at us. He spent like five minutes trying to reverse out of there and not hit anyone driving by. It was really busy. Some guy trying to get in called him a motherfucker.” She threw the wrapper of her burrito into the bag before pulling out another one, beginning to unwrap it. Shoto chuckled while Momo simply closed her eyes and sighed. “What are we gonna do with him?” She said mostly to herself. Hifumi shrugged. “Hey, can you not tell him I told you guys that? Besides that and driving five below the speed limit the entire goddamn time, he was honestly pretty good on the road. And I don’t want him to think I'm trash talking him behind his back or anything.” “He did only just get his license.” Shoto said, looking towards Momo. “I say go easy on him this time, we made worse mistakes when we started driving. Momo looked over towards Genji, who was standing over his two youngest siblings. He leaned over a bit to ruffle up Haruka’s hair, Momo reading the word “Stop.” from his lips but making no meaningful attempt to actually stop his big brother. Genji followed that up by making a fist towards Misaki, she reciprocated this by colliding her own fist towards his and the two mimicking an explosion as they made contact. Misaki began to giggle. Momo smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna say anything about it. “ “Thanks, I appreciate it.” Hifumi said before walking off, taking another bite from her second burrito. “Wait, Hifumi-” Momo called out, stopping Hifumi in her tracks. She turned around, crumbs of burrito stuck to her check. “What was the song this time?” Hifumi flashed a smile before swallowing. “Stardust by Gemini Syndrome.” “Oh that’s a good one.” “I know, right?” Hifumi said, beginning to turn away from her parents. Momo mimicked wiping her thumb over her check, causing Hifumi to take a napkin from her bag and wiping her mouth before making her way towards her siblings. Shoto and Momo found themselves once again only with each other. Momo crossed her arms before meeting his glance. “So, anything else I should know before you head off for the week.” “Nothing much, Misaki has that appointment with her pediatrician on Tuesday, but that’s about it. Haruka’s caught up with all of his online school work and Genji and Hifumi are just sticking with their Quirk training as usual.” “Ok, that’s good.” Momo said. “Yeah…anything I should know about before I leave?” “Oh, uh…” Momo said as she tapped her finger against her elbow, Shoto could see the cogs turning in her brain before she shrugged. “Nope. Nothing you should know right now, I guess.” “Ok, cool. I’ll start heading out soon then.” She nodded. Yeah, of course, you can go home now Shoto, everything will be good here.” Shoto nodded back before making his way towards his car. As he turned around, he could see the eyes of his two eldest focused on him and his ex, before averting their vision to other areas of the property. He wondered how long they had been watching them this time. With Shoto now putting some distance between them, Momo only following slowly behind, their kids began to look back up towards them again. “Ok, I’m gonna head home now. I’ll see you guys in a week, be good to your mom until I come back.” Shoto said, taking Hifumi in for a hug. “Love you honey.” “Bye dad! Love you too! I’ll see you next week.” She smiled as she held him back. After letting go, he leaned down and opened his arms as Misaki jumped into him, wrapping her arms around his neck, squeezing him tightly. If she was only a little bit stronger, Shoto felt like she could strangle him at this moment. “Bye daddy! I love you!” “I love you too, sweetie.” He squeezed her lightly before placing her down and looking towards Haruka, who paused what he was listening to on his phone. “Are we gonna stay with the handshakes for now?” Haruka looked down at the ground below him, lightly clinging onto the cord of his earbuds. “I-if that’s ok.” Shoto could feel the small ting of disappointment overtake him, but not wanting his son to see, he masked it with a smile and a nod. “Of course.” Haruka looked back up and put his hand out and was met with his father’s left one. It felt warm and oddly comforting. Haruka had always had an aversion to hugs, but he did sometimes wonder if one from his father would feel similar to this. “I love you, son.” Shoto told him. Haruka looked up at his father’s gaze and simply nodded. Shoto stood up and looked towards his eldest, who smirked back at him. “You know, I did already hug you, so I feel like I can be exempt from it this-” “No.” Shoto said before embracing Genji. “Should’ve figured that’d happened.” Genji sighed before returning his father’s grasp. “Love you, dad.” “Love you too, Genji. Great job on driving today.” Shoto let go of his son and made his way toward the car, beginning to open it up before catching Momo's eyeline. She stood next to the car, arms still folded. She put a small smile on her face before waving a hand at him. “See you Sunday.” Shoto returned the smile before simply nodding and waved back. “See ya.” He entered the car and closed the door behind him. As he drove off, he watched from his rear view mirror as his kids and their mother began to walk inside, Genji and Hifumi continuing whatever conversation they were having before, Haruka took his sister’s hand as they went inside, and Momo followed along behind them as they all began to start their week with her. After looking for a second or two, Shoto placed his eyes back on the road as he began to make his voyage back home. If he had looked back up at his rear view mirror one last time before they had disappeared from its line of sight, he would’ve seen Momo glance back towards him, only for a second The drive home felt long, only being filled up by the sound of his tires running over dirt and road. He moved his hand as if to turn on the radio at one point, before ultimately placing it back on the wheel. His mind often filled in the silence with whatever thoughts it could conjure up. What he could cook up for dinner, how he was gonna get through dinner with his family next week, how Midorya and Ururaka are handling the pregnancy, how Momo’s smile looked really radiant today… He tried pushing these thoughts to the side, instead telling himself to focus on the road. Drivers in the city tended to not be the most observant of their surroundings, and that’s without the almost weekly villain attacks that happen here. Ojiro lost his car almost three times while driving through this area because of that. Alongside finding himself rear ended by a drunk driver. Despite his best efforts however, his thoughts began to drift back towards a time when they were together, when they were happy with each other. Second year students, just like their two eldest are now. Looking back it was almost a relatively dull year, at least in comparison to the hell they had all gone through as first year students. By this point most of them were ready to move on from school and finally jump into the world as Pro’s. They had already more than proven themselves the year before, this was just something they had to do no matter how much experience they had gained at this point. This isn’t to say, of course, that he never made any good memories during this period. It was a struggle trying to return back to what many would consider normal life after all he had been through, but he had a great community of friends, some he’d even consider his family. As long as he was around them, school was never a drag. This was when he became even closer to Momo than he already had been. Sure, he had already spent a lot of time with her in class, some outside of it (although he rarely saw her without Jirou during these times, he could’ve sworn she’d given him some odd looks when he’d approach them too) and had done some hero work with her as well. He had known by this point that he had developed feelings for her, too. He had never forgotten the moment when they finally bloomed for him. When those fireworks blew overhead, and she gave him that soft and warm smile, affirming to him that she and all of Class 1A were his family now, he couldn’t help but finally realize how enamored he was with her. Of course that, you could say, “busy” first year at UA didn’t leave much in the way for him to explore those feelings, what with studies, sidekick trips, and a few full on wars not allowing for many dates to be had amongst classmates. Besides, he hadn’t even known he could feel this way for someone, and she wouldn’t want to be caught with him anyways, caught up with him and his mess of a family. Especially after what was revealed about his father, what Dabi had revealed to the world. Even after clearing his name and stopping his brother’s rampage, who would want to end up with an ugly, scarred boy and his mess of a family? The car in front of him stopped suddenly, breaking Shoto free from his thoughts. He quickly slammed on his breaks, heart beginning to race as his body jerked forward. “Jesus.” He found himself saying. No matter how many villain attacks you experience in your life, you never fully adjust to how other people somehow still have their licenses. He looked up at the traffic light, a blaring red. Despite this, the car in front of him was still a few good inches away from the car ahead of him. It tried to turn into the lane to the right of them, getting a honk from a car it almost crashed into. Shoto sighed. He leaned back into his seat and rested his head against his fist. The red light in this area of the city always took forever to change. And with the drivers around him, he prepared himself for a long stop. It really had been good, in the beginning, he told himself. He felt like even if he lived to be one hundred and six he’d never forget that night where it seemed things would finally begin with them. The students at 2A were throwing Iida a birthday party, to celebrate both him and the work he achieved as their class president. Momo was vice president so he hadn’t seen her a whole lot while she was planning. It felt almost agonizing not being able to be near her, any little interaction he had with her, even if Jirou or Iida or anyone else was around (and they almost always were), just made him feel like his feelings bloomed even more, if only he just had more opportunities to fully garden them. The party itself was wonderful, the cake Sato baked was just as good as ever (half of it was gone by the time Shoto went to get a slice), Jiro played an amazing variety of live music that consisted of both rock and traditional pop that had everyone singing along, Mina had snuck in about three bottles of champagne, which lead to Ojiro and Hagakure making out in a corner (an odd visual, that had been), Kaminari hurling up his guts out on Bakugo, and Iida gave a speech that made them all almost cry. After the hell they had gone through in their previous year, they couldn’t help but feel tremendous joy at the ability to still enjoy their lives. About halfway through that party he had seen Momo take a moment of leave outside, and decided to follow her. She had flashed her beautiful smile and commented on how nice the air felt that night. The two began talking, about classes, hero work, the usual. Eventually they had diverted to the topic of the party and Momo’s involvement. Momo had told him planning this party was more of a pain than usual. Iida’s were always the hardest as, unlike every other classmate of theirs, she couldn’t rely on Iida’s help or guidance, so she was left to fend for herself to surprise him. However, it was always worth it when those parties came to fruition, and she had gotten to spend these times with her friends. Everyone in that class was immensely important to her, and she was just lucky she got to have these people in their lives, and that she was able to help make them happy after what they all went through. He had remembered how his heart began to thump heavily in his chest, a sense of weight was put upon it, his breaths almost felt heavier in his lungs while he listened to her talk. Over a full year of facing villains and nearly dying and yet he still felt like he was gonna break a sweat just by asking her one question. When she had finished, he mustered up all of the courage he could find within himself to force the question out. “Yaoyorozu, do you feel that same way about me?” Her face seemed to have almost drowned in disbelief that he would even think of such a question. He was so stupid for even thinking of trying to initiate this conversation with her, they had barely spoken as much as they used to and what woman would ever want to be a guy that looked like him and held onto all of that baggage- Even now, almost twenty years later, he hadn’t forgotten the emotions that swelled over him as she returned her smile back to her face, and the simple sentence that made everything feel so perfect. “Shoto, you’re one of the most important people in my life.” Any and all trains of thought he had were instantly cut off as he finally pulled back into his driveway, returning to his normal state of mind, thankfully. He took his keys out of the ignition and stepped out of the car, closing the door behind him. He began to walk towards the front door of his house, stopping for only a second to take a look around his yard. Nope, no sign of the cat at the moment. He opened the door and headed inside, taking a look around his house as he noted the foam swords and small unicorn laying down on the ground and, for some reason, a shirt just laying down in a corner. Besides that, everything looked great. Even though they didn’t visit today, he reminded himself to tip his cleaning lady more from here on out. He closed the door behind him and made not even two steps in before stepping on something squishy that made a pop! sound as his foot made contact, making Shoto jump. He lifted his foot to see what looked like a convincingly real looking eyeball and small chunks of mariana sauce leaking out of it, all smeared against his shoe. He signed, reminding himself to tell Hifumi she can’t leave her props out around the house. Hopefully she wasn’t planning on using this one soon. He made his way towards the kitchen where he turned on the tap water and ripped off a paper towel, using it to pluck off the flattened plastic and sauce from his shoe, throwing them into the trash and running another piece of the paper towel rack underneath the water, before wiping off any remaining residue. After throwing it away he turns off the water to his sink, the sound of the little droplets of water hitting the bottom of the sink filling his mind. He stood back, taking a second to immerse himself in the ambience of his house, contrasting the usual sounds of his kids running around, copying notes into a journal, watching TV, or just simply talking with each other, the only sound left in the house now was the low hum of the ice maker in his fridge, and the sound of the AC circulating within his house. Shoto stood there for another moment, a feeling of isolation taking over him. Taking a low breath into his nose, he breathes out as he makes his way over to pick up the shirt. The smell of sashimi overtook the kitchen as Shoto placed the last slice onto his bowl. He smiled as he took a second to appreciate his meal, wiping off a bead of sweat that had formed on his forehead. The sound of the sizzling skillet and the aroma with the fishy meal made his house feel much more alive now, tying it all together was the salsa music that echoed throughout the living room and kitchen as it came out through Shoto’s vinyl player, which sat comfortably next to his empty wine rack. He smiled as he reflected on all of those nights he had visited Katsuki after the divorce, his irate friend teaching him a variety of delicious recipes to make sure that he wouldn’t starve when he was alone (although he often commented it was a wonder that family hadn’t died of malnutrition, considering both his and his ex's cooking skills.) Starting off as a boy who only just simply enjoyed cold noodles, Shoto was now a man who made sure his kitchen was always stocked, he was always cutting up something and his evenings every other week were filled with his kids silently exclaiming with excitement when they heard a record begin to play, signifying dinner’s start. The collection of vinyl started when Katsuki said music helps one get into the zone when it comes to cooking. He had gifted Shoto a vinyl player for Christmas that year (Shoto never found out that Katsuki had found it laying around in his closest and then discovered it’s monetary value had dropped hard over the years) and his collection had grown exponentially when Sero returned from a mission in Puerto Rico and had gifted him an entire set of Salsa vinyls, telling him “If you ever need any music to help you cook, you gotta go with this man, it’s perfect for when you need to get into that zone. Nothing else beats it for cooking…actually except for maybe Italian music.” He had been right as now every morning and night, when Shoto got his ingredients out, he couldn’t help but put on another record to get himself in the zone. His cooking was usually reserved for his kids however whenever he had his friends over, whether it be one of the married couples or even just paying back Katsuki for all of those lessons, he couldn’t help but show off for them, who were always shocked at how his skills how exponentially improved since their UA days. Whenever that needle touched another record, he knew that he was gonna have an amazing night with his guests. Shoto wasn’t much of a dancer, however he couldn’t help but shake his shoulders up and down slightly as the music reminded him of those many nights with his friends, the way Ochaco’s mouth water at his Okonomiyaki, how the Kirishima’s had nearly cried when eating his Mini Castella Cake, when Rikiidou came over to give and help bake some desert recipes with him, or even just Katsuki telling him “You don’t suck ass at this anymore, good job on no longer starving your kids.” He smiled as he started to throw his used utensils into the sink and let out a satisfied sigh, appreciating the hospitality he was able to show his friends after all of the love they had given him almost all of his life. He walked back toward his bowl and almost grabbed it before noticing the small amounts of tuna left on the counter. After lifting the needle off of the record, he went back to the kitchen and opened a cabinet drawer above him and grabbed a small bowl, putting what little tuna there was left into there. He made his way towards the door and headed outside, the sun now slowly setting above him. “Kitty! Here kitty kitty!” He cried out while lightly shaking the bowl, being careful as to not drop any tuna on the ground. He heard rustling from the bushes besides them, a small pair of eyes peeking out at him before jumping out, the calico cat fully revealing itself and scurrying up towards him. “Yeeerow! Meeeeeeow! Eeeeeeeow!’ It cried out in its crunchy voice as the beast rubbed it’s head against Shoto’s legs, only taking a quick second to look up at the delicious bowl he held in his hand. “Hey little guy.” Shoto said as he crouched down and put the bowl next to the cat, of which it took no time to begin chowing down. Shoto watched for a moment, fascinated by the patterns of orange and black that overtook its white fur, creating what almost looked like a work of art on one living creature. His gaze was torn as the cat as he looked up at the sunset. Light still overtook most of the land, but now everything had a pretty orange hue coating it. A hint of purple overtook the clouds that were floating ahead over the nearly dusk sky. Shoto stayed there for a moment, almost transfixed on the mesh of colors that loomed over him. He was brought back to reality when his furry friend let out an annoyed little meow at him. Shoto looked back down at the cat and began to pet it, causing it to close it’s eyes in satisfaction and purr as it returned back to its meal. It took almost no time at all to gobble up what was given to it before it took a quick stretch and ran back off into the bushes. Shoto looked into the bowl and barely even saw a scrap of tuna left in it. “Glad you enjoyed the meal, friend.” He grabbed the bowl and took it back inside before throwing it into the sink, alongside the rest of his cooking materials for the night. He finally grabbed his meal and made his march to finally sit down and enjoy it. He looked over at the dinner table and, with the absence of his family, decided to head towards the couch instead. He let out a small sigh as he sat down and placed his food on the coffee table ahead of him, a glass of water was already sitting on a coaster. He grabbed the remote to the TV from his side and turned it on, the first thing it showed being a news reel talking about another Hero Agency merger. Seems recently more and more stories were popping up of agencies either laying off employees or merging with other agencies or companies to stay afloat, which still seemed to lead to more layoffs anyways. Sad state of affairs currently within his industry. He changed the channel and was put onto what looked like an older movie and featured a young boy in a suit on a backporch, a young girl in a black dress, and a pool gleaming next to them as they began to talk. Must be a romantic comedy. He grabbed his chop sticks and snatched up a piece of his meal, listening to the dialogue of the flick as he began to chew. What did you end up losing? The young woman had asked the boy. He looked longingly into her eyes. My best friend. Shoto swallowed his food as his gaze began to be transfixed onto the screen, something about the way the young man had replied struck a cord with him. He sat closer to the edge of his couch, placed the bowl back on the table and cusped his hands together as the scene continued to play out. She taught me a lot, before her, I thought we had to have all the answers right now. And now? I’m kinda liking that we don’t. The young man took a breath in. So, can I have the last dance? The young woman had eyed the man up and down. No. The reply made Shoto stiffen up, his chest feeling a tiny bit heavier. He could only imagine how the young boy must’ve felt with a rejection like that, before being comforted by the rest of her response. You may have the first. A light guitar rift came into play that opened the scene up to a beautiful and serene piece of musical score while the young couple began to dance, smiling as they looked into each other’s eyes, an understanding being held between the both of them. A flute fluttered as lights turned on and surrounded them as they danced. Shoto couldn’t help but smile as the warmth of the scene took over him. He chuckled lightly. The young girl made a witty joke that caused the boy to smile, they talked about their plans after high school, the boy obviously being playful with what he was saying before the girl brought him down for a kiss, causing a small gasp to escape Shoto. The strings of a guitar began playing as they shared this magical moment of connection and a drum beat overtook the scene as the camera panned overhead. The view of the scene suddenly became very blurry. Shoto lowered his eyebrows in confusion as he wiped away at his eyes. He looked down at his hand and saw little droplets of water on it. He hadn’t even realized he’d begun to cry. He looked back up at his TV, and saw the young couple at their high school graduation. One last joke was made in the movie before cutting to black as a lovely song began to play while the credits rolled. Kiss me beneath the milky twilight Lead me out on the moonlit floor Lift your open hand Strike up the band and make the fireflies dance Silver moon's sparkling So kiss me Shoto smiled once again. Such a strange thing, that was. He hadn’t known what this movie was before, he didn’t know who these people were or what their predicament was outside of this little moment, but just this one little glimpse into their life had somehow touched Shoto. It was a nice feeling, knowing these two got through whatever problems they had faced throughout the course of that film and found happiness within each other as they reached a major turning point amongst their lives. It was nice. It felt sweet. He wondered how things must’ve turned out for them afterwards. That warmth he had felt suddenly dispersed away from Shoto. He took another deep breath in as he laid back into his couch, a sense of melancholy had washed over him watching as the credits zoomed past the screen to make way for the next movie this channel was gonna play. He wondered if they had lasted past college, how their careers might’ve affected each other, if they had kids and how they were able to handle that. His mind going through the many different events one reaches as an adult, before landing back on this scene of the two slow dancing by the pool. Shoto wondered if the two were ever able to recapture that feeling they had once they reached adulthood. The channel ended its transition to the next movie, another American one, which began with a funky guitar riff playing as it zoomed into an Asian man working at his cubicle. It cut to two white guys talking about picking up women and deciding to throw all of the work they were supposed to do to the Asian man and driving off. That’s rude, Shoto had thought, and judging by how the man cursed after they had driven off, he seemed to have felt the same. This movie had a nice feeling to it, causing Shoto to sit up and begin working on his meal again. This shall be the program he’ll watch while he makes his way through his food, seemed like a good one. It, at the very least, helped him stop wondering how those two kids' relationships and lives transpired once they started to grow older.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75723701/chapters/198054401	{"authors": ["Anonymous_Axolotl"], "language": "English", "title": "Unraveled, Rewoven"}
Bruise By the time you got home, your body felt pleasantly numb with exhaustion, the kind that sank past your muscles and tendons and settled deep into your bones. You unlocked your apartment door and shut it behind you with soft, definitive click, leaning back against it and closing your eyes, letting the quiet wrap around you like a held breath. You barely had the energy to move, so you just stood there for a moment and listened to the hum of the apartment, the distant city noise, the soft tick of the clock. It felt safe. It felt like exhaling. From the bedroom came the faint sound of fabric shifting, and a moment later, Zayne walked into the living room. Tonight the rare occasion he had arrived home from work before you, although not by much. His fingers were at his collar, loosening his tie, his movements neat and precise even at the end of the day. The sleeves of his white shirt were still crisp, his posture composed, but when he looked at you, something softened. Concern flickered beneath his usual calm, sharp eyes taking you in from head to toe. “You look tired,” he said quietly, scanning you with unsettling precision. There was no judgment in his gaze, only warm assessment. “I feel tired,” you said, pushing away from the door with a worn-out huff. You rolled your shoulders, as if that might somehow ease the heaviness in them. “Please tell me you’re thinking what I’m thinking.” His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, tracing the slump of your posture, the slow blink of your lashes. Then he stepped closer, lowering his voice like he didn’t want to startle you. “A shower,” he said. “Together.” The way he said it—low, controlled, offering rather than demanding—made your chest loosen. You gave a tired smile, the kind that came easily with him. “Best thing I’ve heard all day,” you whispered. He smiled and brushed his thumb lightly over your wrist as you passed him. “Go. I’ll be right behind you.” You moved to the bathroom and started the shower, hot water cascading down as you discarded your clothes on the floor. The bathroom filled quickly with steam, the mirror fogging over, and you lit the candles on the counter, keeping the rest of the room dim. The scent of soap lingered faintly in the air, clean and familiar. You stepped beneath the spray and let it soak into you, eyes closing as the heat eased the ache in your shoulders and spine. Your breath slowed, tension melting little by little. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of water and your own slow breathing. Then you felt Zayne join you. His presence was steady, grounding, a familiar gravity at your back. He didn’t rush, didn’t speak, just stood with you. One hand came to rest at your waist, firm but reassuring, like he was anchoring you there. “You okay?” he asked quietly, near your ear. “Yes,” you breathed. “Getting there.” He let out a soft breath, something like relief, and stayed with you like that for another moment, letting the hot water do its work. Eyes still closed, you smiled, feeling a bit dazed by the water and warmth. Then you felt a small twinge of pain, and dimly realized Zayne’s nimble fingers were gently prodding your upper arm. “What happened here?” Zayne asked, his voice still low and calm. You opened one eye and glanced down to see him studying your arm, where a slightly wrinkled bandaid clung stubbornly to your skin, edges peeling from the steam. You’d forgotten it was there. “It’s nothing,” you replied lightly, waving him off. “I got a free flu vaccine today at work.” Zayne hummed thoughtfully, fingers rubbing carefully at the edge of the bandaid. Gently, he peeled it away, movements efficient but precise, as if he were handling something delicate and breakable. The moment his eyes landed on the small but dark bruise beneath, he froze, and his expression darkened. “You don’t normally bruise after vaccines,” he said slowly. His gaze narrowed, clinical. “The needle angle was wrong. Or it went in too deep. Either way, this injection was rushed and poorly executed.” “Really?” you said, glancing down at the little bruise yourself. “That’s tiny. It’ll be gone in a couple days.” “That’s not the point,” Zayne replied, his tone clipped, irritation threading through his restraint. His thumb brushed carefully over the mark, slow and assessing. “This was avoidable. Did it hurt?” You shrugged. “A little bit.” “Unprofessional,” he pronounced coldly, and for an instant you felt a deep sympathy for any intern or resident foolish enough to make a mistake on his watch. “Bordering on negligent.” You laughed despite yourself, the sound echoing softly off the clean white tile. You turned slightly and reached out to caress Zayne’s cheek, forcing him to look at you. “Zayne, it was a vaccine, not a surgical procedure. Nobody did any lasting damage to me.” “Whoever administered this didn’t know what they were doing.” You hummed noncommittally, tilting your head as the water poured down your back. “It’s fine. It only took a second. The guy who did it was very kind.” Zayne’s eyes were hard, his lips pressing together in a thin line. “The guy?” he asked, unable to hide his exasperation. “Did he even tell you his name? Was he wearing a visible badge? Was he affiliated with the hospital?” You raised your eyebrows. “I didn’t get his resume, if that’s what you’re asking.” His gaze flicked back to your arm, critical and disapproving. “A competent clinician wouldn’t leave tissue trauma,” he said flatly. “Anyone trained beyond the most basic level would know how to avoid this.” “He was a nurse, I think,” you said. “He was nice.” Zayne’s displeasure deepened, shoulders tensing. “He wouldn’t last a week on my staff,” he said quietly. “I don’t care if he was nice. I don’t tolerate sloppy technique.” You got the sense that Zayne would like to do something more to the nurse than simply fire him, but he was holding back from saying it. You turned to face him fully now, water streaming down your back and pooling at your feet. “Are you seriously upset about this?” “Yes,” he said without hesitation. “You trusted someone with your body and he was careless with it.” There it was. The heart of it. “Oh,” you teased, a slow smile curving your lips. “That’s what this is about?” Zayne avoided your eyes, exhaling slowly. You leaned in, lowering your voice conspiratorially as steam curled between you. “You’re jealous.” His ears flushed pink instantly, betraying him. “I’m not jealous, I’m frustrated that you were subjected to - ” “You’re mad because someone else gave me a shot,” you continued. “Someone who wasn’t you.” He looked away, jaw tight, water droplets sliding down the line of his neck. “If it had been me,” he said, voice tense, “your muscles would have been relaxed, your breathing steady. You hardly would have felt it. You wouldn’t be bruised, and you wouldn’t be thinking about another man’s hands on you right now.” There was something tender beneath the irritation. You grinned. “Wow. The great Dr. Li, offended on a personal and professional level at the same time. Who even knew that was possible?” Zayne made a sound like a groan, low in his throat. “You test my patience,” he murmured, lips betraying him with the faintest smile. You smiled back, reaching out to trace the corner of his mouth with your thumb, a gesture you knew always calmed him. He sighed, long and restrained, the fight draining out of him. His shoulders relaxed, tension easing as he reached for you again. He took your arm, thumb brushing over the bruise with far more care than necessary, as if he could erase it through sheer attention. Then, unexpectedly, he pressed a soft kiss just below the mark. You stilled. “I’m sorry, love,” he said at last, his voice lower, warmer. “I’m glad you got your flu shot, of course. I just don’t like the idea of someone not being careful with you.” Your smile softened, warmth blooming in your chest. You turned your head and kissed his temple, fingers threading into his damp hair. “I know,” you said gently. “But it’s done, and I survived.” You nudged him playfully. “Don’t we have a shower to enjoy together?” He huffed softly, a genuine smile finally breaking through. His grip tightened just a little, protective and unmistakably his, pulling you closer until your bodies fit together easily beneath the spray. “Yes,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “Let me take care of you now.” As the steam curled around you both, the rest of the world faded out, leaving only the water and warmth of the steady shower.	Bruise By the time you got home, your body felt pleasantly numb with exhaustion, the kind that sank past your muscles and tendons and settled deep into your bones. You unlocked your apartment door and shut it behind you with soft, definitive click, leaning back against it and closing your eyes, letting the quiet wrap around you like a held breath. You barely had the energy to move, so you just stood there for a moment and listened to the hum of the apartment, the distant city noise, the soft tick of the clock. It felt safe. It felt like exhaling. From the bedroom came the faint sound of fabric shifting, and a moment later, Zayne walked into the living room. Tonight the rare occasion he had arrived home from work before you, although not by much. His fingers were at his collar, loosening his tie, his movements neat and precise even at the end of the day. The sleeves of his white shirt were still crisp, his posture composed, but when he looked at you, something softened. Concern flickered beneath his usual calm, sharp eyes taking you in from head to toe. “You look tired,” he said quietly, scanning you with unsettling precision. There was no judgment in his gaze, only warm assessment. “I feel tired,” you said, pushing away from the door with a worn-out huff. You rolled your shoulders, as if that might somehow ease the heaviness in them. “Please tell me you’re thinking what I’m thinking.” His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, tracing the slump of your posture, the slow blink of your lashes. Then he stepped closer, lowering his voice like he didn’t want to startle you. “A shower,” he said. “Together.” The way he said it—low, controlled, offering rather than demanding—made your chest loosen. You gave a tired smile, the kind that came easily with him. “Best thing I’ve heard all day,” you whispered. He smiled and brushed his thumb lightly over your wrist as you passed him. “Go. I’ll be right behind you.” You moved to the bathroom and started the shower, hot water cascading down as you discarded your clothes on the floor. The bathroom filled quickly with steam, the mirror fogging over, and you lit the candles on the counter, keeping the rest of the room dim. The scent of soap lingered faintly in the air, clean and familiar. You stepped beneath the spray and let it soak into you, eyes closing as the heat eased the ache in your shoulders and spine. Your breath slowed, tension melting little by little. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of water and your own slow breathing. Then you felt Zayne join you. His presence was steady, grounding, a familiar gravity at your back. He didn’t rush, didn’t speak, just stood with you. One hand came to rest at your waist, firm but reassuring, like he was anchoring you there. “You okay?” he asked quietly, near your ear. “Yes,” you breathed. “Getting there.” He let out a soft breath, something like relief, and stayed with you like that for another moment, letting the hot water do its work. Eyes still closed, you smiled, feeling a bit dazed by the water and warmth. Then you felt a small twinge of pain, and dimly realized Zayne’s nimble fingers were gently prodding your upper arm. “What happened here?” Zayne asked, his voice still low and calm. You opened one eye and glanced down to see him studying your arm, where a slightly wrinkled bandaid clung stubbornly to your skin, edges peeling from the steam. You’d forgotten it was there. “It’s nothing,” you replied lightly, waving him off. “I got a free flu vaccine today at work.” Zayne hummed thoughtfully, fingers rubbing carefully at the edge of the bandaid. Gently, he peeled it away, movements efficient but precise, as if he were handling something delicate and breakable. The moment his eyes landed on the small but dark bruise beneath, he froze, and his expression darkened. “You don’t normally bruise after vaccines,” he said slowly. His gaze narrowed, clinical. “The needle angle was wrong. Or it went in too deep. Either way, this injection was rushed and poorly executed.” “Really?” you said, glancing down at the little bruise yourself. “That’s tiny. It’ll be gone in a couple days.” “That’s not the point,” Zayne replied, his tone clipped, irritation threading through his restraint. His thumb brushed carefully over the mark, slow and assessing. “This was avoidable. Did it hurt?” You shrugged. “A little bit.” “Unprofessional,” he pronounced coldly, and for an instant you felt a deep sympathy for any intern or resident foolish enough to make a mistake on his watch. “Bordering on negligent.” You laughed despite yourself, the sound echoing softly off the clean white tile. You turned slightly and reached out to caress Zayne’s cheek, forcing him to look at you. “Zayne, it was a vaccine, not a surgical procedure. Nobody did any lasting damage to me.” “Whoever administered this didn’t know what they were doing.” You hummed noncommittally, tilting your head as the water poured down your back. “It’s fine. It only took a second. The guy who did it was very kind.” Zayne’s eyes were hard, his lips pressing together in a thin line. “The guy?” he asked, unable to hide his exasperation. “Did he even tell you his name? Was he wearing a visible badge? Was he affiliated with the hospital?” You raised your eyebrows. “I didn’t get his resume, if that’s what you’re asking.” His gaze flicked back to your arm, critical and disapproving. “A competent clinician wouldn’t leave tissue trauma,” he said flatly. “Anyone trained beyond the most basic level would know how to avoid this.” “He was a nurse, I think,” you said. “He was nice.” Zayne’s displeasure deepened, shoulders tensing. “He wouldn’t last a week on my staff,” he said quietly. “I don’t care if he was nice. I don’t tolerate sloppy technique.” You got the sense that Zayne would like to do something more to the nurse than simply fire him, but he was holding back from saying it. You turned to face him fully now, water streaming down your back and pooling at your feet. “Are you seriously upset about this?” “Yes,” he said without hesitation. “You trusted someone with your body and he was careless with it.” There it was. The heart of it. “Oh,” you teased, a slow smile curving your lips. “That’s what this is about?” Zayne avoided your eyes, exhaling slowly. You leaned in, lowering your voice conspiratorially as steam curled between you. “You’re jealous.” His ears flushed pink instantly, betraying him. “I’m not jealous, I’m frustrated that you were subjected to - ” “You’re mad because someone else gave me a shot,” you continued. “Someone who wasn’t you.” He looked away, jaw tight, water droplets sliding down the line of his neck. “If it had been me,” he said, voice tense, “your muscles would have been relaxed, your breathing steady. You hardly would have felt it. You wouldn’t be bruised, and you wouldn’t be thinking about another man’s hands on you right now.” There was something tender beneath the irritation. You grinned. “Wow. The great Dr. Li, offended on a personal and professional level at the same time. Who even knew that was possible?” Zayne made a sound like a groan, low in his throat. “You test my patience,” he murmured, lips betraying him with the faintest smile. You smiled back, reaching out to trace the corner of his mouth with your thumb, a gesture you knew always calmed him. He sighed, long and restrained, the fight draining out of him. His shoulders relaxed, tension easing as he reached for you again. He took your arm, thumb brushing over the bruise with far more care than necessary, as if he could erase it through sheer attention. Then, unexpectedly, he pressed a soft kiss just below the mark. You stilled. “I’m sorry, love,” he said at last, his voice lower, warmer. “I’m glad you got your flu shot, of course. I just don’t like the idea of someone not being careful with you.” Your smile softened, warmth blooming in your chest. You turned your head and kissed his temple, fingers threading into his damp hair. “I know,” you said gently. “But it’s done, and I survived.” You nudged him playfully. “Don’t we have a shower to enjoy together?” He huffed softly, a genuine smile finally breaking through. His grip tightened just a little, protective and unmistakably his, pulling you closer until your bodies fit together easily beneath the spray. “Yes,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “Let me take care of you now.” As the steam curled around you both, the rest of the world faded out, leaving only the water and warmth of the steady shower.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75722161	{"authors": ["Z09"], "language": "English", "title": "Bruise"}
Blood Sports Armand knew he shouldn’t have been doing this, he simply couldn’t help himself. The flavour of Daniel’s blood lingered on his lips from the small taste he’d allowed himself earlier, clouding his typically sharp mind with the haze of a good hit. Louis was in the other room, skin flaking off into hideous chunks, grinding to dust against clean fabric, abrasive and ugly, much like the circumstances surrounding his current condition. Armand was failing him. He wasn’t enough for Louis, not after decades, decades in a perceived happiness that was mind numbingly dull for half of this companionship. Sitting before him was his solution, his key, the last piece in a puzzle he wasn’t aware he was solving. A boy, soft brown curls and drenched in his own blood, who looked terrified yet eager to please. Glowing copper eyes fixed him with an intense stare, picking apart his consciousness with the precision of a scalpel. The smell of drugs and fear overwhelmed Armand’s senses, the apartment had a permanent stench after years of Louis’ habits. No matter how hard he cleaned he couldn’t fix it, he never could. Two gaping wounds lied bare, blood seeping from them in an inviting fashion, soaking into the cotton fibres like rainwater against freshly washed garments hung out to dry, ruining the clothing with the smell of petrichor and poor planning. Words seemed useless now, Daniel’s mind was racing far too fast for any reasonable conversation, there was a fog and a desperate fear clogging his ability to reason. He was getting uninteresting promises and weak nods, completely unsatisfying. Armand wasn’t done learning, wasn’t done deciphering what made this fascinating boy tick, what made him so special to his dear Louis. Armand was slow with his execution, pulling his hand from Daniel’s shoulder where it was resting and sliding it up, until it was just over the open wound as it pulsed with a life Armand himself hadn’t felt in centuries. He pressed down, the tips of his long slender fingers coupled with sharp nails pressing into Daniel’s warm flesh as if they were seeking refuge. Daniel’s reaction was immediate, whole body flinching, a whimper leaving his lips coupled with a whine as Armand pressed. More blood started to build under the digits, coating them in a thick layer of red. He was careful not to damage what wasn’t already torn through, pulling away and rubbing blood between his index finger and thumb. There wasn’t anything special about it, it was normal, painstakingly average. Human blood laced with expensive substances. Hunger flared in his stomach, needy and aching for a taste of it. His fangs manifested against his lips, it took an immense amount of strength not to lean in and clean the inviting liquid off of his fingers. Instead, he turned back to Daniel, who had been watching him intently. Something akin to a mixture of delirium and delight played on his features, underlined by an immensely terrified pout. Armand took in the expression, drinking it down as if it was Daniel’s blood. He was beautiful like this, on what the fascinating boy perceived as the brink of his death. “Open.” Armand commanded, voice coming out like a soft coo, despite the fact it was clearly a command. Daniel was eager and willing, mouth falling open with no struggle. He didn’t break eye contact with Armand, hypnotized by the vampire’s presence. Armand brought bloody digits to his mouth and Daniel accepted them hungrily, tongue coated by the taste of his own blood. The willingness to comply amused Armand, in the back of his mind. For now, he was focused on the subtle pressure against his ancient vampiric fingers, Daniel sucking blood off of them as if it was anything else than his own life force. Armand revelled in the power the gesture gave him, as they sat together, sunlight pouring in, in a way that would’ve been threatening to any other child of the night. Using the mind gift, Armand let himself into Daniel’s clouded thoughts, being met with feelings to decipher rather than words. Abandoned actions, half formed letters slurring together in the haze of the moment. He pulled his fingers away once they’d been cleaned, he felt Daniel’s mind get upset at the loss. There was a pathetic quality to the man before Armand, confused, high, clearly hoping to score and not be tossed around like a rag doll. Part of his mind felt cheated, part of his mind felt the shame of seeking pleasure from another man, most of his thoughts were coated in a thick layer of fear. The part of Daniel’s mind hadn’t predicted on finding was a flood of arousal, of attraction, of desire for the older vampire. It was only amplified by Armand’s actions, the questioning, the touches, and most of all Armand’s strong, elegant fingers. Armand observed using the mind gift as Daniel uncovered previously ignored sensation, somehow his body had found enough blood to force it south, the reporter was straining against the fabric of his underwear. Equally as pathetic as everything else going on in his mind. Armand felt a sense of pity at his situation, which was no doubt his and Louis’ doing. Daniel was panting, chest heaving as his thoughts steered towards reaching down with his own hands, before pulling them back to thoughts of Armand’s intense gaze on him, the embarrassment he was feeling only burned brighter as Armand finally took his eyes away from his face and glanced down. “Do you wish to seek my help, Daniel?” Armand asked, intention clear with the comment. If he was remotely worried about his partner being in the room over, he didn’t mention it. Daniel slowed down his breathing enough to nod frantically, and mutter out a soft. “Yes- yes please.” Armand started to trail his fingers down the blood soaked shirt, still wet with not only blood, but a cold sweat from previous excitement. His hand came to Daniel’s inner thigh, which he gave an experimental squeeze, earning another whimper to swallow whole. Armand’s hands started to trail higher, before coming to a stop against Daniel’s crotch. He cupped him over his boxers and pants, pressure starting in small circles thanks to Armand’s diligent fingers. Daniel started to buck his hips against the friction, begging for more, but Armand brought a second hand down to hold his hip firmly, denying him the satisfaction of a quick release. It made Daniel’s veins and arteries burn with a new found fire that shouldn’t have been possible. The slow ministrations were starting to build, making Daniel squirm under Armand’s strong grip. He was leaking, getting dangerously close to his edge from simple touches. He looked up from the display, into Armand’s features with a desperate expression, soft whines leaving his lips like a choir of praise. Daniel could see the ghost of a smile play on Armand’s face as he leaned into Daniel’s neck, sinking ivory fangs into soft skin, drinking down more tainted blood. At the same time as he bit down, he amplified the pressure against Daniel with his hand, earning him a long breathy moan that demonstrated a clear satisfaction. Daniel slumped back against the chair, chest heaving and clearly spent. A smirk started to form on his face as he took in the full sight of Armand as he was now, his body betraying the idea his intentions were completely selfless and meant purely as a favour to Daniel. “Are you sure you don’t want any of my help, man?” Daniel retorted, somehow still smug after being subjected to both Armand’s cruelty and generosity. Armand could only stare in return.	Blood Sports Armand knew he shouldn’t have been doing this, he simply couldn’t help himself. The flavour of Daniel’s blood lingered on his lips from the small taste he’d allowed himself earlier, clouding his typically sharp mind with the haze of a good hit. Louis was in the other room, skin flaking off into hideous chunks, grinding to dust against clean fabric, abrasive and ugly, much like the circumstances surrounding his current condition. Armand was failing him. He wasn’t enough for Louis, not after decades, decades in a perceived happiness that was mind numbingly dull for half of this companionship. Sitting before him was his solution, his key, the last piece in a puzzle he wasn’t aware he was solving. A boy, soft brown curls and drenched in his own blood, who looked terrified yet eager to please. Glowing copper eyes fixed him with an intense stare, picking apart his consciousness with the precision of a scalpel. The smell of drugs and fear overwhelmed Armand’s senses, the apartment had a permanent stench after years of Louis’ habits. No matter how hard he cleaned he couldn’t fix it, he never could. Two gaping wounds lied bare, blood seeping from them in an inviting fashion, soaking into the cotton fibres like rainwater against freshly washed garments hung out to dry, ruining the clothing with the smell of petrichor and poor planning. Words seemed useless now, Daniel’s mind was racing far too fast for any reasonable conversation, there was a fog and a desperate fear clogging his ability to reason. He was getting uninteresting promises and weak nods, completely unsatisfying. Armand wasn’t done learning, wasn’t done deciphering what made this fascinating boy tick, what made him so special to his dear Louis. Armand was slow with his execution, pulling his hand from Daniel’s shoulder where it was resting and sliding it up, until it was just over the open wound as it pulsed with a life Armand himself hadn’t felt in centuries. He pressed down, the tips of his long slender fingers coupled with sharp nails pressing into Daniel’s warm flesh as if they were seeking refuge. Daniel’s reaction was immediate, whole body flinching, a whimper leaving his lips coupled with a whine as Armand pressed. More blood started to build under the digits, coating them in a thick layer of red. He was careful not to damage what wasn’t already torn through, pulling away and rubbing blood between his index finger and thumb. There wasn’t anything special about it, it was normal, painstakingly average. Human blood laced with expensive substances. Hunger flared in his stomach, needy and aching for a taste of it. His fangs manifested against his lips, it took an immense amount of strength not to lean in and clean the inviting liquid off of his fingers. Instead, he turned back to Daniel, who had been watching him intently. Something akin to a mixture of delirium and delight played on his features, underlined by an immensely terrified pout. Armand took in the expression, drinking it down as if it was Daniel’s blood. He was beautiful like this, on what the fascinating boy perceived as the brink of his death. “Open.” Armand commanded, voice coming out like a soft coo, despite the fact it was clearly a command. Daniel was eager and willing, mouth falling open with no struggle. He didn’t break eye contact with Armand, hypnotized by the vampire’s presence. Armand brought bloody digits to his mouth and Daniel accepted them hungrily, tongue coated by the taste of his own blood. The willingness to comply amused Armand, in the back of his mind. For now, he was focused on the subtle pressure against his ancient vampiric fingers, Daniel sucking blood off of them as if it was anything else than his own life force. Armand revelled in the power the gesture gave him, as they sat together, sunlight pouring in, in a way that would’ve been threatening to any other child of the night. Using the mind gift, Armand let himself into Daniel’s clouded thoughts, being met with feelings to decipher rather than words. Abandoned actions, half formed letters slurring together in the haze of the moment. He pulled his fingers away once they’d been cleaned, he felt Daniel’s mind get upset at the loss. There was a pathetic quality to the man before Armand, confused, high, clearly hoping to score and not be tossed around like a rag doll. Part of his mind felt cheated, part of his mind felt the shame of seeking pleasure from another man, most of his thoughts were coated in a thick layer of fear. The part of Daniel’s mind hadn’t predicted on finding was a flood of arousal, of attraction, of desire for the older vampire. It was only amplified by Armand’s actions, the questioning, the touches, and most of all Armand’s strong, elegant fingers. Armand observed using the mind gift as Daniel uncovered previously ignored sensation, somehow his body had found enough blood to force it south, the reporter was straining against the fabric of his underwear. Equally as pathetic as everything else going on in his mind. Armand felt a sense of pity at his situation, which was no doubt his and Louis’ doing. Daniel was panting, chest heaving as his thoughts steered towards reaching down with his own hands, before pulling them back to thoughts of Armand’s intense gaze on him, the embarrassment he was feeling only burned brighter as Armand finally took his eyes away from his face and glanced down. “Do you wish to seek my help, Daniel?” Armand asked, intention clear with the comment. If he was remotely worried about his partner being in the room over, he didn’t mention it. Daniel slowed down his breathing enough to nod frantically, and mutter out a soft. “Yes- yes please.” Armand started to trail his fingers down the blood soaked shirt, still wet with not only blood, but a cold sweat from previous excitement. His hand came to Daniel’s inner thigh, which he gave an experimental squeeze, earning another whimper to swallow whole. Armand’s hands started to trail higher, before coming to a stop against Daniel’s crotch. He cupped him over his boxers and pants, pressure starting in small circles thanks to Armand’s diligent fingers. Daniel started to buck his hips against the friction, begging for more, but Armand brought a second hand down to hold his hip firmly, denying him the satisfaction of a quick release. It made Daniel’s veins and arteries burn with a new found fire that shouldn’t have been possible. The slow ministrations were starting to build, making Daniel squirm under Armand’s strong grip. He was leaking, getting dangerously close to his edge from simple touches. He looked up from the display, into Armand’s features with a desperate expression, soft whines leaving his lips like a choir of praise. Daniel could see the ghost of a smile play on Armand’s face as he leaned into Daniel’s neck, sinking ivory fangs into soft skin, drinking down more tainted blood. At the same time as he bit down, he amplified the pressure against Daniel with his hand, earning him a long breathy moan that demonstrated a clear satisfaction. Daniel slumped back against the chair, chest heaving and clearly spent. A smirk started to form on his face as he took in the full sight of Armand as he was now, his body betraying the idea his intentions were completely selfless and meant purely as a favour to Daniel. “Are you sure you don’t want any of my help, man?” Daniel retorted, somehow still smug after being subjected to both Armand’s cruelty and generosity. Armand could only stare in return.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75722176	{"authors": ["diseaseriddledhomosexual"], "language": "English", "title": "Blood Sports"}
In The Woods Somewhere In The Woods Somewhere I had never seen anger before Jud Duplenticy. I didn’t know that at the time, of course, but when you see a man hit, and keep hitting, knuckles bloodied entirely crimson, eyes unaffected by the ruin he’s wreaking…that’s when you know anger. Hatred. I’d watched him get pulled off the man and take a desperate gasp as if he was coming up for air, chest heaving with the effort. I hadn’t know him at all then. But when his eyes met mine through the crowd, I became intimately familiar with his hurt. I had never had any bent towards religion, but I had understood then, why early Christians had found a suffering Christ. It was holiness within a man who could just as wretched. Because no human could relate to an almighty god, a punitive, omnipotent, father figure, they could only love and hate him in equal measure. But a man like them? One who could feel rage the way they do, bleed as they do, cry out in pain as they do…that’s was man to love and to follow. That’s what it meant to be human. He’d vanished after that, of course, and I had thought that was it. That he had left me with a fleeting look that had his agonised fury indelibly etched on my mind. He was gone and I was acutely aware of my own wretchedness, as if he had held up a mirror but then smashed it before I could get a proper look and reconcile myself with my true nature. Nothing could be found in fragments left behind. But then, when years had passed and I pushed the memory of him to the back of my mind, no matter how insistent it was to force its way to the front when I was at my most weak, I found myself driving through the middle of nowhere New York, when a dog ran out into the road. ‘Fuck!’ The tires let out an almighty screech when I slammed on the breaks, my body jolting with the force of it. As the windscreen wipers continued in their futile endeavour to clear my view of the unrelenting rainfall, I caught glimpses of a dog. It was a large, mangy thing, drenched and startled in the middle of the road. After a few seconds it ran off and I was sure I caught a limp, a slight dragging of the back leg. I didn’t know what I was thinking, only that I had nowhere to be and nothing ahead of me but more unknown road. So I pulled my beaten-up car onto the dirt verge, braced myself for the downpour, pulled up my hood, and ran into the woods. The wind was bracing, sending rain lashing against me as if it was flagellation. My feet sank and slipped in the mud. Every step without fail. Sink, slip. Sink, slip. I held my hand up in front of myself, as if that did anything other than obscure my view of what I was looking for. Trees rose around me, uniform in their solidity and slimness, unbowed and unbent in the wind, dark pillars I had to weave around. Then, there- a flash of tail. I called out as if the dog would hear my plea and understand and turn back instead of travelling deeper in. I picked up speed as best I could, but my sneakers, already worse for wear, were weighed down with clumps of mud, and when the ground angled down into a clearing I lost my footing. My back hit the quagmire, sliding down through the mess the weather had made. It shocked more than hurt, and took me a few seconds of staring up at the canopy, rain icy pinpricks on my face, to sit myself up. I came face to face with what seemed to me a shining white, monolith, something entirely out of place, as if it had been dropped from a great height, certainly headed for anywhere but here. Then I blinked, and the form acquired some details: carefully hewn stones stacked together with a name carved into it: Wicks. Just my luck to fall flat on my ass and come face to face with a crypt. Hands dirtied and bloodied—scratched up from the unceremonious slip and slide—I rose to my feet, weighed down by more than the mud on my clothes. Then like a beacon, a small light swinging from side to side in my peripheral vision. I turned, pulling back the soaked hood of my sweater that could nothing to shield me, and saw, through the open door of a garage, a tall, lean, back clad all in black, hitting a punching bag. It swung back and forth with the force of his blows. At once the mud beneath my feet felt like a bog and I was sinking. I won’t kid myself by saying I knew straight away after so many years that I recognised him from the act of swinging his fists alone. But something within me rose to greet him before I did. I managed to unstick my mind and my feet and trudged closer. The dog had to belong to him, I reasoned, and it had been going home. But I still planned to give him a piece of my mind for letting it out and leaving it in this weather, and by all accounts when it looked injured. ‘Hey!’ I shouted, a weak first attempt. If anything the punches on the bag intensified. Again. ‘Hey, I think you got him. He’s down.’ As soon as he turned, startled, the words that just left my mouth produced an aftertaste of bile. It was him. Jud Duplenticy, a man who I had seen fall from a great height and take another’s life, was in the middle of New York woodland hitting his way through a storm. And he was wearing a dog collar. I knew, right then, that I would never acknowledge having known him- seen him, rather, in a past life. Jud stepped forward, squinting to see me through the rain. Behind him, the bag kept swinging on its chain. ‘My God, are you alright?’ I scoffed, wrapping my wet arms around myself. ‘Don’t take the almighty’s name in vain on my account, Father.’ He shook his head, and rushed forward out of the garage, holding out a beckoning hand. ‘I take his name in all seriousness. You’re going to catch your death out here. Do you need help?’ I stayed rooted to the spot, as still as the trees, staring at his hand. I had seen those knuckles bloody. His shirt sleeves were rolled up too and on his left forearm a tattoo that attested to his other life, that told me I wasn’t imagining it all. ‘Hey,’ he said softly, but urgently. ‘Let’s get you inside.’ He was beside me then, hand hovering but not touching, trying to guide me into the garage. He’d only been outside for a few moments, but his shirt was already sticking to his chest and his dark waves were plastered to his head. Just as I found my feet falling in line with his guidance, I stopped, remembering why I was there. He looked slightly exasperated, fingers flexing anxiously. Indecision was clear in his gaze. Let me go at my own pace and ‘catch my death’, or force me in and potentially spook me. As a man of the cloth I suspected it was not a new dilemma for him, practically an occupational hazard. ‘Do you have a dog?’ He blinked furiously, wiping the water out of his eyes. ‘A dog? No, I- look would you please come inside? Whatever has happened I promise I’ll listen.’ ‘There was a dog in the road.’ I continued, ignoring his urging. ‘It was limping, it came this way.’ He took a moment to regard me. ‘You came out in this to find a dog?’ Then his eyes dropped low, taking in my mud covered state. ‘Did you fall? Are you hurt? Christ, I really- I don’t want to overstep, but it’s really important to me to get you out of this weather.’ I almost laughed then. An absurd thing. I saw him take a life and now he was unnecessarily, acutely concerned with mine. And he didn’t know what I had seen. I looked up at him cautiously, only then realising how close he had moved to me. Holding his gaze, I stepped around him and made for shelter. I heard his sigh of relief even through the torrent. The punching bag hadn’t yet stilled, still swinging from side to side. ‘A pugilist priest,’ I remarked, only then realising how my teeth were chattering. ‘A remnant of a past life, it channels emotions that are destructive when kept in.’ ‘Like hatred?’ I asked, not really a question. My eyes stayed on the punching bag. I felt him step closer behind me. ‘It’s mostly hatred,’ he admitted quietly. ‘I suppose it’s refreshing, meeting a man of the cloth who will admit to nastiness.’ I turned then and found the corner of his lip quirking. ‘Do I hear some healthy antipathy for the clergy?’ I scoffed again, feeling true amusement. ‘You call my suspicion of you and all you do, healthy?’ He shrugged, muscled arm’s crossing over his chest. ‘Any caution is healthy. You’re protecting yourself. Now, is there someone I can call for you? You must need a change of clothes?’ ‘I don’t see any point.’ I said turning to look outside, rain still coming down furiously. The crypt stood defiant and unaffected, a marker of death as infallible as death itself. ‘There’s no point in getting dry?’ I looked at him, impatient. ‘I need to find the dog.’ ‘No,’ he answered quickly. ‘No?’ He looked a little embarrassed then, caught being a little authoritarian in the way I had just made clear I was suspicious of. ‘I- I’m sorry but that’s madness, you can’t go back out there with it like this. If anything, you’ll lose your way and end up falling in a ditch.’ I gave him a flat look and gestured down to myself, he took me in once more, fully registering all the mud and the fall it implied. Too late, my face said. He winced sympathetically. ‘Still, you shouldn’t go out there. Are you sure you saw a dog?’ ‘Are you sure you believe in a god?’ I shot back petulantly. The gall for someone who believed in a being in the sky and he was questioning if I’d imagined a dog? he broke out into a full smile, dimples showing, skin around his eyes creasing. ‘Doubt is healthy too. I take it you don’t believe?’ ‘I believe, that faith is a human coping mechanism and religion is a power structure used to abuse.’ ‘You feel differently about believers than you do the church?’ ‘Do you feel you need a body of authority, influence, and power to believe? To do what you do for others?’ ‘As a priest, or as man?’ ‘There’s no difference.’ ‘Well, actually-‘ ‘Take off that dog collar and you would still want to listen to others, to understand. Dogma and doctrine, and men in slightly different	In The Woods Somewhere In The Woods Somewhere I had never seen anger before Jud Duplenticy. I didn’t know that at the time, of course, but when you see a man hit, and keep hitting, knuckles bloodied entirely crimson, eyes unaffected by the ruin he’s wreaking…that’s when you know anger. Hatred. I’d watched him get pulled off the man and take a desperate gasp as if he was coming up for air, chest heaving with the effort. I hadn’t know him at all then. But when his eyes met mine through the crowd, I became intimately familiar with his hurt. I had never had any bent towards religion, but I had understood then, why early Christians had found a suffering Christ. It was holiness within a man who could just as wretched. Because no human could relate to an almighty god, a punitive, omnipotent, father figure, they could only love and hate him in equal measure. But a man like them? One who could feel rage the way they do, bleed as they do, cry out in pain as they do…that’s was man to love and to follow. That’s what it meant to be human. He’d vanished after that, of course, and I had thought that was it. That he had left me with a fleeting look that had his agonised fury indelibly etched on my mind. He was gone and I was acutely aware of my own wretchedness, as if he had held up a mirror but then smashed it before I could get a proper look and reconcile myself with my true nature. Nothing could be found in fragments left behind. But then, when years had passed and I pushed the memory of him to the back of my mind, no matter how insistent it was to force its way to the front when I was at my most weak, I found myself driving through the middle of nowhere New York, when a dog ran out into the road. ‘Fuck!’ The tires let out an almighty screech when I slammed on the breaks, my body jolting with the force of it. As the windscreen wipers continued in their futile endeavour to clear my view of the unrelenting rainfall, I caught glimpses of a dog. It was a large, mangy thing, drenched and startled in the middle of the road. After a few seconds it ran off and I was sure I caught a limp, a slight dragging of the back leg. I didn’t know what I was thinking, only that I had nowhere to be and nothing ahead of me but more unknown road. So I pulled my beaten-up car onto the dirt verge, braced myself for the downpour, pulled up my hood, and ran into the woods. The wind was bracing, sending rain lashing against me as if it was flagellation. My feet sank and slipped in the mud. Every step without fail. Sink, slip. Sink, slip. I held my hand up in front of myself, as if that did anything other than obscure my view of what I was looking for. Trees rose around me, uniform in their solidity and slimness, unbowed and unbent in the wind, dark pillars I had to weave around. Then, there- a flash of tail. I called out as if the dog would hear my plea and understand and turn back instead of travelling deeper in. I picked up speed as best I could, but my sneakers, already worse for wear, were weighed down with clumps of mud, and when the ground angled down into a clearing I lost my footing. My back hit the quagmire, sliding down through the mess the weather had made. It shocked more than hurt, and took me a few seconds of staring up at the canopy, rain icy pinpricks on my face, to sit myself up. I came face to face with what seemed to me a shining white, monolith, something entirely out of place, as if it had been dropped from a great height, certainly headed for anywhere but here. Then I blinked, and the form acquired some details: carefully hewn stones stacked together with a name carved into it: Wicks. Just my luck to fall flat on my ass and come face to face with a crypt. Hands dirtied and bloodied—scratched up from the unceremonious slip and slide—I rose to my feet, weighed down by more than the mud on my clothes. Then like a beacon, a small light swinging from side to side in my peripheral vision. I turned, pulling back the soaked hood of my sweater that could nothing to shield me, and saw, through the open door of a garage, a tall, lean, back clad all in black, hitting a punching bag. It swung back and forth with the force of his blows. At once the mud beneath my feet felt like a bog and I was sinking. I won’t kid myself by saying I knew straight away after so many years that I recognised him from the act of swinging his fists alone. But something within me rose to greet him before I did. I managed to unstick my mind and my feet and trudged closer. The dog had to belong to him, I reasoned, and it had been going home. But I still planned to give him a piece of my mind for letting it out and leaving it in this weather, and by all accounts when it looked injured. ‘Hey!’ I shouted, a weak first attempt. If anything the punches on the bag intensified. Again. ‘Hey, I think you got him. He’s down.’ As soon as he turned, startled, the words that just left my mouth produced an aftertaste of bile. It was him. Jud Duplenticy, a man who I had seen fall from a great height and take another’s life, was in the middle of New York woodland hitting his way through a storm. And he was wearing a dog collar. I knew, right then, that I would never acknowledge having known him- seen him, rather, in a past life. Jud stepped forward, squinting to see me through the rain. Behind him, the bag kept swinging on its chain. ‘My God, are you alright?’ I scoffed, wrapping my wet arms around myself. ‘Don’t take the almighty’s name in vain on my account, Father.’ He shook his head, and rushed forward out of the garage, holding out a beckoning hand. ‘I take his name in all seriousness. You’re going to catch your death out here. Do you need help?’ I stayed rooted to the spot, as still as the trees, staring at his hand. I had seen those knuckles bloody. His shirt sleeves were rolled up too and on his left forearm a tattoo that attested to his other life, that told me I wasn’t imagining it all. ‘Hey,’ he said softly, but urgently. ‘Let’s get you inside.’ He was beside me then, hand hovering but not touching, trying to guide me into the garage. He’d only been outside for a few moments, but his shirt was already sticking to his chest and his dark waves were plastered to his head. Just as I found my feet falling in line with his guidance, I stopped, remembering why I was there. He looked slightly exasperated, fingers flexing anxiously. Indecision was clear in his gaze. Let me go at my own pace and ‘catch my death’, or force me in and potentially spook me. As a man of the cloth I suspected it was not a new dilemma for him, practically an occupational hazard. ‘Do you have a dog?’ He blinked furiously, wiping the water out of his eyes. ‘A dog? No, I- look would you please come inside? Whatever has happened I promise I’ll listen.’ ‘There was a dog in the road.’ I continued, ignoring his urging. ‘It was limping, it came this way.’ He took a moment to regard me. ‘You came out in this to find a dog?’ Then his eyes dropped low, taking in my mud covered state. ‘Did you fall? Are you hurt? Christ, I really- I don’t want to overstep, but it’s really important to me to get you out of this weather.’ I almost laughed then. An absurd thing. I saw him take a life and now he was unnecessarily, acutely concerned with mine. And he didn’t know what I had seen. I looked up at him cautiously, only then realising how close he had moved to me. Holding his gaze, I stepped around him and made for shelter. I heard his sigh of relief even through the torrent. The punching bag hadn’t yet stilled, still swinging from side to side. ‘A pugilist priest,’ I remarked, only then realising how my teeth were chattering. ‘A remnant of a past life, it channels emotions that are destructive when kept in.’ ‘Like hatred?’ I asked, not really a question. My eyes stayed on the punching bag. I felt him step closer behind me. ‘It’s mostly hatred,’ he admitted quietly. ‘I suppose it’s refreshing, meeting a man of the cloth who will admit to nastiness.’ I turned then and found the corner of his lip quirking. ‘Do I hear some healthy antipathy for the clergy?’ I scoffed again, feeling true amusement. ‘You call my suspicion of you and all you do, healthy?’ He shrugged, muscled arm’s crossing over his chest. ‘Any caution is healthy. You’re protecting yourself. Now, is there someone I can call for you? You must need a change of clothes?’ ‘I don’t see any point.’ I said turning to look outside, rain still coming down furiously. The crypt stood defiant and unaffected, a marker of death as infallible as death itself. ‘There’s no point in getting dry?’ I looked at him, impatient. ‘I need to find the dog.’ ‘No,’ he answered quickly. ‘No?’ He looked a little embarrassed then, caught being a little authoritarian in the way I had just made clear I was suspicious of. ‘I- I’m sorry but that’s madness, you can’t go back out there with it like this. If anything, you’ll lose your way and end up falling in a ditch.’ I gave him a flat look and gestured down to myself, he took me in once more, fully registering all the mud and the fall it implied. Too late, my face said. He winced sympathetically. ‘Still, you shouldn’t go out there. Are you sure you saw a dog?’ ‘Are you sure you believe in a god?’ I shot back petulantly. The gall for someone who believed in a being in the sky and he was questioning if I’d imagined a dog? he broke out into a full smile, dimples showing, skin around his eyes creasing. ‘Doubt is healthy too. I take it you don’t believe?’ ‘I believe, that faith is a human coping mechanism and religion is a power structure used to abuse.’ ‘You feel differently about believers than you do the church?’ ‘Do you feel you need a body of authority, influence, and power to believe? To do what you do for others?’ ‘As a priest, or as man?’ ‘There’s no difference.’ ‘Well, actually-‘ ‘Take off that dog collar and you would still want to listen to others, to understand. Dogma and doctrine, and men in slightly different robes to yours didn’t make you that way, the life you’ve lived has. You understand pain, anger, loss and being lost. Empathy is not institutions power, least of all the churches. It conditions, categorises, condemns, all while convincing people it is a place of safety and esteem. A safe harbour rather than an emotional gallows.’ I stopped, cheeks slightly flushed, unsure where that had come from and feeling that I’d laid myself bare. Jud took in what I’d said as if it was physical thing seeping in. Then, ‘An emotional gallows.’ ‘Convincing people they were ever in a state that they needed saving from, that they, or anyone else could ever be deserving of devastation through divine will, or even just inaction…that’s abhorrent to me. It’s a kind of death of something vital to a person if you get them to truly believe that.’ ‘You sound like you speak from experience.’ ‘Experience of what? The abuse of faith, that’s human experience, Father. Human history.’ ‘You’re right. The church- religion, is about power. People are faith, just as they are redemption, love, and even hatred. But the church gives me four walls-‘ ‘Build it and they will come.’ His eyes dropped, nodding as he smiled. ‘Something like that. Come on, let’s get to the rectory. I can start a fire.’ It was how I ended up coaxed into the warmth of a room, heated by a blaze in the hearth. Showered, In a baggy shirt and sweatpants and a mug of hot chocolate in my hands, warming frigid skin. I had been staring into the flames and startled when thick, soft fabric fell around my shoulders. I had hardly begun to turn to look at him when he appeared in front of me, crouched down, lined by firelight and tipped some whisky into my hot chocolate after he had hesitated long enough for me to protest. I couldn’t help but smile. ‘Isn’t that frowned upon for you?’ ‘I imagine many things are, but I don’t let myself be shamed from on high anymore. I am a man of faith before I am a man of the church.’ ‘Using my words against me.’ He hummed. ‘No-no, I’m agreeing with them. You put the feeling more eloquently than I ever could.’ I looked into his shining eyes, the same and yet harbouring something so different to the man I’d seen all those years ago. Maybe if I stayed, I would tell him that we had met-seen each other-before. Or maybe I wouldn’t, and would stay anyway. We never did find that dog.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75719531	{"authors": ["HelenaNell"], "language": "English", "title": "In The Woods Somewhere"}
mirror to mirror The glass shimmered as it mixed in with the tiny grains of sand. They continued mixing until they became invisible. He stood from the spot they once sat at together and walked towards the waves that crashed together. They were louder than they were before, now nearly deafening. He didn’t mind. He continued walking until the sound pounded in his ears. In that moment, he was alone. The mirror shattered on the sand giving him nothing to reflect back onto. Without that reflection he was lost. He wouldn’t be alone forever. No. He’d come back. He wouldn’t be lost to the sea forever. The mirror would be glued back together, good as new. Unbeknownst to him, the waves crept up his legs, slowly enveloping him in the salty water. He didn’t know he was being taken until it was too late. He was already drifting further into the ocean. His smiling face reflected back to him as he was drug beneath the surface. He didn’t thrash and he didn’t cry. He thought. He thought about that boy and he thought about when he’d see him again. As his vision darkened, he was sure of their next meeting. He was so sure that he let his eyes drift shut. He didn’t know they’d never open again.	mirror to mirror The glass shimmered as it mixed in with the tiny grains of sand. They continued mixing until they became invisible. He stood from the spot they once sat at together and walked towards the waves that crashed together. They were louder than they were before, now nearly deafening. He didn’t mind. He continued walking until the sound pounded in his ears. In that moment, he was alone. The mirror shattered on the sand giving him nothing to reflect back onto. Without that reflection he was lost. He wouldn’t be alone forever. No. He’d come back. He wouldn’t be lost to the sea forever. The mirror would be glued back together, good as new. Unbeknownst to him, the waves crept up his legs, slowly enveloping him in the salty water. He didn’t know he was being taken until it was too late. He was already drifting further into the ocean. His smiling face reflected back to him as he was drug beneath the surface. He didn’t thrash and he didn’t cry. He thought. He thought about that boy and he thought about when he’d see him again. As his vision darkened, he was sure of their next meeting. He was so sure that he let his eyes drift shut. He didn’t know they’d never open again.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75719536?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["Wehegld"], "language": "English", "title": "mirror to mirror"}
I Can Travel Being chucked through space and time hurt like a bitch. And also made you very dizzy. I was sputtering and doubled over when I came to, my head pounding something fierce. And after I finally came to my senses, I had one tiny problem: When was I? Wist has been messing around with time magic since our little ‘vacation’ a couple months back, just stupid things like freezing a wasp or pushing me a second or two back, but then…well, some big burst of magic blinded my magic perception and the next thing I know the multiverse is flying past me. Crazy, right? What’s even crazier is the fact that I’m pretty sure I’m back at school. Good old Guralta, to be specific. And, if my uniform was anything to go by, my first year. So, I was trapped in 13 year old me’s body when I was even more annoying (believe it or not), suspicious of literally anything with magic, and in denial about Wist—oh. Baby Wisteria. Well, this just got a lot more interesting. Looking around, I notice my extra uniforms stuffed into pillow cushions and the lack of a roommate, which meant I was in Hunting Season. Yippie. The day really did matter here…oh, that bucket. The one I used for the hermit crabs. If it’s here, then that means—yup, yellow bucket. Must be on one of the final days then. I walked around the room, looking for bugs or poop or whatever, but found nothing. Guess past me already cleaned it up. Now, here’s the important question, should I go find Wist and blow her mind or not mess up the space time continuum? (The answer was always the former, as Wist could fix this in 30 seconds, but also because surprising Wist always gave me an insane amount of joy) So that’s how I found myself scaling down the side of the dormitory without a trace of fear. Okay, there was fear, but if I thought I was unathletic at 13, I didn't know how bad it’d get at 36, because now seems like a breeze, let me tell you. I passed all the jasmine flowers, with their bright pink and white coloring, and landed in an ungraceful heap on the grass. That was fine, my knees were like steel at this age. I didn’t exactly know where Wist was, but I could guess, and also follow her magic. I’ve always had a crazy amount of magic perception and even if I’m much better at healing now then I was, my seeing was never worse, at least in terms of magic strands. My actual seeing is kinda turning to shit, what with a missing eye and everything. Oh, that was another thing I took for granted, 2 eyes. Crazy how life works, huh? I followed the big bundle of magic a little ways away, inside the mage side of the school but barely. Wist was always a beacon, what with having at least 800 strands of magic flying from her core at every second, and she hated it. I knew this, she knew I knew this, but it was incredibly useful inside that huge tower of hers so I never tried to block it out. (I don’t think I could, truthfully) Her magic took me to an unused path riddled with flowers and grass a couple inches too high. It wasn’t where I would expect Wist to be exactly, with her hating bugs, but it also made sense. Wist was an introvert through and through. “Wist? Can you come out already, walking through this sucks.” I stopped and waited, knowing she’d come. She always comes for me. I didn’t wait long, soon enough there was a 13 year old Wisteria Shien in front of me, looking completely unfazed to the average joe, but I had over 20 years to learn her facial ticks and she was shocked. Sweet. “Hey Wist. How come you’re out here in this thicket of foliage when you hate bugs?” Wist did not answer for a beat too long and I grinned. I really had shocked her. “It’s quiet.” Again, no emotion, but her left eyebrow pinched the slightest amount and I knew that meant fear. Oh how I loved this. “Is an S-class mage really afraid of a little old healer?” I teased, pitching my voice high and sweet. Wist blinked, once, twice—more times than I’d seen almost—and right before I got worried she sputtered (not really, but a girl can imagine), “Clem?” I tapped her nose and winked. “At your service.” Wist’s braid flicked hard against the ground, rounding up dirt into a pile until she would squash it down. It was faintly amusing. “Why are you here?” It didn’t sound like a question, but I heard the little lilt nobody else did. That always did make me feel special, being able to read her. “You tell me, Wist.” I was curious to see if she could guess my origins or if I would have to tell her. Wist’s magic branches reached for me—which is insanely strange—before jerking back. “You’re not my Clematis.” I chuckled, rocking on my feet. “Bingo!” I did not give her any more information and rejoiced in her struggling. “How?” I couldn’t read her that time. I don’t think she felt anything when she said that. Strange. “My Wist.” “Oh.” And just like that she had emotions again. It was relief, if you were wondering. “I get it. You thought you had messed up this new time line when you were just getting me back, huh?” Wist’s eyes visibly widened and giggled. Oh, a wonderful day indeed. “My Wist told me. Honestly? Makes a lot of sense.” Wist took a step back. Out of fear, shock, something else I wasn’t sure. “Why did I mess with time again? I know the consequences.” She sounded angry and scared and I kinda felt bad. She was still the love of my life, even as a kid. “Hey, Wist, everything’s fine. We had to mess with time to save the world a little ways back and nothing happened, so we’re just fucking with time magic until the consequence finally hits us. Which could be at any moment, cause, you know, time doesn’t have any meaning.” Wist’s braid wrapped around her throat like a noose. It made me think of her childhood and I cringed. “When are you from?” “Er—about 20 years in the future. I’m 36.” Her face brightened, not obviously, but enough that I smiled tentatively with her. “So I did it. You lived past 27.” I grinned and tugged on her uniform. “I did, though you did put me in jail for treason. Not very fond of you for that.” Wist blinked and I cackled. “Doesn’t matter, I got out anyway. So, my Wist will be here to get me soon so any questions you want answered? Wist will clean up so don’t gotta worry about killing your Clem or anything.” Wist pondered, her braid tapping an offbeat rhythm into her shoulder. “Are we happy?” I smiled genuinely and cupped her hand. “We are. Takes a shit ton of years and a lot of pain, but we get there in the end.” Wist nods, thinking. “Did we get bonded this time?” I grimace, thinking back to why we got bonded. “Yes, about 3 years ago. You, um, went berserk so I kinda had to.” “I’m sorry.” Wist built those walls so high again and I hated myself a little for hurting her. “It’s alright, I would have eventually.” I pause, staring at her intensely. “You did say something to me while berserked that you avoid whenever I ask.” I waited for a reply but all Wist did was breathe. “Is it true that you love my butt?” Wist opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again, like a floundering fish. Guess I wasn’t getting an answer out of this Wist either. They’re both so prudish. (That’s a lie, actually, my Wist can be…explicit when she wants to be) “Fine, whatever, not like I actually wanted to know or anything.” Wist just stared at me so I took pity and changed the topic. “Tell past me to appreciate her eyes. Especially her right one.” Wist stared even more somehow. “Nope, won’t say anything else to that one.” She almost pouted, but refrained, her head tilting towards some noise I couldn’t hear. “You need to go. When will your Wist get here?” I looked through the thick flowers and cringed at the sight of an angry Tempest. “Did you know he becomes like an investigator? Never would have thought.” Wist didn’t react and I grinned. “Well, nice talking to you baby Wist, but I think you’re about to pull me back.” After a second—barely a moment—I reached out fast and grabbed her wrist, tight. “Wist, everything gets worse. So much fucking worse and I’m sorry. I’m horribly sorry because some of it is my fault, but I promise it gets better. I promise it’s worth it. Please don’t give up, please don’t stop trying and fighting. You’re such a fighter, Wist, remember that.” Wist doesn’t show any outward signs she heard me, but I know she did. She always listens to me. “Goodbye Wist.” And just like that my soul was sucked back through time and space, my being flexing and twisting until it spat me back in my time. And if I tackled Wist into a hug immediately, and if I cried a little, then that’s no one’s business but mine and Wist’s, thank you. ———————— The next time Wisteria Shien saw Asa Clematis she stared hard at her right eye and muttered, “Don’t take your eyes for granted.” And Asa Clematis laughed and laughed, calling her weird and crazy and strange, but Wisteria Shien didn’t feel like any of those. She felt stable for the first time in 13 years, three words repeating on cycle through her head in a voice so close to Asa Clematis, but just off, just too confident and low to be her; You’re a fighter. So Wisteria Shien did not feel weird or strange or crazy for repeating the words of that girl because she was stable and confident and happy so Wisteria Shien knew she should trust everything she said. The next day she did not remember why she felt so calm the day before, what had caused it, but that little rock of stability didn’t go away. It in fact grew and grew all those years until she hit 36 and realized just where it came from when Asa Clematis came falling into her arms crying and sobbing about it, about how she called Wisteria Shien a fighter.	I Can Travel Being chucked through space and time hurt like a bitch. And also made you very dizzy. I was sputtering and doubled over when I came to, my head pounding something fierce. And after I finally came to my senses, I had one tiny problem: When was I? Wist has been messing around with time magic since our little ‘vacation’ a couple months back, just stupid things like freezing a wasp or pushing me a second or two back, but then…well, some big burst of magic blinded my magic perception and the next thing I know the multiverse is flying past me. Crazy, right? What’s even crazier is the fact that I’m pretty sure I’m back at school. Good old Guralta, to be specific. And, if my uniform was anything to go by, my first year. So, I was trapped in 13 year old me’s body when I was even more annoying (believe it or not), suspicious of literally anything with magic, and in denial about Wist—oh. Baby Wisteria. Well, this just got a lot more interesting. Looking around, I notice my extra uniforms stuffed into pillow cushions and the lack of a roommate, which meant I was in Hunting Season. Yippie. The day really did matter here…oh, that bucket. The one I used for the hermit crabs. If it’s here, then that means—yup, yellow bucket. Must be on one of the final days then. I walked around the room, looking for bugs or poop or whatever, but found nothing. Guess past me already cleaned it up. Now, here’s the important question, should I go find Wist and blow her mind or not mess up the space time continuum? (The answer was always the former, as Wist could fix this in 30 seconds, but also because surprising Wist always gave me an insane amount of joy) So that’s how I found myself scaling down the side of the dormitory without a trace of fear. Okay, there was fear, but if I thought I was unathletic at 13, I didn't know how bad it’d get at 36, because now seems like a breeze, let me tell you. I passed all the jasmine flowers, with their bright pink and white coloring, and landed in an ungraceful heap on the grass. That was fine, my knees were like steel at this age. I didn’t exactly know where Wist was, but I could guess, and also follow her magic. I’ve always had a crazy amount of magic perception and even if I’m much better at healing now then I was, my seeing was never worse, at least in terms of magic strands. My actual seeing is kinda turning to shit, what with a missing eye and everything. Oh, that was another thing I took for granted, 2 eyes. Crazy how life works, huh? I followed the big bundle of magic a little ways away, inside the mage side of the school but barely. Wist was always a beacon, what with having at least 800 strands of magic flying from her core at every second, and she hated it. I knew this, she knew I knew this, but it was incredibly useful inside that huge tower of hers so I never tried to block it out. (I don’t think I could, truthfully) Her magic took me to an unused path riddled with flowers and grass a couple inches too high. It wasn’t where I would expect Wist to be exactly, with her hating bugs, but it also made sense. Wist was an introvert through and through. “Wist? Can you come out already, walking through this sucks.” I stopped and waited, knowing she’d come. She always comes for me. I didn’t wait long, soon enough there was a 13 year old Wisteria Shien in front of me, looking completely unfazed to the average joe, but I had over 20 years to learn her facial ticks and she was shocked. Sweet. “Hey Wist. How come you’re out here in this thicket of foliage when you hate bugs?” Wist did not answer for a beat too long and I grinned. I really had shocked her. “It’s quiet.” Again, no emotion, but her left eyebrow pinched the slightest amount and I knew that meant fear. Oh how I loved this. “Is an S-class mage really afraid of a little old healer?” I teased, pitching my voice high and sweet. Wist blinked, once, twice—more times than I’d seen almost—and right before I got worried she sputtered (not really, but a girl can imagine), “Clem?” I tapped her nose and winked. “At your service.” Wist’s braid flicked hard against the ground, rounding up dirt into a pile until she would squash it down. It was faintly amusing. “Why are you here?” It didn’t sound like a question, but I heard the little lilt nobody else did. That always did make me feel special, being able to read her. “You tell me, Wist.” I was curious to see if she could guess my origins or if I would have to tell her. Wist’s magic branches reached for me—which is insanely strange—before jerking back. “You’re not my Clematis.” I chuckled, rocking on my feet. “Bingo!” I did not give her any more information and rejoiced in her struggling. “How?” I couldn’t read her that time. I don’t think she felt anything when she said that. Strange. “My Wist.” “Oh.” And just like that she had emotions again. It was relief, if you were wondering. “I get it. You thought you had messed up this new time line when you were just getting me back, huh?” Wist’s eyes visibly widened and giggled. Oh, a wonderful day indeed. “My Wist told me. Honestly? Makes a lot of sense.” Wist took a step back. Out of fear, shock, something else I wasn’t sure. “Why did I mess with time again? I know the consequences.” She sounded angry and scared and I kinda felt bad. She was still the love of my life, even as a kid. “Hey, Wist, everything’s fine. We had to mess with time to save the world a little ways back and nothing happened, so we’re just fucking with time magic until the consequence finally hits us. Which could be at any moment, cause, you know, time doesn’t have any meaning.” Wist’s braid wrapped around her throat like a noose. It made me think of her childhood and I cringed. “When are you from?” “Er—about 20 years in the future. I’m 36.” Her face brightened, not obviously, but enough that I smiled tentatively with her. “So I did it. You lived past 27.” I grinned and tugged on her uniform. “I did, though you did put me in jail for treason. Not very fond of you for that.” Wist blinked and I cackled. “Doesn’t matter, I got out anyway. So, my Wist will be here to get me soon so any questions you want answered? Wist will clean up so don’t gotta worry about killing your Clem or anything.” Wist pondered, her braid tapping an offbeat rhythm into her shoulder. “Are we happy?” I smiled genuinely and cupped her hand. “We are. Takes a shit ton of years and a lot of pain, but we get there in the end.” Wist nods, thinking. “Did we get bonded this time?” I grimace, thinking back to why we got bonded. “Yes, about 3 years ago. You, um, went berserk so I kinda had to.” “I’m sorry.” Wist built those walls so high again and I hated myself a little for hurting her. “It’s alright, I would have eventually.” I pause, staring at her intensely. “You did say something to me while berserked that you avoid whenever I ask.” I waited for a reply but all Wist did was breathe. “Is it true that you love my butt?” Wist opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again, like a floundering fish. Guess I wasn’t getting an answer out of this Wist either. They’re both so prudish. (That’s a lie, actually, my Wist can be…explicit when she wants to be) “Fine, whatever, not like I actually wanted to know or anything.” Wist just stared at me so I took pity and changed the topic. “Tell past me to appreciate her eyes. Especially her right one.” Wist stared even more somehow. “Nope, won’t say anything else to that one.” She almost pouted, but refrained, her head tilting towards some noise I couldn’t hear. “You need to go. When will your Wist get here?” I looked through the thick flowers and cringed at the sight of an angry Tempest. “Did you know he becomes like an investigator? Never would have thought.” Wist didn’t react and I grinned. “Well, nice talking to you baby Wist, but I think you’re about to pull me back.” After a second—barely a moment—I reached out fast and grabbed her wrist, tight. “Wist, everything gets worse. So much fucking worse and I’m sorry. I’m horribly sorry because some of it is my fault, but I promise it gets better. I promise it’s worth it. Please don’t give up, please don’t stop trying and fighting. You’re such a fighter, Wist, remember that.” Wist doesn’t show any outward signs she heard me, but I know she did. She always listens to me. “Goodbye Wist.” And just like that my soul was sucked back through time and space, my being flexing and twisting until it spat me back in my time. And if I tackled Wist into a hug immediately, and if I cried a little, then that’s no one’s business but mine and Wist’s, thank you. ———————— The next time Wisteria Shien saw Asa Clematis she stared hard at her right eye and muttered, “Don’t take your eyes for granted.” And Asa Clematis laughed and laughed, calling her weird and crazy and strange, but Wisteria Shien didn’t feel like any of those. She felt stable for the first time in 13 years, three words repeating on cycle through her head in a voice so close to Asa Clematis, but just off, just too confident and low to be her; You’re a fighter. So Wisteria Shien did not feel weird or strange or crazy for repeating the words of that girl because she was stable and confident and happy so Wisteria Shien knew she should trust everything she said. The next day she did not remember why she felt so calm the day before, what had caused it, but that little rock of stability didn’t go away. It in fact grew and grew all those years until she hit 36 and realized just where it came from when Asa Clematis came falling into her arms crying and sobbing about it, about how she called Wisteria Shien a fighter.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75719551	{"authors": ["Existy15"], "language": "English", "title": "I Can Travel"}
Diaries: The Rise of Phoenix Drop “The phoenix, a legendary bird who finds rebirth in destruction. It was chosen by the people of Phoenix Drop to represent their new beginning free from fear and death. They were led by Lord Malik. Although he came from a background of riches and fortune, he connected with the people. With him at the forefront, he turned their settlement into a thriving village. He built houses, farms, he reached out to neighboring towns and villages and established trade. He even secured the best guards he could find to protect the village. Phoenix Drop was on the rise. “That was until the Shadow King awoke. Disturbed from his centuries-long slumber, he began resurrecting the souls of fallen soldiers. Promising them with the gift of immortality, he ordered those soldiers to end the lives of those most precious to them, often the people they died protecting, as a test of loyalty. Lords across the region started facing mysterious deaths and disappearances. The soldiers who committed these acts became the Shadow King’s army. “As portals between the over world and the shadow abyss opened across the land, so did plague and famine spread. The once prosperous lands of Phoenix Drop became barren almost overnight. Nothing could grow and the people of Phoenix Drop became hungry and starving. But Lord Malik did not let the spirit of his village die so soon. With help of his right hand and head guard, Garroth, he kept the village afloat for two years by trade with traveling merchants just to feed the people. Their stubbornness would be their fall. “A blaze shining brightly against the night sky trapped Lord Malik, his wife, and newborn baby in their home. The guards were too late to respond as soon the house became nothing but ash and rubble. The spirit of Phoenix Drop died with him, his memory soon to be completely forgotten within only weeks. “When it came time for Garroth to take over the late Malik's role as lord, he adamantly refused, and a village without a lord is destined to come to ruin. “And it was my fault.” The traveler placed his teacup back down on the saucer as he finished telling the story. The elderly woman across from him reached her hand out to him, placing it gently on his wrist. “It’s not too late,” she reassured him. “The forces of nature led you here for a reason.” She slowly stood from her chair, hobbling over to an old, dusty cabinet. Opening the doors, she pulled out a periwinkle staff. It was majestic. When the sunlight through the windows shined on it, light was refracted across the whole room of her cabin. It sparkled. “Hello, again,” the elderly woman greeted the staff. “It’s finally time.” The traveler stood from his own seat, walking over to her. She took his hand and placed the staff in it. “Take this,” she told him. “Place it somewhere that needs the help of Irene.” As her hand left it, he held it tight. “And this will make things right again?” he asked. “I know deep down that you have a good heart. I trust you to do what needs to be done.” The traveler nodded, pulled over his gray hood, and exited the elderly woman’s cabin, staff in hand. *** In a small forest clearing, a woman with raven hair awoke. Tall trees surrounded her, the sun’s rays just barely managing to reach her. It was warm upon her copper skin. She sat up amongst the tall, overgown grass, the green tickling her bare legs. She looked around the clearing, her eyes landing on a man dressed in green with a gray mask and hood covering his features. Their eyes meet. A few twigs snap. The bushes rustle. Far out voices are heard shouting. With that, the hooded man escapes behind a tree, running out further into the forest. The woman stands, fighting away a lingering exhaustion to chase after him. Poking out branches catch onto her white dress as she runs, tearing it into rags. Yet, she continues to run after him until she no longer can see him and she’s lost him for good. The yelling voices from earlier approach, the sound of a sword unsheathing right behind her. The guard holding it points the blade right at her. She can only see his brown eyes through his helmet. They’re narrowed, untrusting. “What’s a woman like you doing out here?” he sneered. A second guard ran up behind him. He was bulkier, and his armor looked more aged. His helmet covered his entire face, slightly obscuring his voice. “Forgive Zenix, please,” he says, placing a hand on the young guard’s shoulder. “He does not watch his mouth.” His unseen glare at Zenix held the weight of daggers. “Sir Garroth,” Zenix said, lowering his head and blade in respect. “You’re… familiar,” said the woman. The response from Garroth could only be described as a brief moment of panic. “You must be mistaken. I’ve never seen a maiden like you before,” he admits. “Oh, where are my manners?” Garroth bows before her. “I am Sir Garroth, the head guard of Phoenix Drop.” Zenix couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Don’t bow to her! We don’t know who she is or where she’s-” “Zenix,” Garroth cut him off, rising from his bow. “You can still be polite. Hospitality is a noble trait for a guard.” Zenix rolled his eyes and hesitantly bowed. “Zenix, guard apprentice.” The woman bowed to them in turn. “Nice to meet you, Sir Garroth, and Sir Zenix.” Zenix’s eyes lit up. “Did you hear that, Garroth? She called me sir! Seems I’m a better guard than you make me out to be.” Garroth sighed and shook his head before moving his attention back to the mysterious woman in front of him. “May we know your name?” he asked. “What are you doing out here in…” The words died on his tongue as he looked at her head to toe. All she was wearing was a simple white torn dress and gold bracelets on both of her wrists. “So little clothing,” Zenix finished for him, leaning against a nearby tree and cleaning his sword with a rag. “Zenix!” Garroth scolded. She didn’t appear offended by his comments though. “I don’t know,” she told them honestly. “I don’t remember.” Her mind stood blank of anything that came before waking up in the forest. “Not even your name?” Garroth prodded to which she shook her head. “We should take you back to the village in any case,” he finally said. “It’s not safe for you out here.” Zenix couldn't believe what he was hearing this time. He rose from his lean and stepped closer to Garroth, sword still in hand. “You can’t be serious! We’re taking an outsider to the village, are you insane?!” “Zenix,” Garroth warned him, but his apprentice wasn’t backing down this time. “We hardly have enough food for the people already there! We can’t be taking in random forest women! We just don’t have the resources!” He continued stepping closer, his sword grip tightening as he grew more argumentative and his movements more erratic. “Zenix, that’s enough,” Garroth warned again as Zenix continued to approach. “The people barely trust us after what happened to our lord. They blame us for his death! And then you refuse to take over as lord and so now we have a village that’s falling apart and dying because you’re too stubborn to admit that you can’t save everyone!” “That’s enough!” he yelled. Garroth had unsheathed his sword. Zenix looked down at the blade. It wasn’t pointed at him, but just the simple act of holding it let the threat sink in. Zenix backed down and sheathed his sword, Garroth soon after. “We will speak of this later.” Zenix clenched his hands into fists, but resigned, leading the way back to the village. Garroth looked back at the woman. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he apologized. She wasn’t as bothered by their argument as she was bothered by what she heard about the state of their village. “Your village is… dying?” she asked, quite worriedly. “You shouldn’t be concerned with those matters,” he told her. “Come now. We’re almost at Phoenix Drop.” The forest got thinner the closer they got, views of red roof tiles now visible through the leaves. As they approached the outer paths of the village, the state of ruin it was in was all too apparent. Vines born from the cracks in the cobblestone foundations climbed up the buildings. Windows had cracked corners. Shutters were half hanging off of their perches. The streets were mostly empty besides a few women who were outside doing laundry. The fields they passed held coarse dirt and not even a single sapling could sprout. The village reeked of death. “It’s empty,” she said, stopping in the middle of the road. “The streets aren’t very lively at the moment,” Garroth said, the guilt seeping through in his voice. “No,” she responded. “I mean… I feel it. Something in the air. It’s empty.” It sent a chill down her spine. It was an overwhelming sensation of death. “See? Now you let a crazy woman into our village,” Zenix said, crossing his arms. Garroth didn’t bother to scold him and continued to stare at the woman, unsure of what to make of what she was saying. She ran over to one of the enclosed barren farms. She leaned down and put her hand to the dry dirt. It crumbled and cracked under her touch. “It’s hurting. The land is hurting,” she told him, standing back up, her eyebrows drooping. “That’s just how it’s been,” Garroth sighed, not having a better explanation. “Nothing has grown here for well over two years now.” “Why is that?” she asked. “It all started after our lord-...” Garroth suddenly cut himself off. “...our lord…” he repeated, searching his mind for the words, for the memories. “I… don’t remember. Something… something happened involving our lord. Why- why can’t I remember?” The loss of memory shook Garroth to his core. He should know this. He was there. But his memories of the previous lord were becoming a gap in his mind. Just trying to remember anything was making his head pound. “Forget it,” said Zenix. “He was a terrible lord anyway.” “He was?” asked the woman. Zenix scoffed. “It’s not worth talking about. Just know that Phoenix Drop is the way it is now thanks to him.” Garroth had ignored their conversation due to his crisis. “I’m	Diaries: The Rise of Phoenix Drop “The phoenix, a legendary bird who finds rebirth in destruction. It was chosen by the people of Phoenix Drop to represent their new beginning free from fear and death. They were led by Lord Malik. Although he came from a background of riches and fortune, he connected with the people. With him at the forefront, he turned their settlement into a thriving village. He built houses, farms, he reached out to neighboring towns and villages and established trade. He even secured the best guards he could find to protect the village. Phoenix Drop was on the rise. “That was until the Shadow King awoke. Disturbed from his centuries-long slumber, he began resurrecting the souls of fallen soldiers. Promising them with the gift of immortality, he ordered those soldiers to end the lives of those most precious to them, often the people they died protecting, as a test of loyalty. Lords across the region started facing mysterious deaths and disappearances. The soldiers who committed these acts became the Shadow King’s army. “As portals between the over world and the shadow abyss opened across the land, so did plague and famine spread. The once prosperous lands of Phoenix Drop became barren almost overnight. Nothing could grow and the people of Phoenix Drop became hungry and starving. But Lord Malik did not let the spirit of his village die so soon. With help of his right hand and head guard, Garroth, he kept the village afloat for two years by trade with traveling merchants just to feed the people. Their stubbornness would be their fall. “A blaze shining brightly against the night sky trapped Lord Malik, his wife, and newborn baby in their home. The guards were too late to respond as soon the house became nothing but ash and rubble. The spirit of Phoenix Drop died with him, his memory soon to be completely forgotten within only weeks. “When it came time for Garroth to take over the late Malik's role as lord, he adamantly refused, and a village without a lord is destined to come to ruin. “And it was my fault.” The traveler placed his teacup back down on the saucer as he finished telling the story. The elderly woman across from him reached her hand out to him, placing it gently on his wrist. “It’s not too late,” she reassured him. “The forces of nature led you here for a reason.” She slowly stood from her chair, hobbling over to an old, dusty cabinet. Opening the doors, she pulled out a periwinkle staff. It was majestic. When the sunlight through the windows shined on it, light was refracted across the whole room of her cabin. It sparkled. “Hello, again,” the elderly woman greeted the staff. “It’s finally time.” The traveler stood from his own seat, walking over to her. She took his hand and placed the staff in it. “Take this,” she told him. “Place it somewhere that needs the help of Irene.” As her hand left it, he held it tight. “And this will make things right again?” he asked. “I know deep down that you have a good heart. I trust you to do what needs to be done.” The traveler nodded, pulled over his gray hood, and exited the elderly woman’s cabin, staff in hand. *** In a small forest clearing, a woman with raven hair awoke. Tall trees surrounded her, the sun’s rays just barely managing to reach her. It was warm upon her copper skin. She sat up amongst the tall, overgown grass, the green tickling her bare legs. She looked around the clearing, her eyes landing on a man dressed in green with a gray mask and hood covering his features. Their eyes meet. A few twigs snap. The bushes rustle. Far out voices are heard shouting. With that, the hooded man escapes behind a tree, running out further into the forest. The woman stands, fighting away a lingering exhaustion to chase after him. Poking out branches catch onto her white dress as she runs, tearing it into rags. Yet, she continues to run after him until she no longer can see him and she’s lost him for good. The yelling voices from earlier approach, the sound of a sword unsheathing right behind her. The guard holding it points the blade right at her. She can only see his brown eyes through his helmet. They’re narrowed, untrusting. “What’s a woman like you doing out here?” he sneered. A second guard ran up behind him. He was bulkier, and his armor looked more aged. His helmet covered his entire face, slightly obscuring his voice. “Forgive Zenix, please,” he says, placing a hand on the young guard’s shoulder. “He does not watch his mouth.” His unseen glare at Zenix held the weight of daggers. “Sir Garroth,” Zenix said, lowering his head and blade in respect. “You’re… familiar,” said the woman. The response from Garroth could only be described as a brief moment of panic. “You must be mistaken. I’ve never seen a maiden like you before,” he admits. “Oh, where are my manners?” Garroth bows before her. “I am Sir Garroth, the head guard of Phoenix Drop.” Zenix couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Don’t bow to her! We don’t know who she is or where she’s-” “Zenix,” Garroth cut him off, rising from his bow. “You can still be polite. Hospitality is a noble trait for a guard.” Zenix rolled his eyes and hesitantly bowed. “Zenix, guard apprentice.” The woman bowed to them in turn. “Nice to meet you, Sir Garroth, and Sir Zenix.” Zenix’s eyes lit up. “Did you hear that, Garroth? She called me sir! Seems I’m a better guard than you make me out to be.” Garroth sighed and shook his head before moving his attention back to the mysterious woman in front of him. “May we know your name?” he asked. “What are you doing out here in…” The words died on his tongue as he looked at her head to toe. All she was wearing was a simple white torn dress and gold bracelets on both of her wrists. “So little clothing,” Zenix finished for him, leaning against a nearby tree and cleaning his sword with a rag. “Zenix!” Garroth scolded. She didn’t appear offended by his comments though. “I don’t know,” she told them honestly. “I don’t remember.” Her mind stood blank of anything that came before waking up in the forest. “Not even your name?” Garroth prodded to which she shook her head. “We should take you back to the village in any case,” he finally said. “It’s not safe for you out here.” Zenix couldn't believe what he was hearing this time. He rose from his lean and stepped closer to Garroth, sword still in hand. “You can’t be serious! We’re taking an outsider to the village, are you insane?!” “Zenix,” Garroth warned him, but his apprentice wasn’t backing down this time. “We hardly have enough food for the people already there! We can’t be taking in random forest women! We just don’t have the resources!” He continued stepping closer, his sword grip tightening as he grew more argumentative and his movements more erratic. “Zenix, that’s enough,” Garroth warned again as Zenix continued to approach. “The people barely trust us after what happened to our lord. They blame us for his death! And then you refuse to take over as lord and so now we have a village that’s falling apart and dying because you’re too stubborn to admit that you can’t save everyone!” “That’s enough!” he yelled. Garroth had unsheathed his sword. Zenix looked down at the blade. It wasn’t pointed at him, but just the simple act of holding it let the threat sink in. Zenix backed down and sheathed his sword, Garroth soon after. “We will speak of this later.” Zenix clenched his hands into fists, but resigned, leading the way back to the village. Garroth looked back at the woman. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he apologized. She wasn’t as bothered by their argument as she was bothered by what she heard about the state of their village. “Your village is… dying?” she asked, quite worriedly. “You shouldn’t be concerned with those matters,” he told her. “Come now. We’re almost at Phoenix Drop.” The forest got thinner the closer they got, views of red roof tiles now visible through the leaves. As they approached the outer paths of the village, the state of ruin it was in was all too apparent. Vines born from the cracks in the cobblestone foundations climbed up the buildings. Windows had cracked corners. Shutters were half hanging off of their perches. The streets were mostly empty besides a few women who were outside doing laundry. The fields they passed held coarse dirt and not even a single sapling could sprout. The village reeked of death. “It’s empty,” she said, stopping in the middle of the road. “The streets aren’t very lively at the moment,” Garroth said, the guilt seeping through in his voice. “No,” she responded. “I mean… I feel it. Something in the air. It’s empty.” It sent a chill down her spine. It was an overwhelming sensation of death. “See? Now you let a crazy woman into our village,” Zenix said, crossing his arms. Garroth didn’t bother to scold him and continued to stare at the woman, unsure of what to make of what she was saying. She ran over to one of the enclosed barren farms. She leaned down and put her hand to the dry dirt. It crumbled and cracked under her touch. “It’s hurting. The land is hurting,” she told him, standing back up, her eyebrows drooping. “That’s just how it’s been,” Garroth sighed, not having a better explanation. “Nothing has grown here for well over two years now.” “Why is that?” she asked. “It all started after our lord-...” Garroth suddenly cut himself off. “...our lord…” he repeated, searching his mind for the words, for the memories. “I… don’t remember. Something… something happened involving our lord. Why- why can’t I remember?” The loss of memory shook Garroth to his core. He should know this. He was there. But his memories of the previous lord were becoming a gap in his mind. Just trying to remember anything was making his head pound. “Forget it,” said Zenix. “He was a terrible lord anyway.” “He was?” asked the woman. Zenix scoffed. “It’s not worth talking about. Just know that Phoenix Drop is the way it is now thanks to him.” Garroth had ignored their conversation due to his crisis. “I’m going to go lie down,” he says, holding his head as he leaves towards the center of town. With Garroth now gone, Zenix no longer cared about the woman he was forced to bring here. “Go ahead and do whatever you wish. Just don’t cause any trouble. We have enough on our plate as it is.” Zenix then left too, leaving the woman all alone in the barren crop patch. She started to wander around the village, the only noise to be heard being that of the bellowing wind, some broken creaky shutters, and the sounds of her own bare feet against the tough gravel. She stood still when she reached the center of town, closed her eyes, and just listened. The air was cold, dry, and thin. A soft whistle soon reached her ears just barely managing to be louder than the wind. It was a song. She opened her eyes and looked in the direction it was coming from. At the end of one of the parting paths sat a well, the source of the whistling. She ran over to the well and looking down it she saw a man clad in armor sitting at the bottom. His face was bright red. “Oh, Molly!” he exclaimed, seeing the woman at the top. “You came back for me! I knew you loved me.” The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I’m not Molly!” she yelled down, her voice echoing off of the damp cobble walls. “You’re not?” said the man, his confusion seeming genuine. “I’m sorry, but Molly would be my name,” a sweet voice behind her said. She turned around to see a beautiful middle-aged woman with blonde hair standing behind her. She walked over to the edge of the well and looked down at the man below. “Dale!” she yelled, her stern tone contrasting sharply against the one she just had. “You stupid idiot for a husband! This is the fifth time this week you’ve gone and thrown yourself down the well!” “Well it’s just um…” Dale trailed off. “…It’s right here. It’s very slippery, and loud.” He laughed to himself. “Molly, you’re so funny.” “Sweet Irene,” Molly muttered to herself. “Dale, when you get out of here, we are going to have a serious talk with Sir Garroth about- Ahhh!” The wall of the well crumbled under weight, throwing her down. Dale caught her in his arms. “Wow. You’re like a falling angel, Molly.” The sight of his infatuated smile only angered Molly further. “Damn you, Dale!” The woman laughed. “Don’t worry! I’ll get you out!” she yelled down to them before running off to find a rope. In the village, she saw a collection of shirts being held up by a rope to dry. She removed each shirt, folding them and placing them neatly on some nearby crates, then took the rope, hoping it would be long enough. She ran back over to the well and threw down the end of the rope. “Hold on!” she yelled. She tried to pull it back up, but it was too heavy with two people, or even with one person. She looked around for something to help her and spotted a crank by the roof of the well. She tied her end of the rope around it and used the crack to pull Molly and Dale out. “You’re a life saver, dear,” said Molly after stepping back onto dry land. “You must be new. What’s your name?” “I don’t know my name,” the woman admitted. “Ah, well isn’t that tough. But thank you for saving us. I apologize about my husband.” Molly side-eyed Dale. “He should know better than to get drunk over our lord.” “I’m drunk because our son died,” he whined, leaning on Molly’s shoulder. “Brian isn’t dead, you dunce!” “Wait, then why’d I get drunk?” Dale asked. “Because you blame yourself for our lord dying! Because… because…” Molly trailed off, the words just leaving her. “Huh. Well that’s strange. I just don’t remember.” Molly shook her head. It must not have been important. “Regardless, you owe this young lady an apology.” She put her hands on her hips. “I’m sorry, Miss,” Dale slurred out, resting his head on Molly’s shoulder again. “Good enough,” Molly sighed, already too tired of his antics. “Come on, let’s sober you up. And go tell Brendan to fix the well.” Molly dragged Dale off by his wrist. The mysterious woman looked back at the broken wall and the stones lying in the water at the bottom now. “If I can get those rocks back up here… maybe I can fix the well,” she muttered to herself. She grabbed a bucket lying nearby and attached it to the rope. She grabbed onto it and started to lower herself down the well slowly. When she reached the bottom, she picked up the stones and put them into the bucket, then scaled the well again. Her hands and feet burned, but she ignored the sensations. At the top of the well, she used the crank to bring the rocks in the bucket back up. She untied the bucket from the rope and sat down to piece all of the rocks back together. “So… this one goes here… and that one goes there… and this one has to sit at the top…” She continued to talk to herself as she placed all the stones back like putting together a puzzle. “Brendan, go fix this. Brendan, go fix that,” a voice coming up behind her complained. “Brendan, I need help with- Hey! What are you doing to our well?!” The man ran up after spotting her. The woman moved out of the way to reveal a fixed wall. He was speechless. It was fixed? He placed his hand on it. The rocks didn’t budge. “How… Who are you?” he asked. “I don’t know,” she answered. “You don’t…” He was still astonished by the work she did. “But this… this is incredible! How can I thank you enough?! You don’t know how much time this has saved me and now I can actually get to the other things people ask of me and thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!” He kneeled at her feet, groveling. The woman stood awkwardly above him. He stood back up, taking her hand and enthusiastically shaking it. “I’m Brendan. You’re a goddess,” he praised her. “Brendan!” a voice from the village yelled. He dropped the woman’s hand and stood back in fear. He recognized that voice. A woman with brunette braided hair stormed over to them. “D-Donna…?” Brendan’s voice quavered. “How come when I left my house to get the laundry for all of the women in my home did I find our clothes line gone and our clothes sitting on dirty boxes?!” she shouted. “Th-that wasn’t me! I wouldn’t touch your clothes!” he squealed, hiding behind the mysterious woman. “Do you mean this rope?” she asked, pointing at the one she tied to well. Donna paused her yelling for a moment, looked at the rope, then looked back at the unrecognizable woman. “How am I supposed to tell? Ropes all look the same!” She threw her arms up in the air. “Then that might have been me. I needed a rope to save Molly and Dale from the bottom of the well,” the woman informed her. Donna’s anger completely dissipated at the learning of that information. In fact, she started laughing. “If you needed a rope, you could’ve just told me. I thought someone was tryin’ to run off with some of our laundry, you see,” she said. “That’s what happens when you live with a house full of women. Bunch of creeps could just come waltzin’ by and steal our clothes for whatever dirty machinations they can come up with.” Brendan was offended. “C-creep?! I would never do that!” “I don’t mean you, Brendan. Just… having lived a lot of places, there’s a lot of bad stuff you see out in the world,” Donna explained. “Then why’d you yell at me first?!” he wailed. “Because you might’ve let someone take my clothes,” she replied. “That’s the guards’ job!” he retorted. “Yeah, well, you’re a whole lot more useful than them,” she quipped. He didn’t know whether to feel flattered, or upset at the bestowal of more work. “I’m sorry, I took your rope,” the mysterious woman apologized. “And I’m sorry for yellin’,” Donna replied. “Let’s start over. I’m Donna.” She held her hand out to the woman to shake. “It’s nice to meet you, Miss Donna,” the woman said, bowing to her, which threw her for a bit of a loop. She laughed at the formality. “No need for that here, sweetheart. Now what’s your name?” “I don’t remember,” the woman replied. “Really?” asked Donna. “Amnesia?” The woman nodded. “I know that. A lot of the village is suffering from some part of it,” she told her. “Heck, I didn’t even know until my friend from out of town pointed it out.” “Wait, we are?” Brendan asked. “Hey, maybe I can bring you to him,” Donna suggested to her. “And he can get you some new clothes too. Your current ones are lookin’… a little worse for wear.” “Well, you ladies have fun. I have to continue my chores or I’m gonna get yelled at again,” Brendan sighed, a distant scream of his name being heard in the distance. “That’s my queue.” Donna started up some small talk as she and the mysterious woman headed into the market. “So how’d you find your way to Phoenix Drop?” “Garroth and Zenix brought me here after finding me in the forest,” she answered. “Of course he would,” Donna sighed. The market was a small square around a single dead tree. Two stalls sat next to each other, the wood rotting, the patterned fabric roofs ripped and weathered, and crates sat out opened and empty. A tall man with ginger hair and a walrus mustache stood by one the stalls with an assortment of items in a neighboring wheelbarrow. “Visher!” Donna called out to him. He turned around, approaching the two girls with his arms out. “Donna!” he greeted her, meeting her in a bear hug. “Who is your friend?” he asked when they let go. “That’s what we’re tryin’ to find out,” she said, pushing the mysterious woman forward. “Garroth found her outside the village. She can’t remember a thing. Not even her name.” Visher hugged the woman with the same warmth and strength he did Donna, lifting her off the ground. “Oh, you poor girl.” He set her back down. “You’re going to be okay. Uncle Visher will make sure of that. Let me grab you some garb.” He turned around and started searching his stock for items to clothe her. He pulled out a plain outfit only consisting of a black corset and shorts along with a pair of knee-high boots. “This shall suffice,” Visher said, handing it off to her. “How much do I owe you for this?” asked Donna. Visher shook his head. “Don’t you worry about that. I always help a woman in need. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t hear the end of it from my wife.” The mysterious woman soon finished changing to her loaned clothes and twirled in delight. “Wow, look at you. Lookin’ better already,” said Donna before something caught her eye. She walked around the mysterious woman and brushed her long raven hair aside. It was just barely visible below her shoulders, but on her back was a marking in bright white of two mirrored wing like designs. “Hey, Visher! Check this out,” Donna said, admiring the detailed markings. “They’re like angel wings,” Visher noted. “What is it?” the woman asked. “On your back, you have wings. Like not actual wings, just something printed on your skin,” Donna explained. “Did you not know about this?” The woman shook her head. “Maybe they’re related to who you are,” Donna suggested. “You ever seen anything like this, Visher?” Visher shook his head as well. “Not naturally, no. Is it paint?” “Could be…” Donna said, deep in thought. “Don’t you have a village librarian you can ask?” Visher queried. Donna’s face morphed into that of disgust. “Oh, Emmalyn? If I can even get a word in with her. Cause she’s a bitch.” “Donna, how could you say that? There’s children around!” Visher pointed at a young patrolling guard nearby. “I’m sixteen!” the guard yelled back. “Huh? Really?” questioned Visher. “Uh, eat your vegetables then,” he said before brushing the baby-faced guard off. “Aw, wait, Brian, come back,” Donna said, bringing the guard back in with a laugh. “Sorry your dad’s drunk again,” she said after her laugh died. “At least Sir Dale is only an idiot when he drinks,” Brian sighed, trying to have a sense of humor. Donna laughed at that. “Whoa, look at you callin’ your dad ‘sir’. You’re gonna make a fine full-fledged guard someday if you keep talkin’ like that. You might even make Garroth’s apprentice.” “R-really? Thank you, Miss Donna,” said Brian. “Say, Brian,” Donna said. “I have to discuss something with Visher. Do you mind showin’ our new friend here around?” “B-but, I’m in the middle of patrol,” Brian said, sounding a bit conflicted. “Aw, it won’t take long. And she’s lost her memory, it’s your job to look out for people,” she persuaded. “Alright then.” Brian turned to the mysterious woman. “Would you please follow me?” he asked through his wavering voice. The woman nodded excitedly and waved goodbye to Donna and Visher as she followed him back into the inner village. Brian walked very stiffly with his eyes always straight ahead. “You don’t talk much,” she noted, walking with slightly more of a pep in her step. “H-huh?! Oh, uh, right. This right here are the guard quarters,” he pointed at the first fully brick building. “Is that where you live?” she asked. “Oh, no. I live with my parents. Sir Garroth and Zenix stay here,” he corrected. “And your parents are Molly and Dale, right?” she asked. “Have you met them?” Brian inquired. “Briefly. I saved them from the bottom of a well,” she replied, the corners of her mouth perking up as she remembered the entertaining scene. “Yeah, that sounds like them,” he laughed, awkwardness and embarrassment seeping through. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he apologized. “I never asked for your name. How impolite of me.” “That’s alright. I don’t remember it so I wouldn’t have a name to give,” she replied. Brian was a bit taken aback at how content she seemed with that fact. “If that’s the case, then why don’t you just pick a name to go by?” he suggested. “Just until you can remember your real one that is.” She thought about it for a moment, searching her mind for any sort of name she could take on. One stood out to her. “Aphmau,” she said. “Aphmau?” Brian pried. It was certainly unique, and he wouldn’t say it, but a little weird. “Yeah,” she said. “I think I like that one. It almost seems… familiar to me.” “O-okay. It’s nice to meet you, Miss Aphmau,” Brian said, bowing out of respect. Aphmau bowed back. Brian was surprised at that. He wasn’t used to people showing him such a level of respect. “If there’s anything you wanna know about Phoenix Drop, you can come to me,” he said, his confidence growing. “Just showing me around is enough,” she said, gracing him with a smile. “In that case, I’ll bring you to some of my favorite places. Come on!” he said, and they continued on their tour. Garroth watched them from the upper story of the guard quarters. He put his helmet back on as he heard footsteps on the stairs. “Is it later yet?” Zenix asked, setting his helmet down on his bedside table. “You still have objections?” Garroth asked. “Yes! Of course! Having her here is only going to bring more trouble than it’s worth,” Zenix said. “She seems to be getting along quite fine,” Garroth noted. “It’s not her I’m worried about, it’s the villagers. We’ve produced no answers about the lord and his death and now you’re bringing around some crazy amnesiac who’s just going to waste resources. How can you trust she is who she says she is?” “Then we’ll keep a close eye on her.” Unexpectedly, Zenix wraps his arms around Garroth. “How?” Zenix asked. “How can you be so trusting? Of her? Of… me?” Garroth hugs Zenix back. “It’s not about trust. It’s about helping those who are lost and alone.” “She reminded you of me, didn’t she?” “Well, it’s not often I come across people lost in the woods with no memories of who they are.” “Why did you take me in, Garroth?” Zenix asked, letting go of Garroth and wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “In the face of all of the risks I could bring? You’re an idiot.” “And what if I just left you there? Left you to die?” “Could’ve saved you a lot of trouble,” Zenix muttered. “Zenix, I’ve never for a second regretted taking you in as my own.” Garroth placed his hand on Zenix’s shoulder. Zenix looks off with a solemn expression. “That just… is going to make everything hurt so much more.” “Why don’t you rest for the night? I’ll take the evening to morning patrols,” Garroth suggested. Zenix was hesitant but nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll do that. Thanks, Garroth.” He smiled as he watched Garroth leave. “And finally, this is our library,” Brian said, gesturing to one of the larger buildings in the village. “It’s owned and run by our resident librarian, Emmalyn.” Aphmau recognized that name as someone mentioned by Donna. “She would know about my markings,” she said aloud. “Huh?” Brian said, not really understanding. “Oh! The sun’s setting. You said you had to be home for dinner?” Aphmau said. “Gah! That’s right!” Brian exclaimed, completely forgetting about what she said previously. “I have to go, Miss Aphmau, but it was a pleasure meeting you and showing you around.” “Thank you so much!” she said, waving him off. “Have a nice night!” “You too, Miss Aphmau!” Brian waved as well as he started walking home. And there she was again. Alone. In front of the Phoenix Drop library. She knocked on the front door. “Hello?” she called out, slowly opening it. The library was the size of a large house. It was divided into three main rooms: the front desk which currently sat empty, a comfy living area fit with a stove and stairs to the second story, and the actual library where bookcases lined every wall. She wandered through it, in between the shelves. The books were all neatly binded. They were ordered on the shelves by their genre, author, and title. She pulled a book out. Looking inside, it was a romance novel called Midnight. She didn’t look at it for long and tossed it to the floor. She looked further and came across another fiction book called The Mage of Goz. Still not what she was looking for and tossed it as well. She kept looking all over the shelves for just anything that could resemble the marks on her back, tossing any book that wouldn’t help her. She paused when she pulled out a book with a navy blue cover and a strange symbol. It almost looked like a white three leafed clover. She stared at the cover, a sense of familiarity coming over her. “What are you doing?!” a shrieky voice yelled behind her. It came from a young blonde woman with glasses and a magenta coat. Her face was red and fuming mad. “This is a highly disrespectful way to treat books! Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get your hands on some of these?!” Aphmau stared at her with wide eyes, the book dropping from her hands. Her silence only angered the other further. “Are you stupid?!” “No, I don’t think so,” Aphmau replied. “Who are you?!” she yelled. “I’m Aphmau. You must be Emmalyn. Donna told me about you,” Aphmau answered. “Oh. That explains it. Donna told you, huh? I bet she sent you here just to rile me up, huh?! Well it’s working!” “She said you knew something about this.” Aphmau turned around and moved her hair out of the way to show off the marking on her back. Emmalyn looked closer, adjusting her glasses just slightly to get a better look. “I can’t exactly see it very clearly as your shirt is in the way.” “I can fix that,” Aphmau said, lifting up her shirt. Emmalyn’s face flushed bright red. “Don’t take off your shirt! Ugh! I’m dealing with idiots in this village! I don’t even know who you are!” “I just told you. I’m Aphmau,” she said, turning around. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.” “That would make sense. I just got here. Garroth found me in the forest.” “And let me guess. You can’t remember anything about yourself, can you?” Emmalyn asked sarcastically, kneeling down to pick up her thrown books. “How did you know?” Emmalyn couldn’t believe it. Both how stupid this woman was and how Garroth managed to find another strange person with no memories right outside their village? She should study that phenomenon. “Regardless, you’ve caused enough trouble here already, so get out!” Emmalyn yelled at her. “But I have nowhere else to go,” Aphmau said. “Does it look like I care?!” Emmalyn yelled, standing up, a book in each hand. “O-okay… I’ll leave you alone.” Aphmau slowly backed away as Emmalyn returned to sorting her books. She backed away until she ended up in the furthest room. The one with the lit furnace. The warmth of it distracted her. She kneeled down by the furnace and sat by it, soaking in the heat radiating off the fire. Maybe she’ll just stay here, out of Emmalyn’s way. A tired Emmalyn walked by her minutes later on her way upstairs, yawning and rubbing her eyes. Sorting everything again must’ve taken a lot from her, but it caused her to walk right by Aphmau, hardly noticing her curled up in the corner of the room. Eventually, to the heat of the furnace, Aphmau fell asleep. “What are you still doing here?!” Emmalyn yelled at her in the morning. Apparently Emmalyn wakes up early in the morning to watch the sunrise and she had finally caught Aphmau squatting in her house. “Get out!” she yelled again, pulling Aphmau up by the sleeves and forcibly throwing her out of the library. “I’m going to tell Garroth about you!” Emmalyn slammed the doors shut. Aphmau stood back up, brushing the stay pebbles and gravel off of her. The sun was just beginning to rise. She just started to walk with no conscious direction, ending up at one of the barren crop fields. She didn’t know why she came here. The same sense of pain and hurt came over her as it did before. She kneeled down to the dirt. It was so dry, it was irritating her skin. Still, she placed her hand down and closed her eyes. And then a glow. And as if being pried from her back, wings of light grew upon her laying the area in a thick fog of pure light. By the time the light faded, the once dry and dying ground was green and full of life. A gasp. “What have you done?” Standing behind her was Garroth. He saw everything.	ao3_english	2025-12-14T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75722141/chapters/198049961	{"authors": ["LibLib620"], "language": "English", "title": "Diaries: The Rise of Phoenix Drop"}
Fire & Gasoline Stu’s drunk again. Drunker than he meant to be. The bottle sits on the counter somewhere above him, but he’s on the floor now--knees up, spine slouched against the cabinets, kitchen light buzzing overhead like it’s thinking about giving out. Thirty years without Billy and the air still feels too big. His shirt’s half-open, the fabric bunched under his arms. His fingers drift to the faint white lines Billy left on him, old half-moons and ridges, souvenirs of love or violence or whatever they were pretending it was back then. He touches one, presses until the skin blanches, just enough to feel something spark behind his ribs. He toys with the point of a knife--not cutting, just lightly pressing, dragging the cool metal across healed skin, testing the idea of pain without letting it stick. He breathes. Something inside him echoes back wrong. When he glances at the oven door, he freezes. The reflection behind him is wrong--tall, dark, hooded. A Ghostface stands in the warped metal shine. Stu jolts hard enough that his head bumps the cabinet. “What the--?” Static swims through the air, a glitch in an old TV, then-- “Hey.” The voice sharpens. “Hey. Stop that, dickhead.” Stu’s throat closes. The knife slips from his hand and clatters on the tile, spinning once before settling. The reflection lifts its hands, pulls the Ghostface mask free. Billy. Young Billy. Sharp-jawed, bright-eyed, beautiful Billy. Ten seconds before a kill and ten hours before a kiss. Billy as he was, not as he ended. Stu whispers, “What the fuck,” but it’s barely breath. Billy tilts his head, unimpressed. “You’re wasting time.” He says it like they’re teenagers again, like the last thirty years never scraped Stu raw. He crouches in the reflection, elbows on his knees. “Enough of the emo martyr crap. We’ve got work to do.” A lopsided smirk. “Remember work?” Stu’s eyes burn. The voice is so clear it might as well be vibrating in his bones. Billy talks like he used to talk only to Stu--too fast, too smart, too sure of them: about how the world turned into a bad parody of their mythology, how what used to be sacred became a punchline. How everything kept moving even though they didn’t. “Unfinished business,” Billy says softly. The reflection flickers-- Then he’s gone. But Stu feels him. Warm breath ghosts over his ear. His eyes flutter shut without permission. There’s a smell--not real, can’t be real--gasoline and smoke, that heady chemical sweetness of something catching fire far away. Billy’s voice lowers, intimate, conspiratorial, the way he used to lean in close when he wanted Stu to follow him anywhere. “You remember how we used to be.” A palm presses to Stu’s chest. Not real, not possible, but it’s there--weight, warmth, grounding him, winding him up at the same time. “Everything rots,” Billy whispers. “So burn what’s rotten.” Stu’s breath stutters. His head tips back against the cabinet. The flickering light hums. Reality wavers. He opens his eyes slowly, terrified the hallucination will dissolve if he moves too fast. Billy is kneeling in front of him. Smiling. Excited. Hungry. Beautiful in that terrible way he always was. Dark eyes bright with an old fever. Stu wants to kiss him so badly it aches. Instead he chokes out, “I miss you. I’m sorry.” Billy doesn’t look angry. If anything, he looks delighted--like Stu finally said the right line in a script only Billy understood. Billy’s hand settles over Stu’s, curling his fingers around the knife again--not toward himself, repositioning it, shaping the posture, reminding him of who he used to be before grief turned him inward. “Prove it,” Billy murmurs. A ghost’s dare. A metaphor with teeth. And for the first time in thirty years, Stu feels something catch fire in his chest--bright, dangerous, patently Billy and Stu.	Fire & Gasoline Stu’s drunk again. Drunker than he meant to be. The bottle sits on the counter somewhere above him, but he’s on the floor now--knees up, spine slouched against the cabinets, kitchen light buzzing overhead like it’s thinking about giving out. Thirty years without Billy and the air still feels too big. His shirt’s half-open, the fabric bunched under his arms. His fingers drift to the faint white lines Billy left on him, old half-moons and ridges, souvenirs of love or violence or whatever they were pretending it was back then. He touches one, presses until the skin blanches, just enough to feel something spark behind his ribs. He toys with the point of a knife--not cutting, just lightly pressing, dragging the cool metal across healed skin, testing the idea of pain without letting it stick. He breathes. Something inside him echoes back wrong. When he glances at the oven door, he freezes. The reflection behind him is wrong--tall, dark, hooded. A Ghostface stands in the warped metal shine. Stu jolts hard enough that his head bumps the cabinet. “What the--?” Static swims through the air, a glitch in an old TV, then-- “Hey.” The voice sharpens. “Hey. Stop that, dickhead.” Stu’s throat closes. The knife slips from his hand and clatters on the tile, spinning once before settling. The reflection lifts its hands, pulls the Ghostface mask free. Billy. Young Billy. Sharp-jawed, bright-eyed, beautiful Billy. Ten seconds before a kill and ten hours before a kiss. Billy as he was, not as he ended. Stu whispers, “What the fuck,” but it’s barely breath. Billy tilts his head, unimpressed. “You’re wasting time.” He says it like they’re teenagers again, like the last thirty years never scraped Stu raw. He crouches in the reflection, elbows on his knees. “Enough of the emo martyr crap. We’ve got work to do.” A lopsided smirk. “Remember work?” Stu’s eyes burn. The voice is so clear it might as well be vibrating in his bones. Billy talks like he used to talk only to Stu--too fast, too smart, too sure of them: about how the world turned into a bad parody of their mythology, how what used to be sacred became a punchline. How everything kept moving even though they didn’t. “Unfinished business,” Billy says softly. The reflection flickers-- Then he’s gone. But Stu feels him. Warm breath ghosts over his ear. His eyes flutter shut without permission. There’s a smell--not real, can’t be real--gasoline and smoke, that heady chemical sweetness of something catching fire far away. Billy’s voice lowers, intimate, conspiratorial, the way he used to lean in close when he wanted Stu to follow him anywhere. “You remember how we used to be.” A palm presses to Stu’s chest. Not real, not possible, but it’s there--weight, warmth, grounding him, winding him up at the same time. “Everything rots,” Billy whispers. “So burn what’s rotten.” Stu’s breath stutters. His head tips back against the cabinet. The flickering light hums. Reality wavers. He opens his eyes slowly, terrified the hallucination will dissolve if he moves too fast. Billy is kneeling in front of him. Smiling. Excited. Hungry. Beautiful in that terrible way he always was. Dark eyes bright with an old fever. Stu wants to kiss him so badly it aches. Instead he chokes out, “I miss you. I’m sorry.” Billy doesn’t look angry. If anything, he looks delighted--like Stu finally said the right line in a script only Billy understood. Billy’s hand settles over Stu’s, curling his fingers around the knife again--not toward himself, repositioning it, shaping the posture, reminding him of who he used to be before grief turned him inward. “Prove it,” Billy murmurs. A ghost’s dare. A metaphor with teeth. And for the first time in thirty years, Stu feels something catch fire in his chest--bright, dangerous, patently Billy and Stu.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75717941?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["swinedrunk"], "language": "English", "title": "Fire & Gasoline"}
Spider Spark The city never truly slept, but Peter Parker had learned to find comfort in its familiar rhythm. The hum of distant traffic, the faint chatter of pedestrians blocks away, the smell of hot dogs mixed with engine exhaust—these were the small details his senses picked up, grounding him in the world. A world where no one knew his name. He had made the choice to not tell Ned and MJ about him, they looked happy together without him messing it all up. Everyone around him always died, and Peter did not want anything to happen to them, so he’d never reveal the truth. He wasn’t even certain if they’d believe him anyway. Peter was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t register people running away from a building. He didn’t notice until the screams started. His head snapped up before his mind could register why. It wasn’t just the sound—it was the fear laced in it, sharp and raw. His skin prickled as his instincts flared to life, muscles tightening before he even knew what he was reacting to. He barely had to think. In one fluid motion, his mask shifted to cover the rest of his face, leaped off the rooftop, and shot a web toward the nearest building. The moment he swung into the open air, everything sharpened. His ears picked up the frantic pounding of footsteps, the screeching alarms from blocks away. His heart pounded in his ears as he swung towards the chaos, eyes locked onto the faint, erratic glow flickering against the buildings ahead. And beneath it all, he felt something off—a shift in the air pressure, a static hum crawling along his skin like a warning. When he reached the source of the commotion, his stomach twisted. A research facility stood ahead, its massive steel doors blown open. The scent of burning metal hit him instantly, thick and acrid. Inside, flashes of blue light pulsed erratically, casting eerie shadows against the walls. Workers scrambled for safety, their terrified shouts barely audible over the blaring alarms. Peter landed just outside and rushed in, and the second he did, his senses screamed at him. A deep, unnatural hum hammered through the air, rattling in his bones. The gravitational pull wasn’t just affecting the objects around him—he could feel it, tugging at him, making the floor beneath his feet feel uneven. A multidimensional teleporter at the centre of the lab was a mess of energy, its core twisting and convulsing like it was alive. The static in the air sent his hairs on end, an invisible force dragging everything toward the vortex. Papers, chairs, and even computers were being sucked in, vanishing into the portal’s chaotic depths. And then—heartbeats. Erratic, desperate heartbeats. Peter’s head snapped toward the nearest group of workers. One had already lost their footing, their fingers slipping from the railing they were clinging to. Before they could be sucked in, he fired a web, yanking them to safety. Another stumbled backward, a scream catching in their throat. He caught them just in time, muscles straining as he pulled them free. One by one, he moved with precision, reacting before disaster struck. The sound of metal creaking under pressure, the shift in weight when someone was about to fall—he felt it all before it happened. But the force was growing stronger, and time was running out. Then, just as he pushed the last scientist out of harm’s way, the pull seized him. His muscles tensed as an invisible force locked onto his body. His feet skidded against the tile, and for a split second, every instinct in him screamed to move, to fight, to resist. He fired a web at the nearest wall—snap. Another—snap. The fibres couldn’t hold. The gravity was too strong. A chill raced down his spine. Something wasn’t right. The pressure around him shifted, and suddenly, it wasn’t just his body being pulled in—it was everything. His mind swam with the overload of sensations—his ears rang from the frequency of the vortex, his skin tingled as if it were being stretched in two directions, the scent of ozone flooded his nose as the air itself changed. “Not good,” he muttered. “Definitely not good.” Then, the world shattered. A rush, weightlessness consumed him. He fell, but there was no ground to catch him. His stomach lurched as he tumbled through nothingness, his senses screaming at the sheer wrongness of it. Light and darkness twisted together, colours bleeding into each other, shapes stretching and warping. His body tensed, bracing for the worst—pain, destruction, an end. But it never came. Instead, something shifted inside him. His senses dulled and then flared back to life in ways he couldn’t explain. His skin prickled as if the very fabric of reality was brushing against him. Then—impact. Peter crashed onto solid ground with a force that knocked the breath from his lungs. The scent of unfamiliar earth filled his nose, and the air felt wrong—not polluted, not fresh, just… different. Groaning, he rolled onto his back, blinking up at a sky that didn’t look like his own. His body aching from the impact. His hearing adjusted first. No familiar sirens. No honking taxis. The distant hum of a city, but not his city. His vision followed, locking onto buildings that looked nothing like New York’s skyline. He wasn’t home. He wasn’t even in his own universe. Dr. Strange had told him not to mess with the multiverse, now he was paying the price. Stupid Parker Luck. ————————— Scrambling to his feet, Peter took in his surroundings. Scattered around him were the scorched remnants of computers, papers still curling from fire, and twisted fragments of tech from the lab. He quickly checked himself over—some bruises, maybe a few scrapes, but no burns. Nothing serious. He let out a shaky breath. “Still breathing. That’s a win.” His eyes scanned the skyline, his nerves still raw. This definitely wasn’t home. The architecture was wrong—familiar but… evolved, like someone had redesigned New York in a parallel timeline. He felt exposed. Vulnerable. Alone. What now? Should he wait and hope this world had its own version of the Avengers? Or should he disappear before anyone started asking questions? Frantically going through the pros and cons of both decisions, Peter chose the latter. He didn’t know this world. He didn’t know who to trust. Getting caught right after arriving wasn’t part of the plan—assuming there was a plan. “Karen?” Peter asked hopefully. He sighed in disappointment when she didn’t answer. No Karen then. He was truly alone. His spider sense prickled. A subtle rumble beneath his feet, like distant thunder—no, engines. High-powered. Multiple. He shifted into a crouch and tilted his head, filtering the city’s noise until he isolated the sounds: five distinct vehicles, moving fast. He launched a web to the nearest building and launched to the rooftop just as the convoy pulled in. Peering over the edge, Peter narrowed his eyes. The vehicles didn’t make sense. A sleek black truck, a yellow Camaro, two bright Lamborghinis—seriously?—and a white-and-red ambulance, all polished to perfection. Not exactly subtle. From two of them, three men stepped out. Their movements were sharp, practiced. Military. He recognized it instantly—he’d seen Uncle Rhodey move the same way. But military guys in luxury sports cars? That was new. Peter’s ears honed in on the conversation. He couldn’t catch every word over the ambient city noise, but what he did hear made no sense. “—coordinates of the AllSpark signal. If a Cassette was here, we need to find them before MECH gets wind of this.” Peter frowned. All spark? Cassette? Mech? These weren’t words anyone in his universe threw around. He’d definitely need to hit a library—or something like it—and get some basic intel. Right now, he was flying blind. Still crouched low, Peter tensed as something new happened. A blur of motion—too fast for a civilian. A person appeared beside the lead officer and… hugged him? Fingers curled behind his neck, like a private gesture of reassurance or familiarity. Peter shivered. But it wasn’t fear that rolled down his spine. His Spider-Sense didn’t flare with danger—it hummed. A strange, pulsing awareness ran under his skin. Curious. Watchful. Not a warning, but a reaction. His instincts leaned forward, not back, and that… unsettled him. It wasn’t a red flag. It was… something else. Something he didn’t know how to interpret. Before Peter could piece it together, the man who had appeared turned to the white-and-red ambulance. His voice was calm, precise. “First Aid. Scan the area. I want everything analysed—burn patterns, electronic signatures, paper remnants. See if anything matches an AllSpark trace. If we’re lucky, it might’ve been a Cassette.” And then the ambulance moved. Not drove—transformed. Its frame split apart in clean, mechanical motion. Tires folded inward, panels shifted like puzzle pieces, and within seconds a massive bipedal robot stood where the vehicle had been. Towering. Silent. Alive. Peter’s breath caught in his throat—and escaped in a shocked gasp. The robot’s unnaturally glowing blue eyes turned toward him instantly. The man beside it followed his gaze. “We’ve got a witness. Hey! You there—wait!” But Peter was already moving. “Nope nope nope.” His body moved on instinct, Spider-Sense urging speed now. Not fear—urgency. He fired a web at the next building and flung himself into the air, leaving behind the rooftop and the strange gathering below. The wind hit his face as he swung wide, cutting across the skyline with practiced ease. “Visual on a runner!” someone shouted. Peter didn’t answer. Didn’t look back. He knew better. Whoever these people were, they were fast. But Peter had an advantage. He could easily swing from building to building while they were trying to follow him from the ground. He raced upward, perching on a fire escape railing for a split second before launching off again. Below, the black truck roared to life and the yellow Camaro peeled out, engines growling like predators on the hunt. Peter’s	Spider Spark The city never truly slept, but Peter Parker had learned to find comfort in its familiar rhythm. The hum of distant traffic, the faint chatter of pedestrians blocks away, the smell of hot dogs mixed with engine exhaust—these were the small details his senses picked up, grounding him in the world. A world where no one knew his name. He had made the choice to not tell Ned and MJ about him, they looked happy together without him messing it all up. Everyone around him always died, and Peter did not want anything to happen to them, so he’d never reveal the truth. He wasn’t even certain if they’d believe him anyway. Peter was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t register people running away from a building. He didn’t notice until the screams started. His head snapped up before his mind could register why. It wasn’t just the sound—it was the fear laced in it, sharp and raw. His skin prickled as his instincts flared to life, muscles tightening before he even knew what he was reacting to. He barely had to think. In one fluid motion, his mask shifted to cover the rest of his face, leaped off the rooftop, and shot a web toward the nearest building. The moment he swung into the open air, everything sharpened. His ears picked up the frantic pounding of footsteps, the screeching alarms from blocks away. His heart pounded in his ears as he swung towards the chaos, eyes locked onto the faint, erratic glow flickering against the buildings ahead. And beneath it all, he felt something off—a shift in the air pressure, a static hum crawling along his skin like a warning. When he reached the source of the commotion, his stomach twisted. A research facility stood ahead, its massive steel doors blown open. The scent of burning metal hit him instantly, thick and acrid. Inside, flashes of blue light pulsed erratically, casting eerie shadows against the walls. Workers scrambled for safety, their terrified shouts barely audible over the blaring alarms. Peter landed just outside and rushed in, and the second he did, his senses screamed at him. A deep, unnatural hum hammered through the air, rattling in his bones. The gravitational pull wasn’t just affecting the objects around him—he could feel it, tugging at him, making the floor beneath his feet feel uneven. A multidimensional teleporter at the centre of the lab was a mess of energy, its core twisting and convulsing like it was alive. The static in the air sent his hairs on end, an invisible force dragging everything toward the vortex. Papers, chairs, and even computers were being sucked in, vanishing into the portal’s chaotic depths. And then—heartbeats. Erratic, desperate heartbeats. Peter’s head snapped toward the nearest group of workers. One had already lost their footing, their fingers slipping from the railing they were clinging to. Before they could be sucked in, he fired a web, yanking them to safety. Another stumbled backward, a scream catching in their throat. He caught them just in time, muscles straining as he pulled them free. One by one, he moved with precision, reacting before disaster struck. The sound of metal creaking under pressure, the shift in weight when someone was about to fall—he felt it all before it happened. But the force was growing stronger, and time was running out. Then, just as he pushed the last scientist out of harm’s way, the pull seized him. His muscles tensed as an invisible force locked onto his body. His feet skidded against the tile, and for a split second, every instinct in him screamed to move, to fight, to resist. He fired a web at the nearest wall—snap. Another—snap. The fibres couldn’t hold. The gravity was too strong. A chill raced down his spine. Something wasn’t right. The pressure around him shifted, and suddenly, it wasn’t just his body being pulled in—it was everything. His mind swam with the overload of sensations—his ears rang from the frequency of the vortex, his skin tingled as if it were being stretched in two directions, the scent of ozone flooded his nose as the air itself changed. “Not good,” he muttered. “Definitely not good.” Then, the world shattered. A rush, weightlessness consumed him. He fell, but there was no ground to catch him. His stomach lurched as he tumbled through nothingness, his senses screaming at the sheer wrongness of it. Light and darkness twisted together, colours bleeding into each other, shapes stretching and warping. His body tensed, bracing for the worst—pain, destruction, an end. But it never came. Instead, something shifted inside him. His senses dulled and then flared back to life in ways he couldn’t explain. His skin prickled as if the very fabric of reality was brushing against him. Then—impact. Peter crashed onto solid ground with a force that knocked the breath from his lungs. The scent of unfamiliar earth filled his nose, and the air felt wrong—not polluted, not fresh, just… different. Groaning, he rolled onto his back, blinking up at a sky that didn’t look like his own. His body aching from the impact. His hearing adjusted first. No familiar sirens. No honking taxis. The distant hum of a city, but not his city. His vision followed, locking onto buildings that looked nothing like New York’s skyline. He wasn’t home. He wasn’t even in his own universe. Dr. Strange had told him not to mess with the multiverse, now he was paying the price. Stupid Parker Luck. ————————— Scrambling to his feet, Peter took in his surroundings. Scattered around him were the scorched remnants of computers, papers still curling from fire, and twisted fragments of tech from the lab. He quickly checked himself over—some bruises, maybe a few scrapes, but no burns. Nothing serious. He let out a shaky breath. “Still breathing. That’s a win.” His eyes scanned the skyline, his nerves still raw. This definitely wasn’t home. The architecture was wrong—familiar but… evolved, like someone had redesigned New York in a parallel timeline. He felt exposed. Vulnerable. Alone. What now? Should he wait and hope this world had its own version of the Avengers? Or should he disappear before anyone started asking questions? Frantically going through the pros and cons of both decisions, Peter chose the latter. He didn’t know this world. He didn’t know who to trust. Getting caught right after arriving wasn’t part of the plan—assuming there was a plan. “Karen?” Peter asked hopefully. He sighed in disappointment when she didn’t answer. No Karen then. He was truly alone. His spider sense prickled. A subtle rumble beneath his feet, like distant thunder—no, engines. High-powered. Multiple. He shifted into a crouch and tilted his head, filtering the city’s noise until he isolated the sounds: five distinct vehicles, moving fast. He launched a web to the nearest building and launched to the rooftop just as the convoy pulled in. Peering over the edge, Peter narrowed his eyes. The vehicles didn’t make sense. A sleek black truck, a yellow Camaro, two bright Lamborghinis—seriously?—and a white-and-red ambulance, all polished to perfection. Not exactly subtle. From two of them, three men stepped out. Their movements were sharp, practiced. Military. He recognized it instantly—he’d seen Uncle Rhodey move the same way. But military guys in luxury sports cars? That was new. Peter’s ears honed in on the conversation. He couldn’t catch every word over the ambient city noise, but what he did hear made no sense. “—coordinates of the AllSpark signal. If a Cassette was here, we need to find them before MECH gets wind of this.” Peter frowned. All spark? Cassette? Mech? These weren’t words anyone in his universe threw around. He’d definitely need to hit a library—or something like it—and get some basic intel. Right now, he was flying blind. Still crouched low, Peter tensed as something new happened. A blur of motion—too fast for a civilian. A person appeared beside the lead officer and… hugged him? Fingers curled behind his neck, like a private gesture of reassurance or familiarity. Peter shivered. But it wasn’t fear that rolled down his spine. His Spider-Sense didn’t flare with danger—it hummed. A strange, pulsing awareness ran under his skin. Curious. Watchful. Not a warning, but a reaction. His instincts leaned forward, not back, and that… unsettled him. It wasn’t a red flag. It was… something else. Something he didn’t know how to interpret. Before Peter could piece it together, the man who had appeared turned to the white-and-red ambulance. His voice was calm, precise. “First Aid. Scan the area. I want everything analysed—burn patterns, electronic signatures, paper remnants. See if anything matches an AllSpark trace. If we’re lucky, it might’ve been a Cassette.” And then the ambulance moved. Not drove—transformed. Its frame split apart in clean, mechanical motion. Tires folded inward, panels shifted like puzzle pieces, and within seconds a massive bipedal robot stood where the vehicle had been. Towering. Silent. Alive. Peter’s breath caught in his throat—and escaped in a shocked gasp. The robot’s unnaturally glowing blue eyes turned toward him instantly. The man beside it followed his gaze. “We’ve got a witness. Hey! You there—wait!” But Peter was already moving. “Nope nope nope.” His body moved on instinct, Spider-Sense urging speed now. Not fear—urgency. He fired a web at the next building and flung himself into the air, leaving behind the rooftop and the strange gathering below. The wind hit his face as he swung wide, cutting across the skyline with practiced ease. “Visual on a runner!” someone shouted. Peter didn’t answer. Didn’t look back. He knew better. Whoever these people were, they were fast. But Peter had an advantage. He could easily swing from building to building while they were trying to follow him from the ground. He raced upward, perching on a fire escape railing for a split second before launching off again. Below, the black truck roared to life and the yellow Camaro peeled out, engines growling like predators on the hunt. Peter’s Spider-Sense kept tugging at him, flickering every time one of the strange vehicles surged forward, like they were alive. “Not normal,” Peter muttered under his breath, twisting mid-air to sling another web. “Definitely not normal.” The chase stretched across half a dozen blocks, the mechanical roars echoing through the gaps of the city. Peter used every trick he knew—sharp turns, wall runs, sudden drops—to stay ahead. The truck and sports cars tried to match his movements, cutting through streets with eerie coordination. But rooftops were his domain. Finally, after ducking between two towering apartment complexes, Peter flattened himself, sticking against the brick wall and waited. He held his breath, tuning his hearing. Engines thundered past the street below, then faded into the distance. He stayed still for another full minute, just in case, his heartbeat loud in his ears. Only when silence settled did he exhale, mask damp with sweat. “Okay,” he muttered, glancing around the unfamiliar skyline. “New rule—avoid the giant talking robots and huggy teleporting guys.” But as the adrenaline faded, unease crept in. This wasn’t just different—this wasn’t home. The street layout was off. The skyline had buildings he didn’t recognize, strange architecture that didn’t fit New York. His Spider-Sense wasn’t pinging, but the sheer wrongness of it all gnawed at him. He needed answers. Fast.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75719526/chapters/198042531	{"authors": ["Pipsqueak05"], "language": "English", "title": "Spider Spark"}
The Red Foxes Severina Snape stands outside the portrait of the Fat Lady with her arms full. She takes a deep breath. Lily had always kept an open invitation for her. Severina has come up with a thousand excuses before, her pride unwilling to act on what her heart truly wanted. Jealousy had her acting stupid and almost ruining her friendship. It was difficult to realise to confront herself, a Severina that had wanted Lily all to herself, that almost let the best thing that happened to her get away. Lily was kind and pretty. Sorted into Gryffindor and she made friends quickly. Those friends had adventures and formed a small group that called themselves the Red Foxes. Severina thought herself above it all. She mocked it, thought it was silly because Red Foxes sound like an amateur singing band, whoever would take them seriously? Besides their house mascot was a lion. Lily was hellbent on waging a war against pureblood elitism, citing how important the group was to becoming the voice for the voiceless. Severina kept dismissing Lily’s efforts, what could she do to change the status quo? Deep down she had always yearned to be included. Instead she kept pushing Lily away and aligning herself with people who didn't deserve her– the group of Slytherins that thought they were better than anyone else, invited her to late night meetings and exposed her to the idea of Death Eaters. As years went on, it was difficult to justify them. Severina had a brain, she could see what was unsaid, how the idea of a ‘superior group of people’ was more and more revolting. The disturbing things she has witnessed coupled with the news of Max Macdonald being assaulted simply for being gay, were the catalyst to finally help her wake up. Severina feels ashamed of herself. Of her choices. Of believing the only way to the top was to feed and continue the corrupt system. Today, she sets aside that pride and hopes to turn over a new leaf. In her sixth year she cradles the hope of ‘never too late’. She breathes in again, straightens her back and pushes back her long braid. “Are you finally ready to join us, dear?” the Fat Lady says, peering down at her with a teacup in hand, making it no secret she had been watching her contemplate for minutes longer than necessary. “You do know where you are, don’t you?” “I do,” Severina says, barely keeping herself from glaring at the portrait. She gives the password, “‘Fortuna favours the bold.’” The Fat Lady gave a theatrical head bow, “Yes it does, doesn’t it?” The portrait swings open. Severina steps inside, eyes darting around, she walks in slowly. It’s a miracle she hasn't been burnt yet, a Slytherin wandering in the den of the lions, she’s walking in ‘enemy’ territories so to speak. She can hear voices, chaotic laughter and a pop. Her eyes take in seat pillows strewn chaotically on the floor, Quidditch jerseys hung on the sofas and ducks from coloured parchment flying. A group of rowdy Gryffindors all chatting amongst each other, some playing chess, cards, others standing with their arms raised, mouth in a pout and skipping in a circle. She's glad she doesn't have to linger for long. “SEV!” Lily gallops towards her, red hair flying behind her to tackle her into an embrace. “Announce me will you, some in the dorms haven't heard.” Severina mutters, but her lips lift, and she relishes the way Lily’s arms tighten around her. Lily smells like fresh soap and orange, and Severina’s heart soars because after all this time, they're still friends, best friends, and she vows to keep it that way. “I’m so excited you’re here, come! I want to show you my secret lair!” Grabbing her arm now, Severina tries to keep up, holding the basket to her chest, she follows Lily up the stairs. “Secret lair sounds so juvenile.” Severina mutters, but her palms sweat. She’s about to meet the rest of Lily’s friends. “It’s fun, and none of that sulky face, I told all my friends you’re a cool book nerd, and they promised to behave.” “Oh, I feel much safer now.” Lily’s grin falters, “Of course you’re safe, I won’t let anyone hurt you here, you know that right?” A little guilty, “I do.” Right before Lily opens her dormitory door she squeezes Severina’s hand. “They’ll love you.” Severina doubts it but doesn’t have the heart to correct her. “Besides, you brought them half the library, and sweets!” “An offering to appease the blood hounds.” “Ha ha,” Lily says, pushing her door open. The dorm is much calmer at least. Golden and red wraps draped over four identical poster beds. There’s a large rug with a red fox atop a golden lion in the middle. A banner with all four Gryffindor girls' names on the wall. In one corner, Severina notices Dorcas Meadows in a pink tank top and black sweats, she’s built up a sweat, concentrated and strained, doing squats on her yoga mat. Marlene McKinnon lounges on her bed with a magazine held high, legs crossed at the ankle. She flicks a page, blowing pink bubble gum till it pops and swirls it back into her mouth with her tongue. Her eyes flick up once, take Severina in, then drop back to the print. Remi Lupin is sitting by her vanity and brushing her brunette hair. She’s the only one who fully turns to give Severina a small smile. “Everyone, Sev’s here!” It takes a beat before everyone reacts, Marlene lowers her magazine and gives a ‘hey’, Dorcas gives a nod and continues with lunges. Remi at least gives a little hand wave. There’s a bang and both Severina and Lily jump. Lily scowls, head craned to check the noise. “Ugh, if it’s that tosser Potter again, can’t he give it a rest for a day! Sorry Sev, I need to deal with that before he does something irreversible to the first years! Get acquainted, I’ll come back.” And she rushes down the stairs, in full Prefect mode. So much for keeping Severina safe. Marlene and Dorcas both ignore her. Which was the least she deserved. Marlene never made it a secret she thought Severina was a pathetic hypocrite, lapping after the purebloods. Dorcas had once caught Severina on a date with Mulciber. It was the top five most embarrassing moments of her life, Severina had no idea why she thought dating the boy was ever an option. No only was he a horrible boy, Death Eater mouth piece to boot, but also took it upon himself to curse people randomly. The only silver lining was that she confirmed what her heart knew all along. Severina preferred women. It’s why her friendship with Lily was so difficult. Lily so obviously did not share her preferences, it took Severina a while to accept Lily was in love with Potter– even if she wasn’t ready to admit it. Severina shifts the weight in her feet, the time ticking felt like punishment. She chastises herself, get a grip, you wanted to turn over a new leaf and promised to be friendly, and she clears her throat, and lifts her basket, “I brought books and treats.” “Oooh, I like treats.” Remi is the first to approach her. “Oh, chocolate bonbons! Do they have different fillings? How nice of you!” Remi’s hair is falling over her face, fingers pulling the sleeves of her jumper. “And I love books, are these yours?” “Well yes,” Severina forces her shoulders to relax. She knows, because of an accident last year that almost cost her, her life– too curious because Lily warned her not to visit the Whomping Willow during the full moon, Severina went anyway and was met with an awful surprise. Had it not been for Marlene who was quick to pull her back to safety, Severina would have been werewolf chow. Severina and Lily had gotten into a big row about that, Severina was hurt Lily was keeping things from her, accusing her of pretending to be best friends. Lily had thrown a fit, defending Remi and her secret, saying Severina had no right to demand anything. Severina now knows why the girl is always so sickly and covered in scars. It was difficult to believe, because Remi was the smallest among the Red Foxes. She’s constantly hiding behind Marlene, Dorcas and Lily. But after reconciling, Severina promised she would put in the effort. Werewolf or not, Remi was Lily’s friend. So she ignores her instinct to flinch and introduces the contents of her basket. “Artemisia Lufkin’s Journal,” she says, tapping the first. “She’s the first witch to win the post of Ministry of Magic, and her personal thoughts are so inspiring. Bathilda Bagshot’s early work before the Ministry edits, if you love Hogwarts a History, this one will be fun because it has her personalised notes. Cost me a fortune too. Beatrix Bloxam, original edition, with coloured pages.” Marlene interrupts. “Don’t people vomit reading her stuff?” “Not if you have a strong mind,” Severina says calmly. “Plus I’ve always enjoyed her poetry. Toadstool is an exceptional work, if I could say so myself. Remi leans in closer, she has a soft smile, eyes scanning spines, “They all sound brilliant, what’s this pink one?” “Carlotta Pinkstone’s memoir.” “Oh, I know about her,” Remi says. “She went to Azkaban for advocating better muggle and magical relations.” “She’s inspiring.” Severina agrees, then in a conspiratorial whisper, “I particularly enjoyed how she set the muggle statutes to dance, just to break the Statute of Secrecy.” “Diabolical.” They share a grin. “May I?” “Yes, please.” Severina is pleased that someone appreciates her books. Remi studies the cover. It’s annoying how her hair covers part of her face. Severina understands the urge, she too had spent her early years hiding behind her curtain of black hair, hating how big her nose was, before she thought fuck it, people were going to call her ugly no matter what she did, might as well own it, and started tying them back. Perhaps it was because Remi was giving Severina a chance, she had the urge to push the falling brown locks to reveal more of Remi’s face. Remi’s amber eyes widen, and with her hair no longer hiding her, Severina notes, despite the light scars, she has a cute button nose, and very pink lips. She’s cute, Severina thought. How come she’s never	The Red Foxes Severina Snape stands outside the portrait of the Fat Lady with her arms full. She takes a deep breath. Lily had always kept an open invitation for her. Severina has come up with a thousand excuses before, her pride unwilling to act on what her heart truly wanted. Jealousy had her acting stupid and almost ruining her friendship. It was difficult to realise to confront herself, a Severina that had wanted Lily all to herself, that almost let the best thing that happened to her get away. Lily was kind and pretty. Sorted into Gryffindor and she made friends quickly. Those friends had adventures and formed a small group that called themselves the Red Foxes. Severina thought herself above it all. She mocked it, thought it was silly because Red Foxes sound like an amateur singing band, whoever would take them seriously? Besides their house mascot was a lion. Lily was hellbent on waging a war against pureblood elitism, citing how important the group was to becoming the voice for the voiceless. Severina kept dismissing Lily’s efforts, what could she do to change the status quo? Deep down she had always yearned to be included. Instead she kept pushing Lily away and aligning herself with people who didn't deserve her– the group of Slytherins that thought they were better than anyone else, invited her to late night meetings and exposed her to the idea of Death Eaters. As years went on, it was difficult to justify them. Severina had a brain, she could see what was unsaid, how the idea of a ‘superior group of people’ was more and more revolting. The disturbing things she has witnessed coupled with the news of Max Macdonald being assaulted simply for being gay, were the catalyst to finally help her wake up. Severina feels ashamed of herself. Of her choices. Of believing the only way to the top was to feed and continue the corrupt system. Today, she sets aside that pride and hopes to turn over a new leaf. In her sixth year she cradles the hope of ‘never too late’. She breathes in again, straightens her back and pushes back her long braid. “Are you finally ready to join us, dear?” the Fat Lady says, peering down at her with a teacup in hand, making it no secret she had been watching her contemplate for minutes longer than necessary. “You do know where you are, don’t you?” “I do,” Severina says, barely keeping herself from glaring at the portrait. She gives the password, “‘Fortuna favours the bold.’” The Fat Lady gave a theatrical head bow, “Yes it does, doesn’t it?” The portrait swings open. Severina steps inside, eyes darting around, she walks in slowly. It’s a miracle she hasn't been burnt yet, a Slytherin wandering in the den of the lions, she’s walking in ‘enemy’ territories so to speak. She can hear voices, chaotic laughter and a pop. Her eyes take in seat pillows strewn chaotically on the floor, Quidditch jerseys hung on the sofas and ducks from coloured parchment flying. A group of rowdy Gryffindors all chatting amongst each other, some playing chess, cards, others standing with their arms raised, mouth in a pout and skipping in a circle. She's glad she doesn't have to linger for long. “SEV!” Lily gallops towards her, red hair flying behind her to tackle her into an embrace. “Announce me will you, some in the dorms haven't heard.” Severina mutters, but her lips lift, and she relishes the way Lily’s arms tighten around her. Lily smells like fresh soap and orange, and Severina’s heart soars because after all this time, they're still friends, best friends, and she vows to keep it that way. “I’m so excited you’re here, come! I want to show you my secret lair!” Grabbing her arm now, Severina tries to keep up, holding the basket to her chest, she follows Lily up the stairs. “Secret lair sounds so juvenile.” Severina mutters, but her palms sweat. She’s about to meet the rest of Lily’s friends. “It’s fun, and none of that sulky face, I told all my friends you’re a cool book nerd, and they promised to behave.” “Oh, I feel much safer now.” Lily’s grin falters, “Of course you’re safe, I won’t let anyone hurt you here, you know that right?” A little guilty, “I do.” Right before Lily opens her dormitory door she squeezes Severina’s hand. “They’ll love you.” Severina doubts it but doesn’t have the heart to correct her. “Besides, you brought them half the library, and sweets!” “An offering to appease the blood hounds.” “Ha ha,” Lily says, pushing her door open. The dorm is much calmer at least. Golden and red wraps draped over four identical poster beds. There’s a large rug with a red fox atop a golden lion in the middle. A banner with all four Gryffindor girls' names on the wall. In one corner, Severina notices Dorcas Meadows in a pink tank top and black sweats, she’s built up a sweat, concentrated and strained, doing squats on her yoga mat. Marlene McKinnon lounges on her bed with a magazine held high, legs crossed at the ankle. She flicks a page, blowing pink bubble gum till it pops and swirls it back into her mouth with her tongue. Her eyes flick up once, take Severina in, then drop back to the print. Remi Lupin is sitting by her vanity and brushing her brunette hair. She’s the only one who fully turns to give Severina a small smile. “Everyone, Sev’s here!” It takes a beat before everyone reacts, Marlene lowers her magazine and gives a ‘hey’, Dorcas gives a nod and continues with lunges. Remi at least gives a little hand wave. There’s a bang and both Severina and Lily jump. Lily scowls, head craned to check the noise. “Ugh, if it’s that tosser Potter again, can’t he give it a rest for a day! Sorry Sev, I need to deal with that before he does something irreversible to the first years! Get acquainted, I’ll come back.” And she rushes down the stairs, in full Prefect mode. So much for keeping Severina safe. Marlene and Dorcas both ignore her. Which was the least she deserved. Marlene never made it a secret she thought Severina was a pathetic hypocrite, lapping after the purebloods. Dorcas had once caught Severina on a date with Mulciber. It was the top five most embarrassing moments of her life, Severina had no idea why she thought dating the boy was ever an option. No only was he a horrible boy, Death Eater mouth piece to boot, but also took it upon himself to curse people randomly. The only silver lining was that she confirmed what her heart knew all along. Severina preferred women. It’s why her friendship with Lily was so difficult. Lily so obviously did not share her preferences, it took Severina a while to accept Lily was in love with Potter– even if she wasn’t ready to admit it. Severina shifts the weight in her feet, the time ticking felt like punishment. She chastises herself, get a grip, you wanted to turn over a new leaf and promised to be friendly, and she clears her throat, and lifts her basket, “I brought books and treats.” “Oooh, I like treats.” Remi is the first to approach her. “Oh, chocolate bonbons! Do they have different fillings? How nice of you!” Remi’s hair is falling over her face, fingers pulling the sleeves of her jumper. “And I love books, are these yours?” “Well yes,” Severina forces her shoulders to relax. She knows, because of an accident last year that almost cost her, her life– too curious because Lily warned her not to visit the Whomping Willow during the full moon, Severina went anyway and was met with an awful surprise. Had it not been for Marlene who was quick to pull her back to safety, Severina would have been werewolf chow. Severina and Lily had gotten into a big row about that, Severina was hurt Lily was keeping things from her, accusing her of pretending to be best friends. Lily had thrown a fit, defending Remi and her secret, saying Severina had no right to demand anything. Severina now knows why the girl is always so sickly and covered in scars. It was difficult to believe, because Remi was the smallest among the Red Foxes. She’s constantly hiding behind Marlene, Dorcas and Lily. But after reconciling, Severina promised she would put in the effort. Werewolf or not, Remi was Lily’s friend. So she ignores her instinct to flinch and introduces the contents of her basket. “Artemisia Lufkin’s Journal,” she says, tapping the first. “She’s the first witch to win the post of Ministry of Magic, and her personal thoughts are so inspiring. Bathilda Bagshot’s early work before the Ministry edits, if you love Hogwarts a History, this one will be fun because it has her personalised notes. Cost me a fortune too. Beatrix Bloxam, original edition, with coloured pages.” Marlene interrupts. “Don’t people vomit reading her stuff?” “Not if you have a strong mind,” Severina says calmly. “Plus I’ve always enjoyed her poetry. Toadstool is an exceptional work, if I could say so myself. Remi leans in closer, she has a soft smile, eyes scanning spines, “They all sound brilliant, what’s this pink one?” “Carlotta Pinkstone’s memoir.” “Oh, I know about her,” Remi says. “She went to Azkaban for advocating better muggle and magical relations.” “She’s inspiring.” Severina agrees, then in a conspiratorial whisper, “I particularly enjoyed how she set the muggle statutes to dance, just to break the Statute of Secrecy.” “Diabolical.” They share a grin. “May I?” “Yes, please.” Severina is pleased that someone appreciates her books. Remi studies the cover. It’s annoying how her hair covers part of her face. Severina understands the urge, she too had spent her early years hiding behind her curtain of black hair, hating how big her nose was, before she thought fuck it, people were going to call her ugly no matter what she did, might as well own it, and started tying them back. Perhaps it was because Remi was giving Severina a chance, she had the urge to push the falling brown locks to reveal more of Remi’s face. Remi’s amber eyes widen, and with her hair no longer hiding her, Severina notes, despite the light scars, she has a cute button nose, and very pink lips. She’s cute, Severina thought. How come she’s never noticed before? “Oh my god, you won’t believe what he did!” Lily comes stomping into the dorm, pink face. Her eyes flitted between Severina and Remi and her annoyance deflated. “Good, making friends!” She has an arm around Severina and Remi. “Let’s set the treats down and have a nice calm chat here, eh! We need a group meeting on what to do with these pureblood hooligans!” Severina meets Remi’s eye, they share a private giggle between them, and just like that, Severina knows there’s a possibility they could be good friends. (Maybe something more?) Soon, she thinks, sitting beside Remi and watching the small girl blush. She’s glad she came.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75717966	{"authors": ["SquibNation10"], "language": "English", "title": "The Red Foxes"}
The Wind Behind the Bard Sister Louise had not been born in Mondstadt. That was the first thing people forgot. She was born across the sea, in Fontaine, to a family that understood laws far better than mercy. Her mother worked the courts. Her father drafted regulations that crushed neighborhoods with a flourish of ink and a stamp of approval. Their home was orderly, cold, and governed by rules that always seemed to apply hardest to those with the least power to challenge them. When the seasonal floods came, it was legal. When the displacement followed, it was sanctioned. And when the compensation never arrived, it was regrettable, but correct by law. Louise learned very young that justice could be beautiful in theory and devastating in practice. She was still a girl when her family crossed the border into Mondstadt, fleeing debt, disgrace, and the quiet understanding that Fontaine’s laws had finished with them. They arrived with little more than luggage, a half-valid permit, and the kind of exhaustion that sank into the bones. Mondstadt should not have worked. It had no exhaustive codes for refugees. No mandated resettlement procedures. No forms long enough to hide behind. Instead, it had wind. And people. The Church of Favonius was the first place Louise slept without fear of being told she did not belong. The sisters fed her, clothed her, and gave her work sweeping floors and ringing bells. No one asked for proof of worthiness. No one demanded she justify her existence. They told her, simply, that Barbatos valued freedom. That those who came seeking it were already under his care. It changed her. Not all at once. Slowly. Like air filling lungs that had learned to expect suffocation. Louise watched the people of Mondstadt live without asking permission. Watched artists create without approvals, lovers argue without contracts, worship without fear of legal consequence. She watched storms tear through the city and be rebuilt not by decree, but by neighbors showing up with hammers and laughter. When her parents died, years later, it was the Church that buried them. When she broke, it was the wind that carried her back. She took vows eventually. Not because she was forced. Not because she had nowhere else to go. But because she wanted to serve the god who had never demanded proof. When she retired, she could have lived quietly. Instead, she founded Cerulean Gale. Officially, it was a construction and preservation firm. They reinforced cathedrals, restored wind-worn statues, rebuilt libraries after storms. They specialized in structures that needed to breathe rather than dominate. Unofficially, Cerulean Gale was Sister Louise’s act of devotion. She hired people who had fallen through the cracks. Immigrants. Widows. Former criminals trying, desperately, to start over. She paid fairly. She insisted on safety. She refused bribes from officials who wanted corners cut and permits expedited. Mondstadt had given her a home when Fontaine had given her rules. So yes, she was devout. Yes, her faith bordered on fervent. But to Louise, Barbatos was not a distant god or a convenient symbol. He was the reason she survived. He was the reason she believed people deserved beauty without permission. So when the city began producing art about him—clumsy, irreverent, scandalous, human—she did not see blasphemy. She saw love. Messy, excessive, deeply mortal love. And if Mondstadt was going to preserve that love, to achieve it rather than let foreign courts dissect it into mockery and footnotes— Then, of course, the Cerulean Gale would build the space. With reinforced shelves. Careful lighting. And the reverence usually reserved for scripture. Barbatos had given her the world when no law would. The least she could do was make sure his legacy was protected from people who thought rules mattered more than mercy. For a long time, no one questioned Sister Louise’s devotion. How could they? Mondstadt was a city built on gratitude as much as freedom. People lit candles. People sang. People rebuilt what storms destroyed and called it faith. Louise simply did all of that with more intensity, more resources, and a longer memory. And in Mondstadt, that was not a crime. If anything, it was encouraged. After all, Barbatos had never asked for restraint. He had never demanded moderation. He had never set rules for how love should look, only that it be freely given. Louise had taken that lesson to heart. Perhaps too fully. At first, her devotion blended seamlessly into the city’s rhythms. Extra offerings were chalked up to personal gratitude. Her attention to wind was dismissed as an architectural instinct. Her insistence on open spaces was explained away as philosophy. But devotion, like wind, does not remain still. It gathers. It presses. It finds cracks. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, Louise’s reverence stopped being something she practiced… …and became something she acted upon. That was when people began to notice the excess. It was only later that people began to notice the excess. At first, it was easy to excuse. Sister Louise prayed longer than most, but she had lived a hard life. Gratitude ran deep. No one begrudged her an extra candle or two at the altar. Then it became three candles. Then a dozen. She began funding restorations that no one had requested. Wind chimes where there had been none before. Statues subtly altered, not in form, but in expression. Smiles softened. Eyes carved with a little more warmth. A little more intimacy. She insisted it was preservation. “Stone erodes,” she would say serenely. “Memory erodes faster. I’m simply restoring what people forget.” Cerulean Gale’s projects reflected that philosophy. Buildings designed to catch the wind. Hallways angled so breezes followed visitors like a presence. Libraries with open arches instead of doors, because “knowledge should never feel trapped.” Sister Louise rejected blueprints that felt too rigid, too controlled, too Fontainian. She hated that word. Laws and rules were for keeping people out. Wind was for letting them in. The Church tolerated her eccentricities because they were harmless. Because she was generous. Because she never contradicted doctrine outright. She merely… expanded on it. Her sermons, when she gave them, focused less on worship and more on affection. “Barbatos does not demand reverence,” she would say softly, eyes bright. “He asks only that we live honestly. That we love freely. That we feel.” Some found it comforting. Others found it unsettling. Kaeya, for one, found it deeply alarming. Sister Louise noticed things. She noticed when the wind shifted indoors with no open windows. She noticed when the bells rang slightly off-tempo, as if responding to an unseen hand. She noticed when Venti walked past, and the air leaned toward him. Once, during a fundraiser, she had taken his hands without asking. “Ah,” she had murmured, smiling too knowingly. “You feel familiar.” Venti had laughed it off. Kaeya had not slept well that night. And then came the books. Sister Louise did not react with outrage. She did not call them blasphemy. She wept. Quietly. Joyfully. “These are clumsy,” she admitted, turning pages with reverent care. “Excessive. Undisciplined.” Then she smiled. “But they are honest.” To her, the eroticization was not desecration. It was proof. Proof that Mondstadt loved its god not as a distant icon, but as something warm, present, and deeply human. Proof that people were not afraid of Barbatos. They wanted him close. And if that closeness scandalized foreign nations, if it horrified Fontaine’s courts and their sterile definitions of reverence— So much the better. “Love,” Sister Louise said once, overseeing the blueprints for the new library wing, “is not quiet. It is not tidy. It spills.” She requested reinforced shelving, not because the books were heavy. But because “devotion accumulates.” By the time Cerulean Gale accepted the commission to build the new archive, no one was quite sure where piety ended, and obsession began. Sister Louise insisted on personally selecting the lighting. Warm. Directional. Almost candlelike. She vetoed locks. “These are not secrets,” she said gently. “They are offerings.” And when someone suggested content warnings, she tilted her head and asked, “Why would love need a warning?” Kaeya watched her oversee the plans, smiling beatifically as she spoke of preservation, culture, and the importance of protecting Barbatos from being “misunderstood by people who only love rules.” He swallowed. This was not blasphemy. It was worse. It was devotion without restraint. The kind that built monuments. The kind that justified anything in the name of gratitude. And as Cerulean Gale’s construction began, wind stirring the dust just a little too eagerly, Kaeya realized something with a chill that had nothing to do with Anemo. Sister Louise did not worship Barbatos because he was a god. She worshipped him because he had saved her. And she would burn half of Mondstadt to keep him safe. Lovingly. Reverently. With a smile.	The Wind Behind the Bard Sister Louise had not been born in Mondstadt. That was the first thing people forgot. She was born across the sea, in Fontaine, to a family that understood laws far better than mercy. Her mother worked the courts. Her father drafted regulations that crushed neighborhoods with a flourish of ink and a stamp of approval. Their home was orderly, cold, and governed by rules that always seemed to apply hardest to those with the least power to challenge them. When the seasonal floods came, it was legal. When the displacement followed, it was sanctioned. And when the compensation never arrived, it was regrettable, but correct by law. Louise learned very young that justice could be beautiful in theory and devastating in practice. She was still a girl when her family crossed the border into Mondstadt, fleeing debt, disgrace, and the quiet understanding that Fontaine’s laws had finished with them. They arrived with little more than luggage, a half-valid permit, and the kind of exhaustion that sank into the bones. Mondstadt should not have worked. It had no exhaustive codes for refugees. No mandated resettlement procedures. No forms long enough to hide behind. Instead, it had wind. And people. The Church of Favonius was the first place Louise slept without fear of being told she did not belong. The sisters fed her, clothed her, and gave her work sweeping floors and ringing bells. No one asked for proof of worthiness. No one demanded she justify her existence. They told her, simply, that Barbatos valued freedom. That those who came seeking it were already under his care. It changed her. Not all at once. Slowly. Like air filling lungs that had learned to expect suffocation. Louise watched the people of Mondstadt live without asking permission. Watched artists create without approvals, lovers argue without contracts, worship without fear of legal consequence. She watched storms tear through the city and be rebuilt not by decree, but by neighbors showing up with hammers and laughter. When her parents died, years later, it was the Church that buried them. When she broke, it was the wind that carried her back. She took vows eventually. Not because she was forced. Not because she had nowhere else to go. But because she wanted to serve the god who had never demanded proof. When she retired, she could have lived quietly. Instead, she founded Cerulean Gale. Officially, it was a construction and preservation firm. They reinforced cathedrals, restored wind-worn statues, rebuilt libraries after storms. They specialized in structures that needed to breathe rather than dominate. Unofficially, Cerulean Gale was Sister Louise’s act of devotion. She hired people who had fallen through the cracks. Immigrants. Widows. Former criminals trying, desperately, to start over. She paid fairly. She insisted on safety. She refused bribes from officials who wanted corners cut and permits expedited. Mondstadt had given her a home when Fontaine had given her rules. So yes, she was devout. Yes, her faith bordered on fervent. But to Louise, Barbatos was not a distant god or a convenient symbol. He was the reason she survived. He was the reason she believed people deserved beauty without permission. So when the city began producing art about him—clumsy, irreverent, scandalous, human—she did not see blasphemy. She saw love. Messy, excessive, deeply mortal love. And if Mondstadt was going to preserve that love, to achieve it rather than let foreign courts dissect it into mockery and footnotes— Then, of course, the Cerulean Gale would build the space. With reinforced shelves. Careful lighting. And the reverence usually reserved for scripture. Barbatos had given her the world when no law would. The least she could do was make sure his legacy was protected from people who thought rules mattered more than mercy. For a long time, no one questioned Sister Louise’s devotion. How could they? Mondstadt was a city built on gratitude as much as freedom. People lit candles. People sang. People rebuilt what storms destroyed and called it faith. Louise simply did all of that with more intensity, more resources, and a longer memory. And in Mondstadt, that was not a crime. If anything, it was encouraged. After all, Barbatos had never asked for restraint. He had never demanded moderation. He had never set rules for how love should look, only that it be freely given. Louise had taken that lesson to heart. Perhaps too fully. At first, her devotion blended seamlessly into the city’s rhythms. Extra offerings were chalked up to personal gratitude. Her attention to wind was dismissed as an architectural instinct. Her insistence on open spaces was explained away as philosophy. But devotion, like wind, does not remain still. It gathers. It presses. It finds cracks. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, Louise’s reverence stopped being something she practiced… …and became something she acted upon. That was when people began to notice the excess. It was only later that people began to notice the excess. At first, it was easy to excuse. Sister Louise prayed longer than most, but she had lived a hard life. Gratitude ran deep. No one begrudged her an extra candle or two at the altar. Then it became three candles. Then a dozen. She began funding restorations that no one had requested. Wind chimes where there had been none before. Statues subtly altered, not in form, but in expression. Smiles softened. Eyes carved with a little more warmth. A little more intimacy. She insisted it was preservation. “Stone erodes,” she would say serenely. “Memory erodes faster. I’m simply restoring what people forget.” Cerulean Gale’s projects reflected that philosophy. Buildings designed to catch the wind. Hallways angled so breezes followed visitors like a presence. Libraries with open arches instead of doors, because “knowledge should never feel trapped.” Sister Louise rejected blueprints that felt too rigid, too controlled, too Fontainian. She hated that word. Laws and rules were for keeping people out. Wind was for letting them in. The Church tolerated her eccentricities because they were harmless. Because she was generous. Because she never contradicted doctrine outright. She merely… expanded on it. Her sermons, when she gave them, focused less on worship and more on affection. “Barbatos does not demand reverence,” she would say softly, eyes bright. “He asks only that we live honestly. That we love freely. That we feel.” Some found it comforting. Others found it unsettling. Kaeya, for one, found it deeply alarming. Sister Louise noticed things. She noticed when the wind shifted indoors with no open windows. She noticed when the bells rang slightly off-tempo, as if responding to an unseen hand. She noticed when Venti walked past, and the air leaned toward him. Once, during a fundraiser, she had taken his hands without asking. “Ah,” she had murmured, smiling too knowingly. “You feel familiar.” Venti had laughed it off. Kaeya had not slept well that night. And then came the books. Sister Louise did not react with outrage. She did not call them blasphemy. She wept. Quietly. Joyfully. “These are clumsy,” she admitted, turning pages with reverent care. “Excessive. Undisciplined.” Then she smiled. “But they are honest.” To her, the eroticization was not desecration. It was proof. Proof that Mondstadt loved its god not as a distant icon, but as something warm, present, and deeply human. Proof that people were not afraid of Barbatos. They wanted him close. And if that closeness scandalized foreign nations, if it horrified Fontaine’s courts and their sterile definitions of reverence— So much the better. “Love,” Sister Louise said once, overseeing the blueprints for the new library wing, “is not quiet. It is not tidy. It spills.” She requested reinforced shelving, not because the books were heavy. But because “devotion accumulates.” By the time Cerulean Gale accepted the commission to build the new archive, no one was quite sure where piety ended, and obsession began. Sister Louise insisted on personally selecting the lighting. Warm. Directional. Almost candlelike. She vetoed locks. “These are not secrets,” she said gently. “They are offerings.” And when someone suggested content warnings, she tilted her head and asked, “Why would love need a warning?” Kaeya watched her oversee the plans, smiling beatifically as she spoke of preservation, culture, and the importance of protecting Barbatos from being “misunderstood by people who only love rules.” He swallowed. This was not blasphemy. It was worse. It was devotion without restraint. The kind that built monuments. The kind that justified anything in the name of gratitude. And as Cerulean Gale’s construction began, wind stirring the dust just a little too eagerly, Kaeya realized something with a chill that had nothing to do with Anemo. Sister Louise did not worship Barbatos because he was a god. She worshipped him because he had saved her. And she would burn half of Mondstadt to keep him safe. Lovingly. Reverently. With a smile.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75717971?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["Wild_Card_Writing"], "language": "English", "title": "The Wind Behind the Bard"}
Shadows General Stewart was a stout gentleman with an impressive mustache and the voice of a man who’d never been told “no” before. He was also (apparently) Catholic, although Father Francis Mulcahy would never have guessed from the fact that this new Chaplain Exchange Morale Program was his idea. “The idea started when I saw my platoon’s chaplain talking a man out of killing us and then himself,” Stewart said. “Back when I was enlisted. The good ol’ days, eh?” He reached across the table and clapped Francis on the shoulder. “Anyway, the chaplain - Brian Davis, good man - was always good at things like that. Most chaplains are. Something about those sermons!” Stewart gave a big guffaw, so hearty it shook the table between the two of them. Francis laughed along politely. He wasn’t entirely sure how to respond, if he was being honest. The entire concept of sending chaplains to the front to help morale felt half-baked. After all, murder was generally frowned upon in most religions. Stewart sobered up a bit as he continued. “Unfortunately, morale has been a problem at the front. More and more soldiers have been hurting themselves - or worse, killing themselves - to get away from the front. I think fellows like you can help.” “Surely a psychiatrist would be better for the job,” Francis said. “I’ve read through your file. You’ve been of more help than you might realize, Father. Besides, we’re short on psychiatrists,” Stewart said. Francis bit back the urge to say, You’re short on everything. “So, what do you think?” “Well…” Francis thought it was an awful idea. “…As a priest, I’m not supposed to hurt others or take up arms. It’s a mortal sin, you understand.” “That won’t be an issue. As part of the program, we’ll have a temporary chaplain here who can conduct a confession as soon as you get back!” Stewart beamed over at him. Francis said, “That may be, but The Lord doesn’t take mortal sins lightly, even if I confess.” “Ah, don’t worry about that. The Pope said it’s alright in times of war,” Stewart said. “He did, did he?” Francis hadn’t heard about that. But, then again, he hadn’t been paying much attention to the news. “He did! Hold on.” The general dug around in his uniform pocket for a moment before pulling out a piece of paper, waving it around in Francis’s face. “You see?” Francis squinted down at the letter. “To my precious little pookie-kins… General, I believe this is the wrong paper.” Stewart snatched it back. “Sorry, Father. That’s from my wife. The clipping’s in here somewhere…” He shoved the letter back into a pocket and started searching the other pocket. “Ah! Here we are.” This time, it was a newspaper clipping. Across the top, in big bold letters, it read, “Pope Considers Killing In Times Of War An ‘Unfortunate Necessity’.” Francis’s lip twisted. Another excuse gone, albeit a flimsy one. Maybe he could still get free if he got Potter involved- “So, Father? Will you do it?” Stewart looked just like an excited puppy. Francis held the general’s gaze. If he went through with this, he would be more useful than he was here at the MASH… but at the cost of lives? And Hawkeye - what would he do without Hawkeye? He could save people. He could talk people down from suicide, he could save them in the eyes of the Lord, and he could do what he came here to do: help others. And he could use those skills to help patients at the 4077th and make Hawkeye proud. “I’ll do it,” Francis said, breaking eye contact with Stewart. “Just tell me where to sign.” “What do you mean, you’re going to the front?” Hawkeye demanded. “Well, there’s a new program to send chaplains to the front to help with morale,” Francis said, quailing slightly under Hawkeye’s intense blue stare. “I thought I’d help. It’s just for a few months, I’ll be back before you know it.” Hawkeye folded his arms. “And what if you don’t come back at all?” “In that case, the replacement chaplain will take over my spot,” Francis said. “Oh, great. Just what I want to hear.” “I’m sorry, Hawkeye, but it’s done. I already signed.” “Any chance I could get Potter to call in a few favors and nullify your death warrant?” “I’m sorry.” Francis shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling oddly like a scolded child. “Hey, hey, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” Hawkeye said. “Any chance I can help you pack? Toast you before you go?” “Well, there isn’t much to pack. I’m just taking a change of clothes, my Bible, and my fighting spirit,” Francis said. The dark-haired man said, “Not even your hat or your statue of Jesus?” “Tokens to prove I’ll come back.” Hawkeye chuckled. “Don’t worry, Father. I’ll take good care of your hostages. I mean, belongings.” Francis smiled, relieved. Leaving Hawkeye behind maybe wouldn’t be as hard as he thought it would be. (Even if the thought of spending two months away from Hawkeye sent a pang through his heart.) The next few days passed too quickly. The word of what was happening spread fast, and Francis received kind words from basically everyone in camp. Soon enough, the chopper taking him to the front lines was in camp, and all of his friends were lined up ready to see him off. Goodbyes were fast by necessity. Francis said a few words to each of his friends, knowing full well the helicopter would have to leave soon. The last person on the line was Hawkeye. The dark-haired man had a small box in his hands, and he handed it to Francis as he walked over. Hawkeye had to speak at the top of his voice to be heard over the sound of the helicopter’s blades. “Here. I took the liberty of getting you a gift the last time I was in Seoul. I meant to save it for a different occasion, but since you’re heading out, I thought I’d give it to you early.” “Oh, thank you! What is it?” Francis shouted. “I won’t tell you yet,” Hawkeye yelled. “Open it in a time of need.” “Thank you, Hawkeye.” Francis pulled the taller man into a hug. “Thank you for everything.” Hawkeye tensed up for a moment before relaxing into the hug. “Don’t thank me. It was the least I could do. Just… stay safe, alright?” Francis smiled into Hawkeye’s shoulder. “I will. It’ll be like nothing ever happened.” Hawkeye pulled away, holding Francis at arm’s length for a moment with surprisingly wet eyes, before he clapped Francis on the shoulder. “Father, promise you’ll-” But the rest of his words were drowned out by the chopper. Francis gave his best attempt at a reassuring smile and started toward the helicopter - but just before he got in, he turned and saluted smartly to the 4077th. Hawkeye gave a little wave as everyone else saluted back. With Hawkeye's gift still on his mind, he got into the helicopter.	Shadows General Stewart was a stout gentleman with an impressive mustache and the voice of a man who’d never been told “no” before. He was also (apparently) Catholic, although Father Francis Mulcahy would never have guessed from the fact that this new Chaplain Exchange Morale Program was his idea. “The idea started when I saw my platoon’s chaplain talking a man out of killing us and then himself,” Stewart said. “Back when I was enlisted. The good ol’ days, eh?” He reached across the table and clapped Francis on the shoulder. “Anyway, the chaplain - Brian Davis, good man - was always good at things like that. Most chaplains are. Something about those sermons!” Stewart gave a big guffaw, so hearty it shook the table between the two of them. Francis laughed along politely. He wasn’t entirely sure how to respond, if he was being honest. The entire concept of sending chaplains to the front to help morale felt half-baked. After all, murder was generally frowned upon in most religions. Stewart sobered up a bit as he continued. “Unfortunately, morale has been a problem at the front. More and more soldiers have been hurting themselves - or worse, killing themselves - to get away from the front. I think fellows like you can help.” “Surely a psychiatrist would be better for the job,” Francis said. “I’ve read through your file. You’ve been of more help than you might realize, Father. Besides, we’re short on psychiatrists,” Stewart said. Francis bit back the urge to say, You’re short on everything. “So, what do you think?” “Well…” Francis thought it was an awful idea. “…As a priest, I’m not supposed to hurt others or take up arms. It’s a mortal sin, you understand.” “That won’t be an issue. As part of the program, we’ll have a temporary chaplain here who can conduct a confession as soon as you get back!” Stewart beamed over at him. Francis said, “That may be, but The Lord doesn’t take mortal sins lightly, even if I confess.” “Ah, don’t worry about that. The Pope said it’s alright in times of war,” Stewart said. “He did, did he?” Francis hadn’t heard about that. But, then again, he hadn’t been paying much attention to the news. “He did! Hold on.” The general dug around in his uniform pocket for a moment before pulling out a piece of paper, waving it around in Francis’s face. “You see?” Francis squinted down at the letter. “To my precious little pookie-kins… General, I believe this is the wrong paper.” Stewart snatched it back. “Sorry, Father. That’s from my wife. The clipping’s in here somewhere…” He shoved the letter back into a pocket and started searching the other pocket. “Ah! Here we are.” This time, it was a newspaper clipping. Across the top, in big bold letters, it read, “Pope Considers Killing In Times Of War An ‘Unfortunate Necessity’.” Francis’s lip twisted. Another excuse gone, albeit a flimsy one. Maybe he could still get free if he got Potter involved- “So, Father? Will you do it?” Stewart looked just like an excited puppy. Francis held the general’s gaze. If he went through with this, he would be more useful than he was here at the MASH… but at the cost of lives? And Hawkeye - what would he do without Hawkeye? He could save people. He could talk people down from suicide, he could save them in the eyes of the Lord, and he could do what he came here to do: help others. And he could use those skills to help patients at the 4077th and make Hawkeye proud. “I’ll do it,” Francis said, breaking eye contact with Stewart. “Just tell me where to sign.” “What do you mean, you’re going to the front?” Hawkeye demanded. “Well, there’s a new program to send chaplains to the front to help with morale,” Francis said, quailing slightly under Hawkeye’s intense blue stare. “I thought I’d help. It’s just for a few months, I’ll be back before you know it.” Hawkeye folded his arms. “And what if you don’t come back at all?” “In that case, the replacement chaplain will take over my spot,” Francis said. “Oh, great. Just what I want to hear.” “I’m sorry, Hawkeye, but it’s done. I already signed.” “Any chance I could get Potter to call in a few favors and nullify your death warrant?” “I’m sorry.” Francis shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling oddly like a scolded child. “Hey, hey, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” Hawkeye said. “Any chance I can help you pack? Toast you before you go?” “Well, there isn’t much to pack. I’m just taking a change of clothes, my Bible, and my fighting spirit,” Francis said. The dark-haired man said, “Not even your hat or your statue of Jesus?” “Tokens to prove I’ll come back.” Hawkeye chuckled. “Don’t worry, Father. I’ll take good care of your hostages. I mean, belongings.” Francis smiled, relieved. Leaving Hawkeye behind maybe wouldn’t be as hard as he thought it would be. (Even if the thought of spending two months away from Hawkeye sent a pang through his heart.) The next few days passed too quickly. The word of what was happening spread fast, and Francis received kind words from basically everyone in camp. Soon enough, the chopper taking him to the front lines was in camp, and all of his friends were lined up ready to see him off. Goodbyes were fast by necessity. Francis said a few words to each of his friends, knowing full well the helicopter would have to leave soon. The last person on the line was Hawkeye. The dark-haired man had a small box in his hands, and he handed it to Francis as he walked over. Hawkeye had to speak at the top of his voice to be heard over the sound of the helicopter’s blades. “Here. I took the liberty of getting you a gift the last time I was in Seoul. I meant to save it for a different occasion, but since you’re heading out, I thought I’d give it to you early.” “Oh, thank you! What is it?” Francis shouted. “I won’t tell you yet,” Hawkeye yelled. “Open it in a time of need.” “Thank you, Hawkeye.” Francis pulled the taller man into a hug. “Thank you for everything.” Hawkeye tensed up for a moment before relaxing into the hug. “Don’t thank me. It was the least I could do. Just… stay safe, alright?” Francis smiled into Hawkeye’s shoulder. “I will. It’ll be like nothing ever happened.” Hawkeye pulled away, holding Francis at arm’s length for a moment with surprisingly wet eyes, before he clapped Francis on the shoulder. “Father, promise you’ll-” But the rest of his words were drowned out by the chopper. Francis gave his best attempt at a reassuring smile and started toward the helicopter - but just before he got in, he turned and saluted smartly to the 4077th. Hawkeye gave a little wave as everyone else saluted back. With Hawkeye's gift still on his mind, he got into the helicopter.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75719541/chapters/198042556	{"authors": ["TarkaleanHawk"], "language": "English", "title": "Shadows"}
Between script and skin Lee Sangwon hated being late; in general, he hated anything that strayed from perfection. Lee Sangwon lived by the rules he never questioned. Every movement, every line he delivered, every decision he made had to serve a purpose and meet a standard no one else could see. Mistakes weren’t lessons to him, they were failures to be corrected immediately. He rehearsed until his body moved on instinct, until perfection felt less like an achievement and more like a requirement. Control was his comfort, and precision was the only way he knew how to exist without feeling like everything might fall apart. His class had ended later than usual, so now he was running through the hallways to get to his theater class. Today was the day they were going to announce the roles for the new play, and although it was a completely original play invented by the teacher, Sangwon put all his efforts into the audition to make sure he got the lead role. The previous year, when they did Alice in Wonderland, they chose a girl as the lead, so when they announced that a boy would play the lead role, Sangwon knew he wasn't going to let that opportunity slip away. He arrived in class almost out of breath, covered in sweat. “Sorry I'm late, my last class ended later than I was expecting.” The class looked up at him before the teacher said, “It's okay, we haven't started yet. Sit down, I have something to say before we begin.” The class fell silent, and Sangwon took the opportunity to observe them. There were fewer people than at the casting, which meant that some had already been rejected. He noticed that two boys who had caught his attention at the casting (not for a good reason) were not there. The boy's acting was worse than Gal Gadot's in Snow White, and that was saying a lot. Sangwon continued scanning the room when he locked eyes with someone he wished hadn't made it through the casting call. Kim Geonwoo. —-- Kim Geonwoo was a free soul. He hated rules that felt unnecessary and schedules that tried to box creativity into neat little squares. To him, acting wasn’t about perfection or precision, it was about feeling, about letting the emotion take over even if it meant losing control for a moment. That was exactly what made some teachers adore him… and what made others sigh in quiet frustration. Unlike most of his classmates, Geonwoo hadn’t gone into acting with a clear plan. He wasn’t chasing academic recognition. He acted because it made his chest feel lighter, because stepping into someone else’s skin allowed him to breathe in ways real life never did. If a scene demanded vulnerability, he gave it. If it demanded chaos, he didn’t hold back. He trusted instinct more than rehearsal, impulse more than structure. That, of course, was why Lee Sangwon couldn’t stand him. Geonwoo had noticed it from the very first audition. The way Sangwon’s jaw tightened whenever Geonwoo improvised, the sharp glances thrown his way whenever the teacher laughed at one of his unscripted choices. Sangwon acted like theater was a battlefield that demanded discipline and strategy. Geonwoo acted like it was a playground meant to be explored. When Geonwoo walked into the classroom that afternoon, he already knew Sangwon would be there. He could feel it, the same way he felt a storm coming before the sky darkened. Sure enough, when Sangwon arrived late, hair damp with sweat, breath uneven, Geonwoo’s lips curved into a small smile. Not out of malice, but out of curiosity. There was something fascinating about watching someone so controlled unravel, even just a little. As their eyes met across the room, Geonwoo didn’t look away. He never did. If Sangwon saw theater as something to conquer, then Geonwoo was more than happy to be the obstacle standing in his way. The professor stepped forward, resting a thick stack of papers against her desk as she began speaking. “This year, as I told you guys at the audition,” she began, “we won’t be performing a classic play.” “I wrote this one myself,” she continued calmly. “Which means none of you can rely on familiarity or past interpretations. Every choice you make will have to come from understanding your character, not copying someone else.” Sangwon straightened in his seat. “The story takes place in a divided land,” the professor said, pacing slowly. “Two kingdoms have been at war for generations. No one remembers how it began, only that the hatred has been inherited, passed down like a curse.” She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. “At the center of the conflict are two princes. Heirs to opposing thrones. Raised to despise one another long before they ever meet.” Sangwon felt something tighten in his chest. “Their hatred is not subtle,” she went on. “It’s sharp, emotional, deeply rooted. Every interaction between them is charged with pride, resentment, and everything they refuse to acknowledge.” Her gaze drifted briefly across the room, lingering just a second too long on Sangwon… and then on Geonwoo. “These two characters carry the entire play. If they fail, the story collapses. Their dynamic must feel really intense, unavoidable.” Geonwoo leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping lazily against the desk, a hint of amusement playing on his lips. “Their relationship,” the professor added, “is the heart of the story. Two enemies bound by circumstance, forced into proximity by duty, politics… and fate.” She finally stopped pacing. “And that,” she said simply, “is what we’ll be working on this semester.” The class began to look at each other. Geonwoo thought the play wasn't very original, the typical story of two rival kingdoms that hate each other. He could bet that in the end, the two princes would end up being friends or falling in love. He wasn't excited about the story itself, but he liked the idea of acting out scenes of anger and conflict more than he wanted to admit. After all, acting out emotions was his specialty. The professor cleared her throat, drawing the class back to attention. She reached for the stack of papers on her desk and began handing them out, one by one. “These are the scripts,” she said. “But before we start reading, I want to make something very clear.” She paused, eyes scanning the room. “This play relies almost entirely on the chemistry between its two protagonists. The princes are not just characters, they are forces constantly colliding. If that tension isn’t believable, this will make no sense.” Sangwon felt his shoulders tense. “That’s why,” the professor continued, “casting them was not about who performed the best individual audition, but about who could challenge each other the most on stage.” She finally picked up her clipboard. “Alex, Prince of Auradon,” she read aloud. “Lee Sangwon.” A familiar rush of relief and pride surged through Sangwon’s chest. “And Victor, Prince of Solaris,” the professor added without missing a beat, “Kim Geonwoo.” The room went quiet. Sangwon’s head snapped up at the same moment Geonwoo let out a low, amused breath. Their eyes met across the classroom, Sangwon’s sharp and disbelieving, Geonwoo’s unreadable but undeniably entertained. The professor, either unaware or intentionally ignoring the sudden tension, went on. “You’ll be sharing most of your scenes. I expect commitment from both of you.” Geonwoo leaned forward in his chair. “Sounds intense,” he said lightly. Sangwon said nothing, jaw tight. “Alright,” the professor clapped her hands once. “Let’s begin with a table read. From Act One.” Pages rustled as everyone flipped through their scripts. Sangwon scanned the first scene, absorbing the setting: a stone hall divided by banners, two kingdoms represented by color and symbol, hostility thick in the air even before the characters spoke. Geonwoo was the first to read. “You wear my land’s blood like a badge of honor,” he said, voice low, controlled. “And still you dare step into my court.” Something about the way he delivered the line, casual but sharp, made Sangwon bristle. He read his response without hesitation. “Your court is built on stolen ground. I walk here because it already belongs to me.” The professor looked up, interest flickering in her eyes. As the reading continued, the story unfolded: two kingdoms locked in a war neither side fully remembered starting. Political alliances forced the princes into the same space, negotiations, councils, and shared battlefields. Every interaction was layered with resentment, pride, and something dangerously close to obsession. The dialogue between them crackled. “You’re enjoying this,” Sangwon muttered under his breath after Geonwoo improvised a pause that earned a quiet laugh from a few classmates. Geonwoo didn’t look at him. “Acting,” he replied just as quietly. “You should try it sometimes.” Sangwon shot him a glare and returned to the script. The scene shifted to a confrontation in a war tent, voices raised, accusations flying. Sangwon’s character accused Geonwoo’s of prolonging the war out of spite. Geonwoo’s prince accused Sangwon’s of hiding behind duty to avoid responsibility. Their voices rose naturally, emotion bleeding into the words. “You don’t know what it’s like to carry a crown built on ashes,” Sangwon read, chest tight. Geonwoo leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “And you don’t know what it’s like to want peace and be told hatred is your birthright.” The room felt suddenly smaller. They turned the page. Sangwon froze. His eyes dropped to the next stage direction, the words burning into the paper. A heated argument. Silence. They stand too close. One breath apart. The kiss is sudden, unplanned, and changes everything. His pulse spiked. Geonwoo noticed immediately. “What” he asked, glancing at Sangwon’s expression before looking down at his own script. A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The professor spoke before either of them could say anything. “Yes,” she said calmly. “That’s the turning point of the play.” A few whispers spread across the room.	Between script and skin Lee Sangwon hated being late; in general, he hated anything that strayed from perfection. Lee Sangwon lived by the rules he never questioned. Every movement, every line he delivered, every decision he made had to serve a purpose and meet a standard no one else could see. Mistakes weren’t lessons to him, they were failures to be corrected immediately. He rehearsed until his body moved on instinct, until perfection felt less like an achievement and more like a requirement. Control was his comfort, and precision was the only way he knew how to exist without feeling like everything might fall apart. His class had ended later than usual, so now he was running through the hallways to get to his theater class. Today was the day they were going to announce the roles for the new play, and although it was a completely original play invented by the teacher, Sangwon put all his efforts into the audition to make sure he got the lead role. The previous year, when they did Alice in Wonderland, they chose a girl as the lead, so when they announced that a boy would play the lead role, Sangwon knew he wasn't going to let that opportunity slip away. He arrived in class almost out of breath, covered in sweat. “Sorry I'm late, my last class ended later than I was expecting.” The class looked up at him before the teacher said, “It's okay, we haven't started yet. Sit down, I have something to say before we begin.” The class fell silent, and Sangwon took the opportunity to observe them. There were fewer people than at the casting, which meant that some had already been rejected. He noticed that two boys who had caught his attention at the casting (not for a good reason) were not there. The boy's acting was worse than Gal Gadot's in Snow White, and that was saying a lot. Sangwon continued scanning the room when he locked eyes with someone he wished hadn't made it through the casting call. Kim Geonwoo. —-- Kim Geonwoo was a free soul. He hated rules that felt unnecessary and schedules that tried to box creativity into neat little squares. To him, acting wasn’t about perfection or precision, it was about feeling, about letting the emotion take over even if it meant losing control for a moment. That was exactly what made some teachers adore him… and what made others sigh in quiet frustration. Unlike most of his classmates, Geonwoo hadn’t gone into acting with a clear plan. He wasn’t chasing academic recognition. He acted because it made his chest feel lighter, because stepping into someone else’s skin allowed him to breathe in ways real life never did. If a scene demanded vulnerability, he gave it. If it demanded chaos, he didn’t hold back. He trusted instinct more than rehearsal, impulse more than structure. That, of course, was why Lee Sangwon couldn’t stand him. Geonwoo had noticed it from the very first audition. The way Sangwon’s jaw tightened whenever Geonwoo improvised, the sharp glances thrown his way whenever the teacher laughed at one of his unscripted choices. Sangwon acted like theater was a battlefield that demanded discipline and strategy. Geonwoo acted like it was a playground meant to be explored. When Geonwoo walked into the classroom that afternoon, he already knew Sangwon would be there. He could feel it, the same way he felt a storm coming before the sky darkened. Sure enough, when Sangwon arrived late, hair damp with sweat, breath uneven, Geonwoo’s lips curved into a small smile. Not out of malice, but out of curiosity. There was something fascinating about watching someone so controlled unravel, even just a little. As their eyes met across the room, Geonwoo didn’t look away. He never did. If Sangwon saw theater as something to conquer, then Geonwoo was more than happy to be the obstacle standing in his way. The professor stepped forward, resting a thick stack of papers against her desk as she began speaking. “This year, as I told you guys at the audition,” she began, “we won’t be performing a classic play.” “I wrote this one myself,” she continued calmly. “Which means none of you can rely on familiarity or past interpretations. Every choice you make will have to come from understanding your character, not copying someone else.” Sangwon straightened in his seat. “The story takes place in a divided land,” the professor said, pacing slowly. “Two kingdoms have been at war for generations. No one remembers how it began, only that the hatred has been inherited, passed down like a curse.” She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. “At the center of the conflict are two princes. Heirs to opposing thrones. Raised to despise one another long before they ever meet.” Sangwon felt something tighten in his chest. “Their hatred is not subtle,” she went on. “It’s sharp, emotional, deeply rooted. Every interaction between them is charged with pride, resentment, and everything they refuse to acknowledge.” Her gaze drifted briefly across the room, lingering just a second too long on Sangwon… and then on Geonwoo. “These two characters carry the entire play. If they fail, the story collapses. Their dynamic must feel really intense, unavoidable.” Geonwoo leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping lazily against the desk, a hint of amusement playing on his lips. “Their relationship,” the professor added, “is the heart of the story. Two enemies bound by circumstance, forced into proximity by duty, politics… and fate.” She finally stopped pacing. “And that,” she said simply, “is what we’ll be working on this semester.” The class began to look at each other. Geonwoo thought the play wasn't very original, the typical story of two rival kingdoms that hate each other. He could bet that in the end, the two princes would end up being friends or falling in love. He wasn't excited about the story itself, but he liked the idea of acting out scenes of anger and conflict more than he wanted to admit. After all, acting out emotions was his specialty. The professor cleared her throat, drawing the class back to attention. She reached for the stack of papers on her desk and began handing them out, one by one. “These are the scripts,” she said. “But before we start reading, I want to make something very clear.” She paused, eyes scanning the room. “This play relies almost entirely on the chemistry between its two protagonists. The princes are not just characters, they are forces constantly colliding. If that tension isn’t believable, this will make no sense.” Sangwon felt his shoulders tense. “That’s why,” the professor continued, “casting them was not about who performed the best individual audition, but about who could challenge each other the most on stage.” She finally picked up her clipboard. “Alex, Prince of Auradon,” she read aloud. “Lee Sangwon.” A familiar rush of relief and pride surged through Sangwon’s chest. “And Victor, Prince of Solaris,” the professor added without missing a beat, “Kim Geonwoo.” The room went quiet. Sangwon’s head snapped up at the same moment Geonwoo let out a low, amused breath. Their eyes met across the classroom, Sangwon’s sharp and disbelieving, Geonwoo’s unreadable but undeniably entertained. The professor, either unaware or intentionally ignoring the sudden tension, went on. “You’ll be sharing most of your scenes. I expect commitment from both of you.” Geonwoo leaned forward in his chair. “Sounds intense,” he said lightly. Sangwon said nothing, jaw tight. “Alright,” the professor clapped her hands once. “Let’s begin with a table read. From Act One.” Pages rustled as everyone flipped through their scripts. Sangwon scanned the first scene, absorbing the setting: a stone hall divided by banners, two kingdoms represented by color and symbol, hostility thick in the air even before the characters spoke. Geonwoo was the first to read. “You wear my land’s blood like a badge of honor,” he said, voice low, controlled. “And still you dare step into my court.” Something about the way he delivered the line, casual but sharp, made Sangwon bristle. He read his response without hesitation. “Your court is built on stolen ground. I walk here because it already belongs to me.” The professor looked up, interest flickering in her eyes. As the reading continued, the story unfolded: two kingdoms locked in a war neither side fully remembered starting. Political alliances forced the princes into the same space, negotiations, councils, and shared battlefields. Every interaction was layered with resentment, pride, and something dangerously close to obsession. The dialogue between them crackled. “You’re enjoying this,” Sangwon muttered under his breath after Geonwoo improvised a pause that earned a quiet laugh from a few classmates. Geonwoo didn’t look at him. “Acting,” he replied just as quietly. “You should try it sometimes.” Sangwon shot him a glare and returned to the script. The scene shifted to a confrontation in a war tent, voices raised, accusations flying. Sangwon’s character accused Geonwoo’s of prolonging the war out of spite. Geonwoo’s prince accused Sangwon’s of hiding behind duty to avoid responsibility. Their voices rose naturally, emotion bleeding into the words. “You don’t know what it’s like to carry a crown built on ashes,” Sangwon read, chest tight. Geonwoo leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “And you don’t know what it’s like to want peace and be told hatred is your birthright.” The room felt suddenly smaller. They turned the page. Sangwon froze. His eyes dropped to the next stage direction, the words burning into the paper. A heated argument. Silence. They stand too close. One breath apart. The kiss is sudden, unplanned, and changes everything. His pulse spiked. Geonwoo noticed immediately. “What” he asked, glancing at Sangwon’s expression before looking down at his own script. A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The professor spoke before either of them could say anything. “Yes,” she said calmly. “That’s the turning point of the play.” A few whispers spread across the room. “The kiss is not romantic,” the professor added. “At least, not at first. It’s an explosion. A loss of control after weeks of anger and denial.” Sangwon swallowed hard. Geonwoo tilted his head slightly, eyes fixed on him now. “Guess the rivalry gets… complicated,” he murmured. Sangwon finally met his gaze. “This is a play,” he said coldly. “Try to remember that.” Geonwoo’s smile widened, just a little. “I always do.” The professor tapped the desk. “From the argument,” she said. “Keep reading.” And with no way out, they did. —- The cafeteria buzzed with the usual chaos, trays clattering, voices overlapping, chairs scraping against the floor. Sangwon barely noticed any of it. He sat across from Kangmin and Leejeong, his food untouched, chopsticks resting in his hand as his thoughts replayed the same moment over and over again. The page.The stage direction.The kiss. “So,” Kangmin said around a mouthful of rice, clearly enjoying himself, “two enemy princes forced into intense emotional scenes. Sounds like your thing.” Sangwon shot him a glare. “It’s not.” Leejeong raised an eyebrow. “You’re the lead. Of course it is.” “That’s not the problem,” Sangwon snapped, lowering his voice as students passed by their table. “The problem is who I have to do it with.” Kangmin leaned forward, interest sparking. “Geonwoo?” Sangwon’s jaw tightened. “I can’t stand him. He doesn’t follow the script, he improvises whenever he wants, and he acts like theater is some kind of joke.” “It’s not a joke if the teachers keep praising him,” Leejeong pointed out calmly. “That’s exactly the issue,” Sangwon replied. “He gets away with everything.” Kangmin smirked. “Still doesn’t explain why you look like someone just sentenced you to death.” Sangwon hesitated, then exhaled sharply. “There’s a kiss.” Leejeong paused mid-bite. Kangmin nearly choked. “A kiss,” Kangmin repeated slowly. “With Geonwoo.” “Yes,” Sangwon said flatly. “After a fight. It’s sudden. Emotional. Completely unnecessary.” Leejeong studied him for a moment. “You’ve kissed people on stage before.” “That was different,” Sangwon replied immediately. “They were professional. Predictable. Geonwoo isn’t either of those things.” Kangmin tilted his head. “You’re worried he’ll mess it up?” “I’m worried,” Sangwon said, voice low, “that he won’t take it seriously. That he’ll turn it into a joke to make fun of me.” The words lingered between them. Leejeong set his chopsticks down. “You don’t hate him because he’s bad at acting,” he said carefully. “You hate him because he makes you lose control.” Sangwon stiffened. “That’s not true.” Kangmin grinned. “Then why are you thinking about the kiss three days before rehearsals even start?” Sangwon stood abruptly, grabbing his tray. “I’m not kissing him,” he said firmly. “It’s not happening.” Leejeong watched him walk away, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Yeah,” Kangmin murmured, eyes following Sangwon. “Good luck with that.” —-- “So,” Xinlong said immediately, eyes bright with curiosity, “prince Geonwoo.” Geonwoo snorted. “Predictable.” “And your enemy prince,” Anxin added casually, “is Lee Sangwon.” That earned a grin. “Could’ve been worse,” Geonwoo said, stabbing at his food. “At least he takes it seriously. Makes the conflict believable.” Xinlong narrowed his eyes. “You like annoying him.” “I like acting,” Geonwoo corrected. “He just happens to make it easy.” Anxin hummed, unconvinced. “Funny. You’ve been smiling ever since the casting.” Geonwoo paused for half a second, just long enough to be noticeable, then shrugged. “It’s a good role.” “A good role,” Xinlong repeated slowly. “With intense arguments. Forced proximity. Emotional breakdowns.” Anxin leaned forward. “And a kiss.” Geonwoo laughed, a soft, careless sound. “Relax. It’s acting.” “Sure,” Anxin said. “That’s why you didn’t stop staring at him when we got to that part of the script.” Geonwoo rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t staring.” Xinlong smirked. “You were watching his reaction.” Geonwoo took a bite of food, chewing thoughtfully. “He looked like he wanted to set the script on fire.” “That’s not denial,” Anxin said. “That’s interest.” Geonwoo scoffed. “Please. Sangwon hates me.” “And yet,” Xinlong said, “you enjoy pushing his buttons.” Geonwoo leaned back again, gaze drifting across the cafeteria until it landed, almost unconsciously, on a familiar head of dark hair several tables away. “He’s intense,” Geonwoo admitted lightly. “All control and rules and sharp edges. It’s kind of impressive.” Anxin smiled knowingly. “You’re enjoying this way more than you should.” Geonwoo’s grin softened, just a fraction. “Maybe,” he said. “But don’t worry. I know where the line is.” Xinlong raised an eyebrow. “Do you?” Geonwoo didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was easy, almost teasing. “I mean, I’m gonna play with him a little. But nothing that affects the play.” Across the cafeteria, Sangwon shifted in his seat. And Geonwoo smiled. —- Three days later, the rehearsal room felt heavier than usual. Everyone was prepared this time. Scripts highlighted, lines memorized, movements roughly planned out. Sangwon stood near the edge of the space, posture straight, shoulders squared, crown prop resting in his hands. Across the room, Geonwoo was rolling his shoulders loose, expression relaxed, almost lazy, far too comfortable for Sangwon’s liking. The director clapped her hands once. “Alright. We’ll start with Act One, Scene Three. The ball at Solaris.” Music began to play softly from the speakers, elegant, ceremonial. Students playing nobles took their places, moving slowly as if wrapped in silk and tradition. Solaris was meant to feel warm, rich, alive. And then Sangwon stepped forward. Alex’s entrance wasn’t subtle. He cut through the dance like a blade, boots striking the floor with purpose. Sangwon lifted his chin, gaze sharp, disdain carefully measured. “So this is how Solaris celebrates while the border burns,” he said, voice calm but cutting. Geonwoo turned at the sound, transformation instant. Victor’s easy smile faded, replaced by something colder, sharper. He descended the steps toward Alex, movements unhurried but deliberate. “You interrupt a royal celebration unannounced,” Victor replied smoothly. “Bold. Or foolish.” Alex met his eyes without hesitation. “I didn’t come to dance.” “No,” Victor said, circling him slowly, “you came to provoke.” They stood too close, closer than blocking required. “Pause,” the director said, eyes narrowing with interest. “That distance? Keep it.” Sangwon resisted the urge to step back. The scene continued. “Your kingdom thrives on illusion,” Alex snapped. “Music, wine, pretty lies. Meanwhile, my people die because you refuse to act.” Victor’s voice dropped, dangerous. “Careful,” he said. “You’re standing on my ground now.” Their voices rose naturally, the argument flowing with frightening ease. Sangwon’s control clashed against Geonwoo’s raw intensity, sparks flying in every exchanged line. “You hide behind parties because you’re afraid to choose,” Alex said, jaw tight. Geonwoo stepped closer. “And you hide behind duty because you’re afraid to feel.” Silence fell. “Cut,” the director breathed out. “That was–” Sangwon broke character first, exhaling sharply. “You stepped out of your mark.” Geonwoo raised an eyebrow. “You moved first.” “That wasn’t the cue.” “It felt right.” Sangwon scoffed. “That’s not how rehearsals work.” The director held up a hand. “Actually,” she said, “it is, when it works.” Both of them turned toward her. “Your chemistry is incredible,” she continued calmly. “You’re reacting to each other instead of performing at each other. Don’t lose that.” Sangwon stiffened. “With all due respect, we should stick to the blocking.” Geonwoo smiled faintly. “See? Battlefield.” Sangwon shot him a glare. “Playground.” “Enough,” the director said, though she looked far from displeased. “Let’s run it again. This time, Geonwoo, more control. Let the anger show. Sangwon stop guarding yourself so much. You’re not untouchable here.” Sangwon clenched his jaw. They reset. Music resumed. This time, when Sangwon entered, Geonwoo was already watching him. The confrontation felt different—closer, rougher. Victor grabbed Alex’s wrist mid-argument, fingers tightening just enough to make the contact unmistakable. “You don’t belong here,” Victor said softly. Sangwon swallowed, then delivered his line without breaking eye contact. “Neither does your conscience.” A ripple of murmurs spread through the room. “Good,” the director said quickly. “Don’t stop.” The argument escalated again, words overlapping, breaths heavy, bodies aligned in a way that made it hard to tell where acting ended and instinct began. When the scene finally ended, neither of them moved. “Cut,” the director said again, voice satisfied. “Take five.” Sangwon stepped back immediately, heart racing. Geonwoo lingered a second longer before retreating, eyes bright, lips curved in something dangerously close to a smile. As the room buzzed with whispered reactions, the director made a note on her clipboard. “Remember this feeling,” she said, glancing between them. “If you keep fighting like this on stage, the audience won’t stand a chance.” Sangwon avoided looking at Geonwoo. Geonwoo, on the other hand, didn’t look away at all. —- Days passed. They fought offstage, and when they went onstage, they pretended everything was fine. The rehearsal room was quiet. Too quiet. Sangwon arrived early out of habit, script tucked under his arm, steps precise as always. The lights were still dim, the stage empty except for scattered props and the faint smell of dust and wood. He liked it this way, controlled, silent, predictable. Then the door opened behind him. Sangwon didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. “Didn’t take you for the type to show up early,” Geonwoo said sarcastically. Sangwon exhaled through his nose and turned. “Some of us take this seriously.” Geonwoo closed the door behind him, bag slung over one shoulder. “I do too.” “You take it personally,” Sangwon shot back. “That’s different.” Geonwoo laughed softly, shaking his head. “Funny. I was about to say the same about you.” Sangwon stepped closer, stopping just short of the taped mark on the floor. “You keep pushing. Improvising. Touching when it’s not in the script.” “It’s called reacting,” Geonwoo replied, eyes sharp now. “Or are you only comfortable when everything goes exactly your way?” “I’m comfortable when people respect the work.” “And I’m comfortable when it feels real.” Their gazes locked, something unspoken tightening between them. “You enjoy throwing me off,” Sangwon said quietly. Geonwoo tilted his head. “Maybe I enjoy seeing what happens when you lose control.” Sangwon’s jaw clenched. “This isn’t a game.” “Then why does it feel like you’re always bracing for impact when you look at me?” Silence stretched between them, thick and charged. “This play,” Sangwon continued, voice low, “is about two enemies who destroy each other because they can’t let go of their pride.” Geonwoo took a step closer. “No. It’s about two people who confuse hate with intensity because it’s easier than admitting what they actually feel.” Sangwon’s breath hitched before he could stop it. “Don’t project onto me.” Geonwoo’s eyes flicked to his lips just for a second. “I’m not.” They were standing far too close now. Close enough to feel body heat. Close enough to notice how Sangwon’s hands curled into fists, how Geonwoo’s breathing had slowed, deliberate. “If you cross the line during rehearsal again,” Sangwon warned, “I won’t follow.” Geonwoo smiled faintly. “You always do.” That did it. Sangwon grabbed Geonwoo’s wrist, grip firm but controlled, eyes blazing. “This ends here. On stage.” Geonwoo didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned in slightly, voice barely above a whisper. “Then stop looking at me like you want to prove something.” For a moment, neither of them moved. The door handle rattled in the distance, voices approaching. Sangwon released him instantly, stepping back like he’d been burned. Geonwoo straightened his jacket, expression unreadable, though his eyes still burned with something dangerously close to satisfaction. “See you on stage, Prince Alex,” he murmured. Sangwon didn’t answer. But when the rest of the cast filed in, he couldn’t stop thinking about how close they’d been or how hard it had been to step away. The director clapped her hands sharply. “Alright, Sangwon and Geonwoo, tent scene. The fight. And yes, eventually the kiss.” Sangwon’s shoulders stiffened immediately. Geonwoo, as usual, didn’t give anything away, but there was a glint in his eyes that made Sangwon’s chest tighten. The tent was set, a canvas draped over poles and crates, shadows flickering across the floor as the dim rehearsal lights filtered through the fabric. The space was tight, heightening the tension. “Whenever you’re ready,” the director said, stepping back. Alex entered first, scanning the tent like a general surveying enemy lines. “You shouldn’t have come here,” he growled, voice low, controlled, authority in every syllable. Victor blocked his path, stance wide, expression unreadable. “And you shouldn’t act like you own this battlefield.” Alex lunged forward, hand aimed for Victor’s shoulder. Victor caught his wrist mid-swipe, spinning him around, both of them bumping against a pole. The crates shifted dangerously underfoot. “You’re reckless!” Alex snapped, chest heaving. “And you’re stiff,” Victor replied, voice smooth but sharp. “Always trying to control everything.” Sangwon’s jaw clenched at the words—not just the character’s, but the teasing tone Geonwoo let slip through. Geonwoo’s smirk, impossible to hide, made Sangwon grit his teeth. Alex shoved Victor back, forcing him against the crate. Victor resisted, twisting so that Alex stumbled. Their forearms pressed together, uncomfortably close, heat radiating between them. “I came for what’s mine!” Alex hissed. “And I’ll stop you, by any means necessary!” Victor’s voice dropped, low and dangerous. Hands grappled, collars tugged, arms locked as if neither could let go. Each shove and pull sent a jolt through both Sangwon and Geonwoo, partly acting, partly instinct. Every glance, every movement carried tension beyond the script. Victor jabbed Alex’s shoulder, forcing him backward. Alex countered, elbow brushing Victor’s chest, eyes burning. “You think you can control everything?” Victor hissed. “You think your cockiness gives you the right to interfere?” Alex shot back. Geonwoo’s smirk vanished, replaced by intensity that mirrored Sangwon’s own rigid control. For a moment, it wasn’t acting anymore, they were simply clashing, bodies and wills colliding in the dim light of the canvas tent. Victor grabbed Alex by the arm again, spinning him into a pole. Alex stumbled, catching himself, eyes narrowing. “You’re going to regret this!” “No…” Victor pressed closer, voice low, “I’m enjoying every second.” Sangwon felt heat rise to his face, an unfamiliar awareness of how close Geonwoo was, how sharp every movement felt. Geonwoo’s eyes flicked to his jaw, lingered for a second longer than necessary. The director stepped forward, clapping sharply. “Cut! Stop! Enough for now!” Both froze, breathing heavy. “This fight, the kiss, is going to be rehearsed alone,” she said, voice firm but amused. “You need privacy for that moment. But remember: there will be an audience eventually. You must get used to that intimacy while maintaining control.” Sangwon exhaled sharply, stepping back, though his chest still pounded. Geonwoo straightened, expression unreadable but eyes glinting with mischief and satisfaction. “Looks like we will finally get privacy,” Geonwoo murmured, voice low. “Don’t think this changes anything,” Sangwon replied, voice tight, though he knew it already had. The director clapped her hands again. “Reset for the fight part. Keep the tension. Every shove, every word, every glance matters. And remember, the kiss is coming. Save it for your private rehearsal.” Sangwon’s fists clenched, Geonwoo’s lips curved slightly. Both knew that the next rehearsal would push them even closer physically, emotionally, and dangerously. —- The rest of the class moved on, running through smaller scenes, testing dialogue and movements under the director’s eye. Laughter, shouted lines, and the occasional stumble echoed through the room, but none of it reached the intensity of the tent scene. Every time Sangwon glanced at Geonwoo across the room, a familiar tension formed in his chest. “That’s enough for today,” The director said, smiling faintly. “But I’m leaving the classroom open. Sangwon and Geonwoo you have the tent scene’s kiss to rehearse. Privacy is necessary. Go ahead.” The other students got out, murmuring, leaving only the dim light and scattered props. The air immediately felt heavier, charged. Sangwon crossed his arms, pacing slightly. “We don’t need to overthink this,” he muttered. Geonwoo leaned casually against a crate, watching him. “You look like you’re about to pass out. Honestly… for someone playing a prince, you act like a virgin at the thought of a kiss.” Sangwon froze, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?” Geonwoo smirked, leaning just a little closer. “You heard me. Afraid of a little contact?” “Unlike you,” Sangwon said sharply, “I’ve kissed people on stage before. I know how to act. I’m not afraid.” Geonwoo’s smirk faltered for a split second, replaced by a flash of something sharper, amusement tinged with irritation. “Oh? Really? That’s comforting. I guess that makes you the experienced one, then.” “Exactly,” Sangwon replied, voice tight. “Now stop teasing me. We’re here to rehearse.” “Fine,” Geonwoo said, voice low, trying to keep the edge in his tone, “Don’t think about me, don’t think about yourself. Just the scene.” They positioned themselves. The argument from the script began, hands gripping collars, voices sharp, bodies pressing close in the tight space of the canvas tent. Every word sparked like fire, every shove and step charged with tension. Geonwoo stepped closer, closing the gap for the scripted kiss. Sangwon’s chest tightened. Heart hammering, breath caught. And then he recoiled, stepping back sharply. “I… I can’t,” he muttered. Geonwoo’s eyes widened, a mix of disbelief and irritation. “You’re serious?” Without another word, Sangwon grabbed his script and bag. Every step was precise, but his movements were tense and full of silent frustration. He walked out of the classroom, leaving the dim, enclosed tent space behind. The door clicked shut, echoing through the empty room. Geonwoo remained where he was, chest rising and falling rapidly, fists curling and unclenching. He stared at the door for a long moment, jaw tight, irritation slowly melting into something sharper. Frustration, curiosity, and maybe a flicker of disappointment. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath, voice low, eyes still fixed on the empty doorway. The room felt suddenly colder, emptier, every shadow stretching longer across the scattered props. Alone now, Geonwoo’s irritation simmered. He grabbed his script, slamming it onto the nearest crate with a sharp exhale, and muttered again: “Unbelievable…” He sank onto the floor, leaning against the tent pole, arms crossed, still glaring at the space Sangwon had left, the tension lingering like smoke. —- The next day, the classroom buzzed with the usual chatter and shuffling of scripts. Sangwon arrived early, hoping to get a head start on memorizing movements and refining his lines. He scanned the room and froze. Geonwoo was already there, sitting casually on a chair by the stage, script in hand, but he didn’t look up, didn’t even glance at Sangwon. His back was slightly turned, and when their eyes met for a split second, he quickly looked away. Sangwon’s chest tightened. The tension from yesterday’s rehearsal still lingered. He cleared his throat, trying to focus. “Alright, everyone! We’re starting with the tavern scene. Sangwon and Geonwoo, you’re up first.” Sangwon approached Geonwoo cautiously, but every attempt at eye contact was met with indifference. Geonwoo barely acknowledged him, reading his lines silently, posture deliberately stiff. “Action!” the director called. The scene began. Sangwon tried to initiate the usual banter, sharp lines, subtle gestures meant to provoke Geonwoo. But Geonwoo responded minimally, flat tones, minimal movements, eyes avoiding Sangwon entirely. The clash on stage felt hollow, like two actors reading from a script rather than characters in conflict. Every shove and glance that would normally spark heat and tension fizzled. Sangwon’s frustration mounted. He stopped mid-line, stepping closer. “Geonwoo, You’re not even trying.” Geonwoo’s eyes flicked up, sharp and mocking. “Oh, now you care about realism and acting well? About being professional?” His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “Funny… because yesterday, when it mattered most, you ran off.” Sangwon froze. The reminder hit harder than he expected. His chest tightened, heat rising to his face. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. “I… I—” Sangwon muttered, voice faltering, feeling a mix of guilt and frustration. “I—should have—” Geonwoo’s gaze didn’t soften. He folded his arms, leaning back slightly, letting the words sink in. “Yeah. You should have.” The director clapped sharply. “Cut! Cut, cut, cut!” she barked. “Enough. What is happening here? Sangwon, Geonwoo, you have no chemistry right now! You’re supposed to be enemies… rivals… fire and tension! This is a joke!” Sangwon swallowed, jaw tight, guilt and frustration colliding. “Geonwoo…” he began, but the director waved him off. “Geonwoo, what are you doing? You’re reading your lines like a textbook!” she said, frowning. “I don’t care if you’re upset with each other off stage. Use that tension. Bring it here!” Geonwoo didn’t respond, simply opening his script and deliberately keeping his distance. Sangwon’s frustration mixed with a pang of guilt, making him more tense than ever. The director clapped her hands again. “Enough talking! You’ll rehearse this scene again, but this time I don’t want one missed glance, one hesitation, one second of boredom. Let me see the fire between Alex and Victor. Understood?” Both nodded, Sangwon tightly, Geonwoo reluctantly, but the tension between them hung thick in the air. Geonwoo didn’t offer a smile, didn’t soften his glare. He simply read his lines, deliberately ignoring the space Sangwon was trying to bridge. Sangwon’s jaw clenched, eyes fixed on him. The guilt from yesterday and the frustration from today made every movement heavier, every glance charged. The class carried on around them, but for Sangwon and Geonwoo, the world had narrowed to the space between the two of them, full of words unsaid, anger, and a tension that refused to be ignored. —- The classroom had mostly emptied, the hum of students fading down the hall. Sangwon lingered near the door, watching Geonwoo gather his script, ready to leave. Without thinking twice, he stepped forward and grabbed Geonwoo’s wrist, holding him in place. “Wait,” Sangwon said, voice low and firm, his eyes locking onto Geonwoo’s. “We… we need to stay. Just a little longer. The kiss scene.” Geonwoo froze, eyebrows shooting up. “Seriously? You want to stay here after everything? I don’t even know why you care now.” “I do care,” Sangwon snapped, frustration flaring. “We can’t leave it like yesterday. We have to rehearse it properly.” Geonwoo pulled lightly, testing the grip, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Huh. Now all of a sudden you care?” Sangwon’s chest tightened, guilt and frustration mixing into a tight knot. “I messed up yesterday! I know that! But now we fix it. That’s what matters.” Geonwoo tilted his head, crossing his arms, voice low and teasing. “Fix it? Or are you just trying to prove something to yourself?” “Neither!” Sangwon hissed, hands tightening slightly on Geonwoo’s wrist. “We’re doing this because it’s the scene, and we’re actors. Forget ego. Focus.” Geonwoo held his gaze, the smirk fading into a faint frown. “Fine,” he said finally, voice clipped. “But don’t expect me to make it easy for you.” Sangwon exhaled, tension spilling out in a shudder of relief. “Good. Let’s just… do this.” They moved to the center of the empty classroom, transformed in their minds into the battle tent of Solaris. The air was thick, almost electric, every glance and movement charged with residual frustration and unspoken words. Alex stepped forward, voice low and edged with controlled anger. “You think you can get away with everything, Victor?” Victor matched him step for step, chest brushing Alex’s. “And you think your arrogance gives you the right to push me around?” Their forearms pressed together as they grappled, collars tugged, shoves and twists sending small jolts of instinctive tension through both Sangwon and Geonwoo. Every movement carried the weight of the characters, and the actors themselves. “You’re going to regret this!” Alex hissed, shoving Victor toward an imaginary crate. “No…” Victor pressed closer, voice low and dangerous, “I’m enjoying every second.” The fight escalated, limbs tangling, hands gripping jackets, pushing, pulling, heat radiating from their bodies in a mix of acting and instinct. And then, almost inevitably, Victor’s hand brushed Alex’s chin, tilting his head up toward him. Sangwon’s breath hitched. Every instinct screamed to pull away, yet every muscle was taut, engaged, reacting to Geonwoo. The tension was palpable, both boys breathing frantically, their hearts racing a mile a minute. And then, without thinking twice, Sangwon, in an attempt not to run away like last time, approached Geonwoo to invite him to initiate the kiss. Their lips collided sharp, furious, jagged. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t romantic. It was angry, intense, a collision of pride, irritation, and tension that had been building for days. Both clung to each other, foreheads brushing, hands gripping tightly, breathing heavy and unsteady. For a moment, neither Sangwon nor Geonwoo knew where the performance ended and where reality began. The kiss blurred the lines, their scripted anger and the unspoken tension between them merging into something raw and immediate. Every shove, every touch, every flicker of movement carried double meaning, part of the scene, part instinct. Their breaths mingled, hearts pounding, and in that suspended moment, the classroom, the tent, the script, it all faded away, leaving only the two of them, caught in the collision of acting and something far more dangerous. Finally, they pulled back, breathing heavily, foreheads still nearly touching. Sangwon’s cheeks burned a deep red, and his chest heaved as he tried to regain control. His hands fidgeted slightly, unable to let go completely, betraying how flustered he truly was. Geonwoo, on the other hand, leaned back just enough to smirk, eyes glinting with amusement. “Well, well,” he said, voice low and teasing, “the perfect Lee Sangwon… looks like you’ve finally crossed the line.” Sangwon’s jaw tightened, heat climbing even higher. He opened his mouth to retort, but no words came out. The blush on his cheeks said it all. Geonwoo’s smirk widened ever so slightly, satisfied with the reaction. But just as Sangwon was about to apologize for crossing the line, his gaze fell on a bulge in Geonwoo's pants. He looked up, smirked, and approached Geonwoo. “Looks like I'm not the only one who's crossed the line,” he said as he placed a hand on Geonwoo's growing bulge. The roles had just been reversed. Now Geonwoo blushed as he tried to pull away, while Sangwon, with the confidence he had just pulled out of his ass, kept approaching Geonwoo. “Cat aye your tongue?” “Sangwon—w-what are you doing?” Geonwoo bumped into a table behind him. Both of them ignored the fact that they were still in the theater, on stage, surrounded by props, and that anyone could walk in at any moment. “You always seem so full of confidence, but when it comes down to it, you chicken out.” Geonwoo hated the truth in his words. He was immobilized, cornered by Sangwon despite being taller and bigger than him. “I don't know if this is a good ide—” “Forget it, I'd better find someone else who wants to—” Hearing those words, Geonwoo grabbed Sangwon by the waist and changed his position, now cornering Sangwon against the table. “You’re getting too brave now,” Geonwoo said against his ear. “Let's see if you're still so confident when I tear you apart, and you're begging me to fuck you with my cock.” Sangwon hated to admit it, but that turned him on more than it should have, so a sigh that sounded more like a moan escaped his lips, and suddenly he felt a hand on his chin that made him look directly into Geonwoo's face. The kiss came quickly, a mixture of teeth, spit, and tongue, each of them fighting to take control, and although Sangwon tried, in the end, he submitted to Geonwoo's power and let himself be carried away by him. Sangwon brought his hands to his chest, unbuttoning his shirt and running his hand over Geonwoo's abs. Meanwhile, Geonwoo took the opportunity to grab Sangwon's waist. Their lips parted for a moment to catch their breath, but Geonwoo quickly began kissing Sangwon's neck, leaving small marks in the process, while Sangwon let out small moans. They stayed like this for a while until Geonwoo decided it was time for the real thing. He started unbuttoning Sangwon's belt and pants and pulled them down to his knees. He touched his cock, which was already hard and leaking precum. “You didn't bring lube here, did you?” Sangwon shook his head, his eyes closed from the sensation of Geonwoo's hands on his cock. “Well, we'll have to do it like in the old days, open that mouth pretty boy.” Sangwon obeyed, and Geonwoo's two fingers entered his mouth so he began to lick and suck them, running his tongue all over them. “Good boy,” Sangwon moaned at those words. “I would love if, instead of my fingers, you were sucking my cock, but if we take too long, they might start to miss us.” So he grabbed Sangwon by the hips and lifted him onto the table, letting his back stretch out on it. He positioned himself between his legs, brought his mouth close to his hole, and licked it. Then he brought his wet fingers closer and inserted two directly, earning a high-pitched moan from Sangwon. “Geonwoo– faster” “Someone's a little eager,” Geonwoo teased, but he obeyed Sangwon's order and quickened his pace. It didn't take long for Sangwon to start feeling that warmth in his lower abdomen, indicating that he was close to climax. “I'm—almost... Geonwoo...” Hearing that, Geonwoo stopped and grabbed the base of his cock. “Not so fast, you won't come until I say so, understood?” Sangwon could barely hear what Geonwoo was saying, immersed in the orgasm that had been denied to him. “Answer me, or you won't be coming at all tonight.” “Yes, yes, I won't.” “Good boy.” At that moment, Geonwoo separated himself from Sangwon and unzipped his pants. His cock was already hard, so he simply spread the precum and positioned himself right at the entrance of Sangwon's hole. “Beg for it.” Sangwon opened his eyes and looked directly at Geonwoo. “Shut up—I'm not that desperate.” “Are you sure?” Geonwoo moved away from Sangwon and noticed the lack of warmth. “No—wait.” “Beg for it.” Sangwon, leaving his pride behind, sighed and finally said, “Fuck Geonwoo—Fuck me until I can't remember my lines. Fuck me until the only thing I can say is your name—I'm going crazy, hyung...” That last word did it. Geonwoo returned to his previous position and, without waiting a single second longer, entered completely in one swift movement. They both let out a moan, but Geonwoo didn't give him time to adjust because he began thrusting rapidly inside Sangwon's hole. “I knew you were such a slut, always with that perfect boy act, but you're nothing more than a whore.” Sangwon moaned louder. “Does it turn you on that I'm fucking you here in the middle of the stage? With the spotlights on you, the door unlocked, knowing that anyone could walk in and see you like this?” Geonwoo thrust even harder, causing Sangwon to freeze and simply let himself be carried away by Geonwoo. “I'm close—please, Geonwoo...” “Since you asked nicely... Come for me, pretty,” and then Sangwon came with a loud moan, spreading his cum across his stomach. Even though Sangwon had just come, he couldn't feel any relief because Geonwoo started thrusting even harder, reaching his own orgasm. “Oh my—Sangwon, you were made to take my cock. So perfect around me.” “I want you to come inside—” Geonwoo almost stopped for a moment, opening his eyes wide. “A–Are you sure?” “Yeah–aah Just do it– hyung” And so shortly after, Geonwoo came inside Sangwon with a loud moan. Geonwoo collapsed on top of Sangwon, both breathing fast and covered in sweat. They lay there in silence, the air still heavy, the echoes of what had just happened lingering between them. Sangwon stared at the ceiling, mind racing, heart still beating faster than it should have, trying to catalog and control something that refused to be neatly defined. Geonwoo rested nearby, unusually quiet, a thoughtful expression softening his features as he replayed every look, every breath, every moment that had crossed a line neither of them had named out loud. Whatever this was, acting, tension, something else entirely, it had changed the space between them, and neither of them knew what came next. After a few minutes, Sangwon got up and Geonwoo followed him with his gaze. “Do you think the director will think we have a lot of chemistry now?” Geonwoo said with a smirk on his face. “Oh my God, don't make me think about the director right after we just fucked.” They both knew this wouldn't be the last time the theater room would be used for something other than acting.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75715491	{"authors": ["bybianwon"], "language": "English", "title": "Between script and skin"}
Male Character X Male Reader (ONESHOTS) (This is a reposted fic I originally posted on Wattpad) So, I'm... gay- and I have a lot of fictional male crushes! I also like to read (male character) x male reader fanfics on wattpad of those characters, but if you've ever tried to find one of those you know that they're pretty rare. I can hardly find any of those kinds of wattpad stories. Soooo, I decided that for fun I'd make my own "Male character x Male reader" oneshots story! And if you want, you're free to request a chapter of one of YOUR favorite characters as well! Here's the rules: . . . Your request has to be male character x male reader. Because the point of the book is to provide those kind of stories on an app that doesn't have many of them. You cannot request chapters of celebrities or other real life people. Not only am I uncomfortable with that but you most likely didn't ask for those people's consent beforehand. Even if you did I'd still be uncomfortable doing it. Please make sure your requests are of FICTIONAL people. You are allowed to request specific things like "Male character x trans male reader"! I don't mind at all! :3 I am comfortable with writing fluff, and lime, and smut! But I will only accept requests of characters 14 or older. . . . That's all! I will be working on the first chapter rn but since I already have another more serious book in the works I might temporarily discontinue this one if it becomes too much for me! Byeeee!!!!♡♡♡♡ Don't make fun of me-	Male Character X Male Reader (ONESHOTS) (This is a reposted fic I originally posted on Wattpad) So, I'm... gay- and I have a lot of fictional male crushes! I also like to read (male character) x male reader fanfics on wattpad of those characters, but if you've ever tried to find one of those you know that they're pretty rare. I can hardly find any of those kinds of wattpad stories. Soooo, I decided that for fun I'd make my own "Male character x Male reader" oneshots story! And if you want, you're free to request a chapter of one of YOUR favorite characters as well! Here's the rules: . . . Your request has to be male character x male reader. Because the point of the book is to provide those kind of stories on an app that doesn't have many of them. You cannot request chapters of celebrities or other real life people. Not only am I uncomfortable with that but you most likely didn't ask for those people's consent beforehand. Even if you did I'd still be uncomfortable doing it. Please make sure your requests are of FICTIONAL people. You are allowed to request specific things like "Male character x trans male reader"! I don't mind at all! :3 I am comfortable with writing fluff, and lime, and smut! But I will only accept requests of characters 14 or older. . . . That's all! I will be working on the first chapter rn but since I already have another more serious book in the works I might temporarily discontinue this one if it becomes too much for me! Byeeee!!!!♡♡♡♡ Don't make fun of me-	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75717931/chapters/198038256	{"authors": ["Blue_Devil1380"], "language": "English", "title": "Male Character X Male Reader (ONESHOTS)"}
Life is what happens while we are busy making other plans „Yes,“ she cried happily, feeling tears steadily forming in the corners of her eyes. “Yes, I'll marry you!” He laughed loudly in relief. “You left me to wonder a bit,” he said softly afterwards, his hand reaching up slowly. Bella sighed and pushed her chair back, the wheels squeaking a little despite the carpet. Anything to put some distance between herself and that – that utter drivel that – “Bella? Everything alright?” She looked up to find a pair of kind brown eyes watching her. “Yeah, sorry, Ang.” She shook her head. “Need more coffee.” Her office neighbor chuckled at that. “Don't we all.” They shared another look, and Bella nodded in response to Angela's raised eyebrow. As they made their way towards the kitchenette, Bella was content to listen to Angela complain about the author whose book she was currently editing. “Literary vision my ass,” the usually composed woman muttered. “This morning he spent ten minutes telling me his spellings aren't wrong. They're unique.” Bella winced in sympathy, though not in surprise. Having the desk next to Angela meant she had witnessed that phone call, and her friend's facial expressions had said it all. “It's a paycheck,” she replied, a well-used mantra between the two. Angela nodded as she poured coffee into two mugs. Bella preferred not to think about how long it had been on the burner. “What about yourself?” Angela asked. “Still that historical romance?” Bella accepted her mug with a nod of her own and stared down into it. “Love in the Highlands,” she intoned, aiming for an ominous declaration. “A tale of loving mightily and lusting terribly.” Angela snickered. “You should talk to Marketing about that.” “And give them my best ideas? Hell no.” Bella exchanged a smile with her friend before they both returned to their respective problems. However, even after a sip of what turned out to be as bitter a brew as expected, Bella couldn't bring herself to take up reading again straight away. Just a little break from adverbs, please. She glared at her screen, then made sure their manager's door was closed and picked up her phone. Apparently she wasn't the only chatty person today. There were a number of messages from earlier in the morning in the group chat Alice had insisted on. [Edward]: Coffee shop guy still wants me! [Alice]: :D Got the extra cookie again for free? [Edward]: You know it [Edward]: I'll save it for you :) [Alice]: I love coffee shop guy <3 [Edward]: Excuse me? :( [Alice]: I love you almost as much? [Edward]: That's it [Edward]: I'm eating the cookie [Edward]: It's delicious [Alice]: YOU WOULDN'T :( [Edward]: I'll start a new life with Chase and his caffeine offerings [Alice]: You can't leave me [Alice]: Not for someone called Chase [Alice]: It's tacky! [Bella]: Guys? Could you not break up before lunch? She smiled even as she sent the message, feeling more like herself after reading her friends' antics. From the timestamps she could guess that the exchange had been after Alice's first class of the day and probably in between two of Edward's appointments. Bella herself typically didn't get around to joining in before lunch, which was – damn it – still a while away. Just as Bella gave herself a pep talk to carry on, her phone lit up with new notifications. [Edward]: What's this, Bella this early? [Edward]: Oh no, it's that book still, isn't it. [Edward]: Come over for dinner? I'll get you a new cookie if you finish a chapter today :) Bella couldn't help but giggle as she read. [Bella]: Bribe accepted! See you guys around 7? [Edward]: Yes'm :) Alright then, Swan, Bella told herself. Do it for the cookie. By the time lunch rolled around Bella felt she had at least made some progress. Getting away from the computer for a while seemed too tempting, though, especially since the weather was quite nice even for July. With a wave to Angela she headed out, feeling appropriately daring as she left her jacket behind. July or not – if living in Seattle had taught Bella anything, it was to not let style overrule comfort. Even walking around for ten minutes was enough to restore her. Not for the first time (and, she had to admit, probably not for the last time either) Bella reminded herself to get back into the habit. It didn't feel as necessary as it used to, back when getting through a full day was more of a chore than it was now... but without fail, the simple movement helped. As she made her way to the nearby park – small and entirely too tame to be anything but a placebo for someone seeking nature – she had no problem staying in the moment. The sun felt nice on her face, and that was a rare enough feeling that she intended to enjoy it no matter what, soon finding a bench nestled in between the hedges lining the path. The traffic noise became so diffuse here she could almost tell herself it was just the wind in the trees. She sat down and was about to unwrap her usual sandwich when her phone interrupted her with the generic ringtone she never bothered to change. She accepted the call with a grin without bothering to check who it was. Only one person called her on her lunch break. “No, Aly, I'm not sharing my cookie with you.” The startled laugh that answered her was decidedly not Alice. This voice was deeper and definitely male. “Um, I'm really sorry for Aly, then.” “Oh my god.” Bella held the phone away from her ear for a moment to check the caller ID, but the number was unknown. She closed her eyes in sheer mortification and returned to the call. “I'm... so sorry.” More laughter on the other end, but Bella found she couldn't mind it so much. Then: “Don't be. Sorry, this is – I didn't expect that. Is this Bella?” Oh god, was it an actual work call? Bella cleared her throat, not for the first time wishing she had the ability to turn back time just a few minutes. “Yes, this is she – I mean – I'm Bella.” Could it get any worse? The person on the other end went silent for long enough that she was about to speak again, but as he replied her mind went blank. “I'm glad. It's Jasper Whitlock. I'm sorry I'm calling without texting first, I just...” He trailed off. Jasper. Bella blinked. For a dizzy second she checked her surroundings for some sign she’d slipped into a hallucination, but the world remained stubbornly ordinary, which only made it feel more unreal. A little boy was throwing a ball for a dog, watched over by the likely mother. Two joggers swerved to avoid the dog crossing their path. Jasper was on the phone. Jasper was on the phone and was talking again because apparently she'd been silent for too long. “Okay, I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to just spring this on you – well, spring me on you, I guess. Is there a better time I could call?” He sounded so concerned by the end that Bella shook her head, trying to get her brain to work again. “No! Sorry, give me a moment. My god, Jasper! I'm happy. Just surprised.” A somewhat rueful laugh reached her ear. “Of course. At least now I know you haven't talked to your mother lately, huh? She said she'd tell you she gave your number out.” That was so typically Renee that Bella had to roll her eyes. At least he can't see me. “Busted,” she admitted. “I'm glad she did though. How are you? It must've been – I don't even know how many years.” Ten years in September, her brain supplied helpfully. She tried to ignore it. Tracking his absence had become a habit, but not one she wanted to share. “Almost ten years,” his warm voice answered. “Well, if you don't count the occasional card.” She ignored the way her heart sped up at his words as much as her inner commentary. “I'm not discounting them, but they weren't the same, were they?” There was a brief silence again. Bella wondered if she'd said the wrong thing – again – but before she could apologize, she could hear him clear his throat. “No. But appreciated.” She couldn't help but smile, even if it came out a bit wonky by the feel of it. “But I'm guessing you're not calling to talk about greeting cards from years ago.” When he laughed again she could finally hear the more familiar boy's delight in it. At least his cadence hadn't changed. “Can't I just call because I miss my oldest friend?” Bella discarded the first sarcastic comment that came to mind. “You can and I'm glad you did, if that's the case.” She forced herself to inhale slowly and deeply. “I missed you.” She ran her hand over the rough wood of the bench next to her leg. Often, when they'd sat on her mom's porch in the evening talking about everything and nothing, she'd done the same thing to the weathered planks, she suddenly remembered. “I missed you too, Swan.” Bella could hear shuffling from his end and wondered if he still paced while he talked. “But yeah, if I'm perfectly honest, I may have a secondary motive.” It was easy to turn her smile into a full grin. That sounded more like the boy she'd known. “And there it is. Name your price, Whitlock.” “No price, just an offer.” His voice sounded like he, too, was smiling. “I'll actually be in Seattle soon, so when Renee said -” He broke off, and Bella realized her surprised squeak must have been audible. “You're coming here?” “If 'here' is Seattle, then – yes. In two weeks actually.” There was a decidedly hopeful tone in his voice. “It's a bit of a long story, but I have to be there for two days and I'm at loose ends otherwise, and... yeah.” She could hear him clear his throat. “That's my offer.” Bella couldn't help the laughter bubbling up. This was insane – how often had she thought about calling up old contacts and trying to get back in touch? Even in her daydreams she had never gone as far as picturing Jasper – sunny, relaxed Jasper – in her dreary city. “I'm trying to wrap my head around this,” she admitted. “Seems too good to be true.” His chuckle reminded her of so many shared jokes over the years. “I never said I was good at haggling.” In the silence that followed, Bella's brain finally kicked into gear.	Life is what happens while we are busy making other plans „Yes,“ she cried happily, feeling tears steadily forming in the corners of her eyes. “Yes, I'll marry you!” He laughed loudly in relief. “You left me to wonder a bit,” he said softly afterwards, his hand reaching up slowly. Bella sighed and pushed her chair back, the wheels squeaking a little despite the carpet. Anything to put some distance between herself and that – that utter drivel that – “Bella? Everything alright?” She looked up to find a pair of kind brown eyes watching her. “Yeah, sorry, Ang.” She shook her head. “Need more coffee.” Her office neighbor chuckled at that. “Don't we all.” They shared another look, and Bella nodded in response to Angela's raised eyebrow. As they made their way towards the kitchenette, Bella was content to listen to Angela complain about the author whose book she was currently editing. “Literary vision my ass,” the usually composed woman muttered. “This morning he spent ten minutes telling me his spellings aren't wrong. They're unique.” Bella winced in sympathy, though not in surprise. Having the desk next to Angela meant she had witnessed that phone call, and her friend's facial expressions had said it all. “It's a paycheck,” she replied, a well-used mantra between the two. Angela nodded as she poured coffee into two mugs. Bella preferred not to think about how long it had been on the burner. “What about yourself?” Angela asked. “Still that historical romance?” Bella accepted her mug with a nod of her own and stared down into it. “Love in the Highlands,” she intoned, aiming for an ominous declaration. “A tale of loving mightily and lusting terribly.” Angela snickered. “You should talk to Marketing about that.” “And give them my best ideas? Hell no.” Bella exchanged a smile with her friend before they both returned to their respective problems. However, even after a sip of what turned out to be as bitter a brew as expected, Bella couldn't bring herself to take up reading again straight away. Just a little break from adverbs, please. She glared at her screen, then made sure their manager's door was closed and picked up her phone. Apparently she wasn't the only chatty person today. There were a number of messages from earlier in the morning in the group chat Alice had insisted on. [Edward]: Coffee shop guy still wants me! [Alice]: :D Got the extra cookie again for free? [Edward]: You know it [Edward]: I'll save it for you :) [Alice]: I love coffee shop guy <3 [Edward]: Excuse me? :( [Alice]: I love you almost as much? [Edward]: That's it [Edward]: I'm eating the cookie [Edward]: It's delicious [Alice]: YOU WOULDN'T :( [Edward]: I'll start a new life with Chase and his caffeine offerings [Alice]: You can't leave me [Alice]: Not for someone called Chase [Alice]: It's tacky! [Bella]: Guys? Could you not break up before lunch? She smiled even as she sent the message, feeling more like herself after reading her friends' antics. From the timestamps she could guess that the exchange had been after Alice's first class of the day and probably in between two of Edward's appointments. Bella herself typically didn't get around to joining in before lunch, which was – damn it – still a while away. Just as Bella gave herself a pep talk to carry on, her phone lit up with new notifications. [Edward]: What's this, Bella this early? [Edward]: Oh no, it's that book still, isn't it. [Edward]: Come over for dinner? I'll get you a new cookie if you finish a chapter today :) Bella couldn't help but giggle as she read. [Bella]: Bribe accepted! See you guys around 7? [Edward]: Yes'm :) Alright then, Swan, Bella told herself. Do it for the cookie. By the time lunch rolled around Bella felt she had at least made some progress. Getting away from the computer for a while seemed too tempting, though, especially since the weather was quite nice even for July. With a wave to Angela she headed out, feeling appropriately daring as she left her jacket behind. July or not – if living in Seattle had taught Bella anything, it was to not let style overrule comfort. Even walking around for ten minutes was enough to restore her. Not for the first time (and, she had to admit, probably not for the last time either) Bella reminded herself to get back into the habit. It didn't feel as necessary as it used to, back when getting through a full day was more of a chore than it was now... but without fail, the simple movement helped. As she made her way to the nearby park – small and entirely too tame to be anything but a placebo for someone seeking nature – she had no problem staying in the moment. The sun felt nice on her face, and that was a rare enough feeling that she intended to enjoy it no matter what, soon finding a bench nestled in between the hedges lining the path. The traffic noise became so diffuse here she could almost tell herself it was just the wind in the trees. She sat down and was about to unwrap her usual sandwich when her phone interrupted her with the generic ringtone she never bothered to change. She accepted the call with a grin without bothering to check who it was. Only one person called her on her lunch break. “No, Aly, I'm not sharing my cookie with you.” The startled laugh that answered her was decidedly not Alice. This voice was deeper and definitely male. “Um, I'm really sorry for Aly, then.” “Oh my god.” Bella held the phone away from her ear for a moment to check the caller ID, but the number was unknown. She closed her eyes in sheer mortification and returned to the call. “I'm... so sorry.” More laughter on the other end, but Bella found she couldn't mind it so much. Then: “Don't be. Sorry, this is – I didn't expect that. Is this Bella?” Oh god, was it an actual work call? Bella cleared her throat, not for the first time wishing she had the ability to turn back time just a few minutes. “Yes, this is she – I mean – I'm Bella.” Could it get any worse? The person on the other end went silent for long enough that she was about to speak again, but as he replied her mind went blank. “I'm glad. It's Jasper Whitlock. I'm sorry I'm calling without texting first, I just...” He trailed off. Jasper. Bella blinked. For a dizzy second she checked her surroundings for some sign she’d slipped into a hallucination, but the world remained stubbornly ordinary, which only made it feel more unreal. A little boy was throwing a ball for a dog, watched over by the likely mother. Two joggers swerved to avoid the dog crossing their path. Jasper was on the phone. Jasper was on the phone and was talking again because apparently she'd been silent for too long. “Okay, I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to just spring this on you – well, spring me on you, I guess. Is there a better time I could call?” He sounded so concerned by the end that Bella shook her head, trying to get her brain to work again. “No! Sorry, give me a moment. My god, Jasper! I'm happy. Just surprised.” A somewhat rueful laugh reached her ear. “Of course. At least now I know you haven't talked to your mother lately, huh? She said she'd tell you she gave your number out.” That was so typically Renee that Bella had to roll her eyes. At least he can't see me. “Busted,” she admitted. “I'm glad she did though. How are you? It must've been – I don't even know how many years.” Ten years in September, her brain supplied helpfully. She tried to ignore it. Tracking his absence had become a habit, but not one she wanted to share. “Almost ten years,” his warm voice answered. “Well, if you don't count the occasional card.” She ignored the way her heart sped up at his words as much as her inner commentary. “I'm not discounting them, but they weren't the same, were they?” There was a brief silence again. Bella wondered if she'd said the wrong thing – again – but before she could apologize, she could hear him clear his throat. “No. But appreciated.” She couldn't help but smile, even if it came out a bit wonky by the feel of it. “But I'm guessing you're not calling to talk about greeting cards from years ago.” When he laughed again she could finally hear the more familiar boy's delight in it. At least his cadence hadn't changed. “Can't I just call because I miss my oldest friend?” Bella discarded the first sarcastic comment that came to mind. “You can and I'm glad you did, if that's the case.” She forced herself to inhale slowly and deeply. “I missed you.” She ran her hand over the rough wood of the bench next to her leg. Often, when they'd sat on her mom's porch in the evening talking about everything and nothing, she'd done the same thing to the weathered planks, she suddenly remembered. “I missed you too, Swan.” Bella could hear shuffling from his end and wondered if he still paced while he talked. “But yeah, if I'm perfectly honest, I may have a secondary motive.” It was easy to turn her smile into a full grin. That sounded more like the boy she'd known. “And there it is. Name your price, Whitlock.” “No price, just an offer.” His voice sounded like he, too, was smiling. “I'll actually be in Seattle soon, so when Renee said -” He broke off, and Bella realized her surprised squeak must have been audible. “You're coming here?” “If 'here' is Seattle, then – yes. In two weeks actually.” There was a decidedly hopeful tone in his voice. “It's a bit of a long story, but I have to be there for two days and I'm at loose ends otherwise, and... yeah.” She could hear him clear his throat. “That's my offer.” Bella couldn't help the laughter bubbling up. This was insane – how often had she thought about calling up old contacts and trying to get back in touch? Even in her daydreams she had never gone as far as picturing Jasper – sunny, relaxed Jasper – in her dreary city. “I'm trying to wrap my head around this,” she admitted. “Seems too good to be true.” His chuckle reminded her of so many shared jokes over the years. “I never said I was good at haggling.” In the silence that followed, Bella's brain finally kicked into gear. She leaned back and stared at the green tree foliage above without actually taking in the details. “In two weeks,” she repeated. “Alright, I'll try and swing that. Do you have a place to stay? Please say no, I've got a spare bedroom.” And wasn't that timing a little too perfect? Bella ordered herself to abandon that train of thought. Sometimes good things happen, she reminded herself. She'd certainly argued about the topic long enough in therapy to admit defeat on that particular point. “I've been offered a hotel,” came Jasper's reply after a brief pause. Had she been too forward? “Staying with my best friend sounds like the better deal, though.” Not too forward, then. Bella smiled to herself. Then she glanced down at her wrist watch. “Crap! Sorry. Alright, Whitlock, as much as I love bartering with you – and this feels too surreal for words, I swear – but I have to get back to work.” “We could hash this out some other time?” No mistaking how happy and hopeful he sounded. Bella knew well what that felt like. “I've got your number now and I intend to use it,” she promised. “I insist,” he replied. “I'll let you go. Thanks for humoring me, Swan. It's – it's been too long.” “Don't I know it. Speak soon.” Even after she'd hung up the phone, Bella felt unable to get up from her bench. She had the admittedly irrational, but strong feeling that something had shifted. The world, maybe. If she got up straight away, surely she'd fall? Jasper. She got Jasper back. Each and every happy childhood memory had him in it, and how was a body supposed to get back to mundane work after a day like this? It was only the knowledge that rent didn't care about emotional upheaval that made Bella finally abandon the park and hurry back to the office, her uneaten sandwich a reminder of the strange turn her day had taken. By the time work was over and Bella arrived at Edward's and Alice's place, she was still replaying the unexpected phone call whenever her thoughts strayed. Still, after she had rung the doorbell and was buzzed in, she could feel some of the tension leave her with every step she took. She was greeted at the door by Alice's infectious smile and pleasant food smells coming from the kitchen, and all of a sudden it was all so familiar and comforting that she couldn't help but envelop her friend in a tight hug. Just like every other time she did this she was surprised that Alice's unruly hair only came as high as Bella's cheek. Her personality was easily big enough to fit a much taller person. Alice's delighted giggle sounded in her ear. “I'm happy to see you too,” she said, voice half muffled in Bella's shirt. “But why? I'm not even the one doing the cooking.” Bella chuckled herself and released Alice slowly, resolved to not feel embarrassed about showing affection. “It's that kind of day,” she said and stepped past Alice, inhaling deeply once she was inside. “You got your conscript trained well, though, this smells fantastic.” Alice smiled and gave a little bow with a dramatic flourish. “Trade secret,” she replied in a stage whisper and preceded Bella into the kitchen. By the time Bella had taken off her shoes and followed, Alice was already pouring red wine into three glasses lined up on the counter. Edward gave her his usual lopsided grin from his position by the stove. “Glad you're here, Swan, I need a witness.” She walked up to him and stepped into his inviting hug, reaching up and playfully tugging at a strand of his hair that refused to lay flat. It reminded her of when this was the only thing she knew about him, Alice doing a happy dance in their shared kitchen back then, singing the praises of the handsome boy with bronze hair who had swept her off her feet, literally, and bought her coffee as an apology. “What makes you think I'll speak up against Alice? I value my life, you know.” He raised his face to stare at the ceiling, his expression a picture of desperation. “Every day I ask myself what I've done to deserve this,” he said to no one in particular. Alice and Bella exchanged a fist bump – and just like that, life was all right again. Not merely alright, but fundamentally the way it was supposed to be. It never took her long in the presence of these two before any concern felt like a minor inconvenience instead of an insurmountable problem. The transition from the kitchen to the dining table after that was casual and gradual, with Alice and Bella setting the table while Edward finished up dinner preparations. Conversation flowed as it always did, easy and broken up by comfortable silences. It wasn't until Bella set down her fork on her empty plate with a happy sigh that she noticed Alice eyeing her curiously. “So, we wined and dined you, quite literally,” she said, gesturing at the glass in front of Bella with her own. “And I'm still waiting for you to spill.” Edward cleared his throat. “Not literally, though, as the case may be.” Bella huffed out a laugh. “I haven't spilled anything in at least three days, give me a break.” She raised her glass in a mock toast and took a sip. As she set it down, she realized they were now both watching her. She shook her head. “I don't know how you do it,” she complained. “I could have just had an odd day at work, you know.” Alice hummed in reply and extended a hand to Edward, who easily took it between both of his. Bella was momentarily distracted by the gesture. Alice wasn't even looking at her partner, but the ease with which they sought each other's touch so often made Bella's heart swell with the sweetness of it. She dropped her gaze to the table, trying not to let on she was observing them so closely. Another sip of wine could only buy her so much time. She took a deep breath. “I don't know if you guys remember me ever mentioning my friend Jasper – we haven't talked in ages. Anyway, he called today.” She kept her tone casual, trying to gauge their reactions. As she glanced up, she was met with Alice's raised brows. “Edward,” she said sweetly, “do you remember Bella here ever mentioning a Jasper?” He leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand with his elbow on the table. “Let me think, Ali,” he said. “I may remember a time or two.” Alice mirrored his pose, but her poker face wasn't quite as convincing. Her eyes sparkled with mirth. “You mean you remember the oldest friend our dear Bella ever had?” “The one she grew up with?” “The one she's got a picture of in her living room?” “The one who features in every story from Phoenix?” “The one who – hey!” Alice's hand shot up to ward off the napkin Bella had just thrown at her. Bella felt her cheeks heating up in what was probably a spectacular blush. Edward was obviously covering a grin with his hand, while Alice leaned back and affected nonchalance. “Quit it,” she mumbled, but didn't put any heat into the words. “Yes, that Jasper. Obviously.” They exchanged a glance, then Edward nodded. “Quitting it. Sorry, Bella.” He straightened a little and offered her his now free hand, which she took gratefully. “Tell us?” She had to pause for a breath, for a moment rendered speechless with gratitude. “Well,” she said at last, trying to gather her thoughts, “not much to it. He called. He's going to be in Seattle soon, apparently.” She knew her delivery was bland, but still, some reaction beyond silence would've been nice. She plowed ahead without looking at either of them. “It's kind of cool actually, I offered for him to stay at my place while he's here. It's still a bit up in the air, but... anyway. We'll meet up.” Her hand was squeezed gently, making her look up to meet Edward's eyes. His brows were furrowed as he studied her. “Why are you nervous?” Bella blinked. “Nervous? I'm excited to see him!” Aren't I? “But nervous about telling us?” Her eyes darted to Alice. Her friend's tone was casual, but her smile was kind. “Silly Bella. This is exciting for all of us!” “She's right.” Edward stroked her hand once more, then released it as he got up and began to gather dishes. “Story time, sweetheart.” He gave her a wink. “It's more exciting than my day's been, that's for sure.” Bella filled them in a little about the boy she had known when she was young while they all worked together to clean up, and continued as they moved from the dining table to the couch. Sleepovers in the summer at Renee's house and Jasper's grandmother's next door or Jasper's stubborn insistence on teaching her how to skateboard were safe enough, even if the skateboarding hadn't been, and Bella soaked up her friends' laughter at the sillier points. By the time they'd settled in their respective seats, though, she found myself in a more somber mood. “I guess we just drifted apart as teenagers,” she said at last. Alice had laid down sideways on the couch and now wriggled her feet in Edward's lap. However, instead of her usual routine of plying him with her best puppy eyes for a foot rub, she looked at Bella too attentively for it to be comfortable. “When you moved away?” When I ran. Bella didn't correct her. It was a moot point anyway, and if she was tired of arguing with therapists about it, starting again with Alice of all people wouldn't be her best idea. Belatedly she realized they were still waiting for an answer. “Kind of.” She shrugged with one shoulder. “We weren't really close for months before I actually left. He had stuff going on at home, and I was -” She swallowed. “I wasn't in a good place I guess. Then I moved to Forks in senior year.” “Did you ever reconnect?” She could've kissed Edward for the question, for not dwelling. Then again, these two had heard it all before, if maybe not in perfect chronological order. “We promised we'd stay in touch, but you know how it goes.” Bella tried to smile, but wasn't sure if her face cooperated. She had tried so often over the years to convince herself of just that – that every relationship had its season, and theirs had simply been over, through no fault of anyone. Thinking it didn't hurt as much as it used to. And it might not be true. Bella realized her friends hadn't spoken again, and as she looked over she found Edward more focused on his girlfriend than on the conversation. Rolling her eyes, she got to her feet. “That's my cue,” she said. “I take it you guys are back together then after Cookiegate?” She reveled in their shared laughter, then Alice extracted herself from her partner to escort Bella to the door. “Don't mind us,” she said, probably knowing full well that Bella didn't. “Let's have lunch this week so we can dissect this,” she suggested instead. “And to plan. You realize we have to meet him when he's here?” Bella couldn't help but laugh. “It'd feel a bit like introducing him to the parents, but – yes. Of course. I want your guys' take on things.” Edward's raised voice from the living room made both women grin. “If he's good enough for you he's got nothing to worry about, now has he?” “Don't worry, love,” Alice said, loud enough for her partner to hear, “I'll talk dad around.” Bella shuddered, only somewhat exaggerated, and grabbed her bag. “I do not need to hear what you guys call each other behind closed doors.” “Open door policy,” came Edward's gleeful input. Bella took it as her final sign to beat a hasty retreat, but made a mental note to do something nice for her friends sometime soon. She knew she was lucky beyond belief to have those two around to ground her when needed.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75717961/chapters/198038306	{"authors": ["MrsMurphy"], "language": "English", "title": "Life is what happens while we are busy making other plans"}
I must be getting sick Mike Wheeler felt… weird. He didn’t know why. He didn’t have a stomach ache and his head didn’t hurt. Yet he laid in his bed feeling… odd. He turned over to look at his best friend sleeping next to him on an air mattress. The feeling got worse. The byers were staying at their house and his off feeling had gotten worse ever since. Maybe he was getting sick. Yes that was definitely it. Mike was getting sick. Maybe it was all the upside down dust getting to him. He sat up from his bed and rubbed his eyes. He needed vitamin C. At least that’s what his mom gave him whenever he was sick. He headed downstairs and poured himself some orange juice and sat down to begin drinking it. As soon as he started drinking his OJ however, he heard a voice coming from his room. “Mike?” Mike choked on his juice and started to cough. “Holy shit are you okay?” It was Will. “Uh- yeah I’m fine” he said in between coughs. He looked up to see a sleepy bed head Will staring at him. He needed more orange juice NOW. Somehow looking at Will made his illness get worse. He stood up to get some more juice when Will sat down. “Are you doing anything today?” Will asked as Mike poured into his cup. “Uh.. no uh not really… uh why?” “Oh you’re just up early I just thought..” Mike looked back to see Will staring at him. Had Will gotten a haircut? His hair looked really good. Not like it looked bad before he had always looked good it just seems different. “Mike what are you doing” “What do you mean-“ Mike looked back at his cup and it was overflowing. “Oh- oh shit-“ Mike hurriedly went to clean up the mess he had made. Will chuckled and made his way over to help. Mike frantically tried to wipe up the juice before Will could make fun of him when Will put his hands on Mike’s. “You are terrible at this you know.” He knew he was sick now because for some reason when their hands met Mike felt nauseous. His illness was worse than he thought. He pulled his hand away and tried to get out a hearty laugh but ended up sounding like a crazed lunatic. “Murray’s visiting today.” Will said putting the cup in the sink. “Oh. Oh great cool great that’s great.” Mike stuttered. Last time Murray was over his and El’s relationship went all haywire. Ever since they got back from California things haven’t been great between them. El told Mike she wanted to be friends and that she needed to focus on defeating Vecna before she could get into a relationship again. Soon after that is when Mike started feeling weird. Mike headed back to his room to try and waste away the day and avoid getting more sick with Will in his vicinity before Murray showed up. —————————————————————————— Murray arrived late into the afternoon and started making dinner. When Mike headed down to eat he saw everyone had taken a place at the dinner table and the only spot open was between Will and Nancy. This was not going to help how awful he had been feeling. “Well look it’s little Wheeler!” Murray greeted with a fake looking smile. “What’s for dinner.” Mike sighed. “Why don’t you come and sit down and find out.” Mike marched his way and reluctantly sat down next to Will. He looked up to see Murray staring at him with a stupid smirk on his face. “Sooo.. little wheeler! How long have you been ‘friends’ with little byers?” Mike didn’t like the emphasis he put on ‘friends’. “We met in kindergarten. Why?” “Just wondering. You’re even harder to read than your sister.” What did he even mean by that? Whatever, Murray was always a weirdo. They continued to eat and once they were done Will asked Mike if he wanted to play Nintendo downstairs. The weird feeling came back along with a flutter in his heart. He said yes, of course. As they played, there was a knock at the door. It opened and Murray slyly crept into the room. “You guys mind if I peak in?”. Mike rolled his eyes but Will invited him in. “You guys drink?” Murray raised a cup full of unknown liquid in it. “We’re kids Murray.” Mike scoffed. “Right. Right. Just thought some juice would cut the thick tension in here.” “What do you mean?” Mike said now more confused than ever at Murray’s antics. “How would you describe your guys’ relationship?” “We’re… friends” Mikes heart started beating a little faster. “Friendship isn’t a word I’d use for your guys’ situation but okay.” He sat down in the chair next to the couch. Will stopped playing and Mike frowned. First this weirdo is interrupting his time with Will? Now what! “It’s okay you can’t see it. You guys are young and naive. Your brains haven’t fully formed yet how are you supposed to see the clear tension in this room choking me to death?” Mike looked at Murray with a loss for words. What is he trying to tell him? “Murray what are you saying?” Will chimed in. “Want me to spell it out for you Byers? L-O-V-E.” Whatever sickness Mike had peaked at that very moment. His face flushed red and his heart was beating at a million miles per hour. “God you are just as blind as your siblings and they got together in the end. Just saying anything’s possible!” And with that Murray got up and left the basement. Silence crept in as they both processed what they had been told. Did he… I mean was he… right? Could the sickness brought on by the thought of his best friend be… no. No way! He was just… insanely sick… Whenever he looked at Will… and only Will. “I’m… im gonna.. I’m gonna get a breath of fresh air.” Mike squeaked as he swiftly walked up the stairs before Will could say anything. He rushed for the outside door and swung it open as fast as he could. He stood there contemplating the last weeks, months, and years. Whatever feelings Murray implied he had, they were all flooding into his brain causing all his other senses to short circuit. All of a sudden he couldn’t breathe and his vision went blurry from tears welling up in his eyes. God he was so stupid. This entire time he thought he was sick but it was actually just… his feelings for his best friend?… oh god. He likes his best friend. And no matter what Murray said he was sure he didn’t even have a chance with him. Maybe Murray realized it about Mike but Will definitely did not like him back. Tears poured down his face and his ears began to ring. Oh god. What can he do? What should he do? Oh god oh god. Mike felt a hand on his shoulder. He quickly turned around to see his best friend, Will. He could barely make out what he was saying over the ringing in his ears. “Mike? Mike are you okay?” Mike wiped his eyes trying to conceal his breakdown. “Oh- yeah uh yeah I’m fine Will go back inside.” “… is this.. about what Murray said?” Mikes heart dropped. How could he avoid it now. “…Mike.. it’s okay-“ “NO it’s not okay… because… because he was right. He was right about me… I don’t know what stupid match making scheme he was trying to pull but it was useless because you won’t ever feel the same-“ “Mike-“ “No! And it’s so stupid and I’m so stupid for just realizing and now I have to live without you and-“ “MIKE.” Will had grabbed Mikes face with both of his hands and firmly stared at him. “What if… he was right about both of us…” “W-…What?” Mike sniffed, tears still sliding down his face. But before he could further his questioning Will pulled Mike into a kiss. His heart stopped for what felt like a full minute. And yet he wrapped his arms around Will and embraced his warmth. He had never felt like this before. Not with El, not with any other “crush”. And it was amazing. They pulled away and caught their breath. They stared into each others eyes before bursting out laughing. “So… I guess Murray also did this with Jonathan and Nancy..” Will said looking back at the door to the house Mike had just previously escaped from. “I guess… Wheelers and Byers are a good combination…” Mike said pulling Will in closer and cupping his face in his hands. “Your hands are FREEZING Mike!!” Will exclaimed. Mike had forgotten he was out there crying in the middle of the cold nighttime. “We gotta get you in before you catch a cold.” Will giggled. “But… but you’re sure?” Mike stopped. “Sure if what?” “That… that you feel the same?” Will tucked a piece of hair behind Mikes ear and stared at him lovingly. “You’re Mike Wheeler. How could I not be sure?” He smiled and grabbed Mikes hand and dragged him to the door. But before they could renter the house, Mike pulled him in for another kiss. He would gladly catch another sickness for Will Byers any day.	I must be getting sick Mike Wheeler felt… weird. He didn’t know why. He didn’t have a stomach ache and his head didn’t hurt. Yet he laid in his bed feeling… odd. He turned over to look at his best friend sleeping next to him on an air mattress. The feeling got worse. The byers were staying at their house and his off feeling had gotten worse ever since. Maybe he was getting sick. Yes that was definitely it. Mike was getting sick. Maybe it was all the upside down dust getting to him. He sat up from his bed and rubbed his eyes. He needed vitamin C. At least that’s what his mom gave him whenever he was sick. He headed downstairs and poured himself some orange juice and sat down to begin drinking it. As soon as he started drinking his OJ however, he heard a voice coming from his room. “Mike?” Mike choked on his juice and started to cough. “Holy shit are you okay?” It was Will. “Uh- yeah I’m fine” he said in between coughs. He looked up to see a sleepy bed head Will staring at him. He needed more orange juice NOW. Somehow looking at Will made his illness get worse. He stood up to get some more juice when Will sat down. “Are you doing anything today?” Will asked as Mike poured into his cup. “Uh.. no uh not really… uh why?” “Oh you’re just up early I just thought..” Mike looked back to see Will staring at him. Had Will gotten a haircut? His hair looked really good. Not like it looked bad before he had always looked good it just seems different. “Mike what are you doing” “What do you mean-“ Mike looked back at his cup and it was overflowing. “Oh- oh shit-“ Mike hurriedly went to clean up the mess he had made. Will chuckled and made his way over to help. Mike frantically tried to wipe up the juice before Will could make fun of him when Will put his hands on Mike’s. “You are terrible at this you know.” He knew he was sick now because for some reason when their hands met Mike felt nauseous. His illness was worse than he thought. He pulled his hand away and tried to get out a hearty laugh but ended up sounding like a crazed lunatic. “Murray’s visiting today.” Will said putting the cup in the sink. “Oh. Oh great cool great that’s great.” Mike stuttered. Last time Murray was over his and El’s relationship went all haywire. Ever since they got back from California things haven’t been great between them. El told Mike she wanted to be friends and that she needed to focus on defeating Vecna before she could get into a relationship again. Soon after that is when Mike started feeling weird. Mike headed back to his room to try and waste away the day and avoid getting more sick with Will in his vicinity before Murray showed up. —————————————————————————— Murray arrived late into the afternoon and started making dinner. When Mike headed down to eat he saw everyone had taken a place at the dinner table and the only spot open was between Will and Nancy. This was not going to help how awful he had been feeling. “Well look it’s little Wheeler!” Murray greeted with a fake looking smile. “What’s for dinner.” Mike sighed. “Why don’t you come and sit down and find out.” Mike marched his way and reluctantly sat down next to Will. He looked up to see Murray staring at him with a stupid smirk on his face. “Sooo.. little wheeler! How long have you been ‘friends’ with little byers?” Mike didn’t like the emphasis he put on ‘friends’. “We met in kindergarten. Why?” “Just wondering. You’re even harder to read than your sister.” What did he even mean by that? Whatever, Murray was always a weirdo. They continued to eat and once they were done Will asked Mike if he wanted to play Nintendo downstairs. The weird feeling came back along with a flutter in his heart. He said yes, of course. As they played, there was a knock at the door. It opened and Murray slyly crept into the room. “You guys mind if I peak in?”. Mike rolled his eyes but Will invited him in. “You guys drink?” Murray raised a cup full of unknown liquid in it. “We’re kids Murray.” Mike scoffed. “Right. Right. Just thought some juice would cut the thick tension in here.” “What do you mean?” Mike said now more confused than ever at Murray’s antics. “How would you describe your guys’ relationship?” “We’re… friends” Mikes heart started beating a little faster. “Friendship isn’t a word I’d use for your guys’ situation but okay.” He sat down in the chair next to the couch. Will stopped playing and Mike frowned. First this weirdo is interrupting his time with Will? Now what! “It’s okay you can’t see it. You guys are young and naive. Your brains haven’t fully formed yet how are you supposed to see the clear tension in this room choking me to death?” Mike looked at Murray with a loss for words. What is he trying to tell him? “Murray what are you saying?” Will chimed in. “Want me to spell it out for you Byers? L-O-V-E.” Whatever sickness Mike had peaked at that very moment. His face flushed red and his heart was beating at a million miles per hour. “God you are just as blind as your siblings and they got together in the end. Just saying anything’s possible!” And with that Murray got up and left the basement. Silence crept in as they both processed what they had been told. Did he… I mean was he… right? Could the sickness brought on by the thought of his best friend be… no. No way! He was just… insanely sick… Whenever he looked at Will… and only Will. “I’m… im gonna.. I’m gonna get a breath of fresh air.” Mike squeaked as he swiftly walked up the stairs before Will could say anything. He rushed for the outside door and swung it open as fast as he could. He stood there contemplating the last weeks, months, and years. Whatever feelings Murray implied he had, they were all flooding into his brain causing all his other senses to short circuit. All of a sudden he couldn’t breathe and his vision went blurry from tears welling up in his eyes. God he was so stupid. This entire time he thought he was sick but it was actually just… his feelings for his best friend?… oh god. He likes his best friend. And no matter what Murray said he was sure he didn’t even have a chance with him. Maybe Murray realized it about Mike but Will definitely did not like him back. Tears poured down his face and his ears began to ring. Oh god. What can he do? What should he do? Oh god oh god. Mike felt a hand on his shoulder. He quickly turned around to see his best friend, Will. He could barely make out what he was saying over the ringing in his ears. “Mike? Mike are you okay?” Mike wiped his eyes trying to conceal his breakdown. “Oh- yeah uh yeah I’m fine Will go back inside.” “… is this.. about what Murray said?” Mikes heart dropped. How could he avoid it now. “…Mike.. it’s okay-“ “NO it’s not okay… because… because he was right. He was right about me… I don’t know what stupid match making scheme he was trying to pull but it was useless because you won’t ever feel the same-“ “Mike-“ “No! And it’s so stupid and I’m so stupid for just realizing and now I have to live without you and-“ “MIKE.” Will had grabbed Mikes face with both of his hands and firmly stared at him. “What if… he was right about both of us…” “W-…What?” Mike sniffed, tears still sliding down his face. But before he could further his questioning Will pulled Mike into a kiss. His heart stopped for what felt like a full minute. And yet he wrapped his arms around Will and embraced his warmth. He had never felt like this before. Not with El, not with any other “crush”. And it was amazing. They pulled away and caught their breath. They stared into each others eyes before bursting out laughing. “So… I guess Murray also did this with Jonathan and Nancy..” Will said looking back at the door to the house Mike had just previously escaped from. “I guess… Wheelers and Byers are a good combination…” Mike said pulling Will in closer and cupping his face in his hands. “Your hands are FREEZING Mike!!” Will exclaimed. Mike had forgotten he was out there crying in the middle of the cold nighttime. “We gotta get you in before you catch a cold.” Will giggled. “But… but you’re sure?” Mike stopped. “Sure if what?” “That… that you feel the same?” Will tucked a piece of hair behind Mikes ear and stared at him lovingly. “You’re Mike Wheeler. How could I not be sure?” He smiled and grabbed Mikes hand and dragged him to the door. But before they could renter the house, Mike pulled him in for another kiss. He would gladly catch another sickness for Will Byers any day.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75715496	{"authors": ["thegooseyisloosey"], "language": "English", "title": "I must be getting sick"}
All Consuming In that moment, every aspect of Draco's world consisted of her. All he could do was taste her, see her, hear her, breathe her, feel her. His face was buried deep in her soft, voluptuous breasts that spilled across his cheeks. A fantastic opportunity to envelop her dark nipple in his mouth was presented to him, so he took it. He sucked it firmly while swirling his tongue. He was rewarded with her nails raking down his scalp. An intoxicating perfume of vanilla, jasmine and sweat flooded his nostrils with every labored inhale. The supple flesh of her thighs molded to his large palms as he dug in his fingers for dear life. Her untamed hair cocooned around his head, keeping anything that wasn't Hermione Granger far, far away. His cock buzzed as her walls gripped him with relentless demand. His hips snapped rhythmically upwards, a resounding slap sounding each time he drove up as far as he could into her smoldering heat. He thought it paired beautifully with the breathy whines and wanton moans that cascaded out of her pretty mouth. Their bodies rocked together in tandem. Their limbs were tangled and their skin hot to the touch. Although they were flush against each other, it felt as if no distance between them was still too far apart. Surely he would be leaving bruises with how hard he was gripping her. Draco could not help but let out a deep, throaty groan. She suddenly jerked. "Ah! Ah! Yes! Th-There! Right there!" Hermione keened, knotting her hands into his tousled hair. He tried to respond, but was thoroughly muffled. Instead, he continued his pace, driving deep, hard strokes into her sopping cunt. A loud cry ricocheted through the room as Hermione threw her head back. Her walls fluttered and rippled around his cock, suffocating it in a delicious grip. In all honesty, he'd lost count of which one this was for her—Third? Fourth?—being far too preoccupied with prolonging her bliss. Her melodic voice carried on as she squirmed against him, clutching him as she met him thrust for thrust. "Oh gods! Yes! Yes! Yes!" Each tug on him drew him closer and closer to the edge. He squeezed his eyes shut as he crested the horizon. Only a few erratic thrusts more had him spilling inside of her. His balls tightened as stars exploded behind his eyelids. His body trembled as he pushed himself deep inside, fucking his come into her depth. "Mmf-! Fuckfuckfuck!" he rasped. He slowed, shuttering as his movements became shaky and lethargic. He held her still, allowing her presence and body to consume him entirely. Their heavy breaths tickled each other's gooseflesh-covered skin. Their heads flopped back onto the bed, Draco's face nestling comfortably in the crook of her neck. Hermione let out a soft, satisfied hum as stillness finally found them. She carded her fingers gently through his now dampened hair, and if his eyes were open they'd be rolling back into his skull. Draco's body still felt electric as Hermione cradled him. She tried to shift them somewhat, but he refused, not quite ready to let go.	All Consuming In that moment, every aspect of Draco's world consisted of her. All he could do was taste her, see her, hear her, breathe her, feel her. His face was buried deep in her soft, voluptuous breasts that spilled across his cheeks. A fantastic opportunity to envelop her dark nipple in his mouth was presented to him, so he took it. He sucked it firmly while swirling his tongue. He was rewarded with her nails raking down his scalp. An intoxicating perfume of vanilla, jasmine and sweat flooded his nostrils with every labored inhale. The supple flesh of her thighs molded to his large palms as he dug in his fingers for dear life. Her untamed hair cocooned around his head, keeping anything that wasn't Hermione Granger far, far away. His cock buzzed as her walls gripped him with relentless demand. His hips snapped rhythmically upwards, a resounding slap sounding each time he drove up as far as he could into her smoldering heat. He thought it paired beautifully with the breathy whines and wanton moans that cascaded out of her pretty mouth. Their bodies rocked together in tandem. Their limbs were tangled and their skin hot to the touch. Although they were flush against each other, it felt as if no distance between them was still too far apart. Surely he would be leaving bruises with how hard he was gripping her. Draco could not help but let out a deep, throaty groan. She suddenly jerked. "Ah! Ah! Yes! Th-There! Right there!" Hermione keened, knotting her hands into his tousled hair. He tried to respond, but was thoroughly muffled. Instead, he continued his pace, driving deep, hard strokes into her sopping cunt. A loud cry ricocheted through the room as Hermione threw her head back. Her walls fluttered and rippled around his cock, suffocating it in a delicious grip. In all honesty, he'd lost count of which one this was for her—Third? Fourth?—being far too preoccupied with prolonging her bliss. Her melodic voice carried on as she squirmed against him, clutching him as she met him thrust for thrust. "Oh gods! Yes! Yes! Yes!" Each tug on him drew him closer and closer to the edge. He squeezed his eyes shut as he crested the horizon. Only a few erratic thrusts more had him spilling inside of her. His balls tightened as stars exploded behind his eyelids. His body trembled as he pushed himself deep inside, fucking his come into her depth. "Mmf-! Fuckfuckfuck!" he rasped. He slowed, shuttering as his movements became shaky and lethargic. He held her still, allowing her presence and body to consume him entirely. Their heavy breaths tickled each other's gooseflesh-covered skin. Their heads flopped back onto the bed, Draco's face nestling comfortably in the crook of her neck. Hermione let out a soft, satisfied hum as stillness finally found them. She carded her fingers gently through his now dampened hair, and if his eyes were open they'd be rolling back into his skull. Draco's body still felt electric as Hermione cradled him. She tried to shift them somewhat, but he refused, not quite ready to let go.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75715546	{"authors": ["andsoforth"], "language": "English", "title": "All Consuming"}
Grow Wings Megumi sits on the small balcony outside his dorm, back pressed to the cool wall, legs drawn up loosely. The night air is cool, heavy with rain that spills down from the sky above. The city lights blink far below, distant and blurry. He lifts his phone, thumb hovering over the screen for a long moment before he presses the call button. It rings once. Twice. Then a familiar voice message kicks in. “Yo, it’s Gojo. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you sometime. Or not. Depends. I’m busy being gorgeous. The stupid little chuckle at the end—the one Satoru always gave when he was happy with himself, soft and bright and lazy and it fills the empty balcony. Megumi’s throat tightens. He exhales through his nose, a soft scoff that comes out too raw. “Don’t even know why I keep doing this,” he mutters into the phone, leaning his head back against the wall. His bangs fall over his eyes, shadowing them. “It won’t do anything. Won’t bring you back.” The dial tone waits patiently, like the phone itself is listening. Megumi rubs the heel of his palm against his eye, swallowing the burn in his throat. “Shoko-san says it’s normal to still miss you,” he mutters. His breath hitches as he remembers the way she’d looked at him earlier that week—tired, knowing, something too close to shared grief in her eyes. She was the only other person, he thinks, who understood even a fraction of the hole Satoru’s death left behind. The silent mornings. The empty notifications. The absence that made the whole world feel off-kilter. He wakes now to a blank phone screen—weather alerts, the noise of group chats he never answers, Yuji’s newest chaotic social post that doesn’t quite have a joke to hide the gloom in his eyes anymore. Megumi scrolls through them each morning pretending he’s not searching for a stupid message that will never come: Up yet? I’m buying breakfast, get ready before I break into your dorm again!!! Coming in 10 minutes with pancakes. Open the door for me ><. He pretends he isn’t waiting for a name he knows will never light up his screen again. “It’ll take time, but it’ll get better, Megumi,” Shoko had said quietly. A lie spoken gently. She’d found him at Satoru’s grave after the funeral, sat in the grass with rain running down his hair, his clothes soaked through like the sky itself was mourning, grieving, cracked open with greys like even the sky felt the absence of Satoru Gojo. She’d held the umbrella over him while he stared blankly at the carved letters on the stone. Gojo Satoru. December 7th, 1980 – December 24th, 2018. Teacher. Friend. Son. The Gojo clan had chosen the words. Too formal. Too clipped. Too insufficient for the man who had been so much more than the titles stamped beneath his name. Megumi had wanted to argue, to fight, to tell them they didn’t deserve to define him after treating him like a weapon for most of his life. He wished he’d told Satoru that too—that he should have had a say in how he was remembered. He wishes he’d called him dad at least once. Wishes it was carved into the stone. Wishes Satoru knew. Now, sitting alone on the balcony, he curls his free hand into his shirt, fingers trembling. “I don’t think it will pass,” Megumi mutters to the phone. Rain falls, soft and thin, tapping against the railings. “I don’t think I want it to.” The next words scrape out of him like they’re coated in glass, like it hurts to say them. “Because I’m—” he swallows. The tightness in his throat makes it hard to speak. The pressure in his chest unbearable, like a stone he can’t lift, like he’s spending every waking moment being crushed by a boulder of absence, of grief that never lifts, that wraps his hand around his throat and forces him to remember, to feel. And some nights he wishes it would take him too, to pull him from this cruel, unforgiving world and give him the mercy of seeing Satoru’s soft blue eyes and have those arms wrap around him as he sobs into his throat and chokes out apologies and everything he wishes he had said sooner. “I’m scared. That if it stops hurting… I’ll start to forget.” His eyes flutter shut, lashes wet. He rests his forehead against his knees. “And I don’t want to forget you.” He can’t. It feels like a betrayal—when so few people ever truly knew the real Satoru. The sleepy smiles in the morning when he made lunch for them before school. The soft look in his eyes when Tsumiki laughed at his dumb jokes. The way Satoru kept every damn light on for a month after taking them in because Tsumiki was scared of the dark. The warm, gentle hand on Megumi’s head during thunderstorms when Megumi used to crawl silently into his room at night and he always let him, stroked his hair until he was sleeping soft and quiet. But Megumi saw him. He always did. Even when Satoru tried to hide behind masks and make everybody hate him like he was more comfortable with their distaste than their love, like he was afraid of it, of being loved again. But Megumi saw past that. Loved him. Even if he never did manage to tell him. His gaze slides to the glowing contact photo on the screen—Satoru with ice cream, doing bunny ears behind eight year old Megumi’s scowling head, but the edges of him were soft, relaxed. Tsumiki had snapped that picture on Satoru’s “I finally survived another mission, come on kids, we’re getting ice cream” day. Megumi remembers tugging on Satoru’s sleeve that day, blunt as always. “You need sleep,” he’d muttered, small, stubborn, frowning while Tsumiki spent ten minutes choosing a flavor. Satoru, dramatic as ever, had rolled his eyes. “What’re you? The adult between us now?” Megumi had shrugged, stubborn. “I might as well be. I had to wake Tsumiki up for school every day the past two weeks.” The girl had a chronic habit of oversleeping, it took pots and pans to wake her and even then they just barely managed it. “Cause you weren’t here.” He didn’t mean to add it, but regretted it when he saw the little grimace pulling at the other’s lips, the way the guilt flashes over his face. And Megumi knew he was trying his best to balance being the strongest and him and Tsumiki but two weeks was a long time. “I left you guys with Shoko, you usually love staying with her,” Satoru said softly. Megumi had frowned at his feet. He did like shoko. She let him stay up late past his bedtime and watch cartoons with cuss words and always gave him and Tsumiki lollipops. “But she’s not you,” Megumi muttered under his breath, hated how honest it was, usually he was so careful with his feelings, kept them locked up tight, knew it was safer that way, less hurt to be had. But somehow, Satoru had gently pried him open, like a flower blooming, and in his hands, the feelings felt less scary. Like he could trust him not to drop them. Like he knew the other would just cradle them safe. Satoru pauses, a painful yet soft look passed over his face and he crouched low, eye to eye with him. “I’m sorry Megumi,” he muttered softly, genuinely, honestly in ways that Megumi had learnt he meant. Adults liked to lie but not Satoru. He pulls off his sunglasses that he always loses. “I’ll try come back soonmegumer next time okay?” And Megumi, all eight year old stubbornness and softness he hadn’t yet outgrown, mumbled, “Promise?” Satoru smiled, soft, fond. “Yeah, I promise. I’ll come back sooner.” He had let his long pinkie intertwine with Megumi’s and when he straightened back up when Tsumiki had finally made her choice, his fingers slipped into Megumi’s unruly dark hair and the eight year old just leaned into his leg. Satoru glanced down, surprised, and then he softened and smiled to himself as he stroked his hair. On the balcony now, Megumi’s grip tightens around the phone until his knuckles ache. He feels like an open wound, like a bruise taking the shape of a person, like he’s more grief than he is human. “You said you’d come back soon,” he whispers shakily. A tear splashes onto the screen, sliding over the tiny image of Satoru’s grin. The moonlight glows pale across his hands, cold and soft like a ghost passing over him. His voice breaks. “So why the hell aren’t you here?” The hurt punches through his chest with suffocating clarity. It doesn’t fade. He knows it never truly will. He’ll grow, but he’ll grow around this hurt—around the shape Satoru left behind when he walked into their lives all light and warmth and laughter, and then vanished in the next breath. Megumi bows his head, shoulders trembling, arms curling in tight as if trying to hold himself together but he can’t. He’s tried but he can’t. He fractures, ugly and broken. Every shard digs into him, every ache feels agonising. He bleeds out, silently, painfully from grief that carves into him like bone. His fingers slide into his hair and, for a second, he pretends they’re longer. Gentler. Threading through with a soft laugh and a teasing, “Alright there, kid?” His mind flickers like a film reel. Satoru’s laughter is bright, a splash of colour in every memory he finds himself running to, clinging to like it’s his mothers skirt, vibrant, warm, like a supernova contained in a man who was too bright for the world. “How do I look Megumi?” Satoru asked with a goofy grin as he turned to the eleven year old, Tsumiki looking proud of the makeup she’s slapped onto his face. “Gross,” Megujmi had deadpanned and Satoru’s face fell. “Megumiiii you’re so mean to me–” he whined and Tsumiki laughed and told him to stop ruining her precious work and Megumi had turned away from them, a small smile at his “Kiddos I’m home!” Satoru called out to the apartment and before he can blink there are two little bundles running at him and he steps back from the force. “You’re back!” Tsumiki said, already teary eyed and he blinked, softened, scooped her up in one arm as she clung to him. “It was only a couple days,” he says, looking over at Shoko who’d been keeping an eye on them who gave a dry smile. “They missed you,” she’d muttered with a shrug and his eyes dragged down to where	Grow Wings Megumi sits on the small balcony outside his dorm, back pressed to the cool wall, legs drawn up loosely. The night air is cool, heavy with rain that spills down from the sky above. The city lights blink far below, distant and blurry. He lifts his phone, thumb hovering over the screen for a long moment before he presses the call button. It rings once. Twice. Then a familiar voice message kicks in. “Yo, it’s Gojo. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you sometime. Or not. Depends. I’m busy being gorgeous. The stupid little chuckle at the end—the one Satoru always gave when he was happy with himself, soft and bright and lazy and it fills the empty balcony. Megumi’s throat tightens. He exhales through his nose, a soft scoff that comes out too raw. “Don’t even know why I keep doing this,” he mutters into the phone, leaning his head back against the wall. His bangs fall over his eyes, shadowing them. “It won’t do anything. Won’t bring you back.” The dial tone waits patiently, like the phone itself is listening. Megumi rubs the heel of his palm against his eye, swallowing the burn in his throat. “Shoko-san says it’s normal to still miss you,” he mutters. His breath hitches as he remembers the way she’d looked at him earlier that week—tired, knowing, something too close to shared grief in her eyes. She was the only other person, he thinks, who understood even a fraction of the hole Satoru’s death left behind. The silent mornings. The empty notifications. The absence that made the whole world feel off-kilter. He wakes now to a blank phone screen—weather alerts, the noise of group chats he never answers, Yuji’s newest chaotic social post that doesn’t quite have a joke to hide the gloom in his eyes anymore. Megumi scrolls through them each morning pretending he’s not searching for a stupid message that will never come: Up yet? I’m buying breakfast, get ready before I break into your dorm again!!! Coming in 10 minutes with pancakes. Open the door for me ><. He pretends he isn’t waiting for a name he knows will never light up his screen again. “It’ll take time, but it’ll get better, Megumi,” Shoko had said quietly. A lie spoken gently. She’d found him at Satoru’s grave after the funeral, sat in the grass with rain running down his hair, his clothes soaked through like the sky itself was mourning, grieving, cracked open with greys like even the sky felt the absence of Satoru Gojo. She’d held the umbrella over him while he stared blankly at the carved letters on the stone. Gojo Satoru. December 7th, 1980 – December 24th, 2018. Teacher. Friend. Son. The Gojo clan had chosen the words. Too formal. Too clipped. Too insufficient for the man who had been so much more than the titles stamped beneath his name. Megumi had wanted to argue, to fight, to tell them they didn’t deserve to define him after treating him like a weapon for most of his life. He wished he’d told Satoru that too—that he should have had a say in how he was remembered. He wishes he’d called him dad at least once. Wishes it was carved into the stone. Wishes Satoru knew. Now, sitting alone on the balcony, he curls his free hand into his shirt, fingers trembling. “I don’t think it will pass,” Megumi mutters to the phone. Rain falls, soft and thin, tapping against the railings. “I don’t think I want it to.” The next words scrape out of him like they’re coated in glass, like it hurts to say them. “Because I’m—” he swallows. The tightness in his throat makes it hard to speak. The pressure in his chest unbearable, like a stone he can’t lift, like he’s spending every waking moment being crushed by a boulder of absence, of grief that never lifts, that wraps his hand around his throat and forces him to remember, to feel. And some nights he wishes it would take him too, to pull him from this cruel, unforgiving world and give him the mercy of seeing Satoru’s soft blue eyes and have those arms wrap around him as he sobs into his throat and chokes out apologies and everything he wishes he had said sooner. “I’m scared. That if it stops hurting… I’ll start to forget.” His eyes flutter shut, lashes wet. He rests his forehead against his knees. “And I don’t want to forget you.” He can’t. It feels like a betrayal—when so few people ever truly knew the real Satoru. The sleepy smiles in the morning when he made lunch for them before school. The soft look in his eyes when Tsumiki laughed at his dumb jokes. The way Satoru kept every damn light on for a month after taking them in because Tsumiki was scared of the dark. The warm, gentle hand on Megumi’s head during thunderstorms when Megumi used to crawl silently into his room at night and he always let him, stroked his hair until he was sleeping soft and quiet. But Megumi saw him. He always did. Even when Satoru tried to hide behind masks and make everybody hate him like he was more comfortable with their distaste than their love, like he was afraid of it, of being loved again. But Megumi saw past that. Loved him. Even if he never did manage to tell him. His gaze slides to the glowing contact photo on the screen—Satoru with ice cream, doing bunny ears behind eight year old Megumi’s scowling head, but the edges of him were soft, relaxed. Tsumiki had snapped that picture on Satoru’s “I finally survived another mission, come on kids, we’re getting ice cream” day. Megumi remembers tugging on Satoru’s sleeve that day, blunt as always. “You need sleep,” he’d muttered, small, stubborn, frowning while Tsumiki spent ten minutes choosing a flavor. Satoru, dramatic as ever, had rolled his eyes. “What’re you? The adult between us now?” Megumi had shrugged, stubborn. “I might as well be. I had to wake Tsumiki up for school every day the past two weeks.” The girl had a chronic habit of oversleeping, it took pots and pans to wake her and even then they just barely managed it. “Cause you weren’t here.” He didn’t mean to add it, but regretted it when he saw the little grimace pulling at the other’s lips, the way the guilt flashes over his face. And Megumi knew he was trying his best to balance being the strongest and him and Tsumiki but two weeks was a long time. “I left you guys with Shoko, you usually love staying with her,” Satoru said softly. Megumi had frowned at his feet. He did like shoko. She let him stay up late past his bedtime and watch cartoons with cuss words and always gave him and Tsumiki lollipops. “But she’s not you,” Megumi muttered under his breath, hated how honest it was, usually he was so careful with his feelings, kept them locked up tight, knew it was safer that way, less hurt to be had. But somehow, Satoru had gently pried him open, like a flower blooming, and in his hands, the feelings felt less scary. Like he could trust him not to drop them. Like he knew the other would just cradle them safe. Satoru pauses, a painful yet soft look passed over his face and he crouched low, eye to eye with him. “I’m sorry Megumi,” he muttered softly, genuinely, honestly in ways that Megumi had learnt he meant. Adults liked to lie but not Satoru. He pulls off his sunglasses that he always loses. “I’ll try come back soonmegumer next time okay?” And Megumi, all eight year old stubbornness and softness he hadn’t yet outgrown, mumbled, “Promise?” Satoru smiled, soft, fond. “Yeah, I promise. I’ll come back sooner.” He had let his long pinkie intertwine with Megumi’s and when he straightened back up when Tsumiki had finally made her choice, his fingers slipped into Megumi’s unruly dark hair and the eight year old just leaned into his leg. Satoru glanced down, surprised, and then he softened and smiled to himself as he stroked his hair. On the balcony now, Megumi’s grip tightens around the phone until his knuckles ache. He feels like an open wound, like a bruise taking the shape of a person, like he’s more grief than he is human. “You said you’d come back soon,” he whispers shakily. A tear splashes onto the screen, sliding over the tiny image of Satoru’s grin. The moonlight glows pale across his hands, cold and soft like a ghost passing over him. His voice breaks. “So why the hell aren’t you here?” The hurt punches through his chest with suffocating clarity. It doesn’t fade. He knows it never truly will. He’ll grow, but he’ll grow around this hurt—around the shape Satoru left behind when he walked into their lives all light and warmth and laughter, and then vanished in the next breath. Megumi bows his head, shoulders trembling, arms curling in tight as if trying to hold himself together but he can’t. He’s tried but he can’t. He fractures, ugly and broken. Every shard digs into him, every ache feels agonising. He bleeds out, silently, painfully from grief that carves into him like bone. His fingers slide into his hair and, for a second, he pretends they’re longer. Gentler. Threading through with a soft laugh and a teasing, “Alright there, kid?” His mind flickers like a film reel. Satoru’s laughter is bright, a splash of colour in every memory he finds himself running to, clinging to like it’s his mothers skirt, vibrant, warm, like a supernova contained in a man who was too bright for the world. “How do I look Megumi?” Satoru asked with a goofy grin as he turned to the eleven year old, Tsumiki looking proud of the makeup she’s slapped onto his face. “Gross,” Megujmi had deadpanned and Satoru’s face fell. “Megumiiii you’re so mean to me–” he whined and Tsumiki laughed and told him to stop ruining her precious work and Megumi had turned away from them, a small smile at his “Kiddos I’m home!” Satoru called out to the apartment and before he can blink there are two little bundles running at him and he steps back from the force. “You’re back!” Tsumiki said, already teary eyed and he blinked, softened, scooped her up in one arm as she clung to him. “It was only a couple days,” he says, looking over at Shoko who’d been keeping an eye on them who gave a dry smile. “They missed you,” she’d muttered with a shrug and his eyes dragged down to where Megumi is pressing his face to his stomach. His hand came up and threaded through his hair and he felt his chest ache softly. “Yeah, I missed you guys too,” he said softly. “This isn’t what the recipe says,” Megumi grumbled as Satoru laughed and chased a squealing giggling Tsumiki around the kitchen with flour on his hands. The kitchen was a mess, flour everywhere, cake batter on everything, because Tsumiki wanted to try bake a cake. “So?” Satoru had grinned as he caught Tsumiki, as the girl squealed and laughed loudly as he lifted her and smeared flour all over her pink cheeks. “This is more fun.” Megumi had huffed and watched as Satoru and Tsumiki played. Satoru noticed. He always did. “C’mere, you too,” Satoru had grinned and set Tsumiki down and Megumi blinked and let out a scoff. “No way. Stay away from me, I don’t wanna get dirty–” but they were already chasing him and he ran off, laughter catching in his lungs. “We’ll stay together, alright?” Satoru said softly, Megumi tucked under one arm in his big bed, Tsumiki under the other. “Forever and ever,” Tsumiki had giggled and pressed her head under his chin and he laughed, low and soft. Megumi had turned over, pressed his face to his chest and Satoru’s hand stroked his hair fondly. “Yeah alright, forever and ever.” And now here he is. All alone. And he’s sick of it. Sick of the ache. Sick of the hurt that makes his ribs creak from under the weight of it. Sick of being left here whilst every person he’s ever loved is stolen from him, over and over again in a sickening cycle he can’t break. Blessing, is what his name is. He wishes Toji just named him cursed. It was more fitting. Always ruining the lives of the people around him. Everything he touches is blood soaked. Everything he loves is stolen from him no matter how hard he tries to hug it to his chest. “So why the hell did you guys leave me here alone?” Megumi breathes out ragged and pained. The voicemail cuts out, the tone falling flat. The rain falls harder. And Megumi stays there, alone in the quiet dark, waiting for a voice that will never answer back. Not anymore.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75713816	{"authors": ["leclercloveletters"], "language": "English", "title": "Grow Wings"}
The Final Adventure (Temporary Name) Jax cannot believe it! It's almost too good to be true... ...Is it too good to be true? They've been out of the Circus for about a month by now. Jax hardly noticed the time passing by, until the others had a celebration. Thankfully, while their minds were in the simulation, supposedly their bodies had each been found a brought to hospitals to keep them alive. Wouldn't it be hilarious if Jax actually just died upon them removing the headset, and he was in some kind of afterlife that cruelly mimicked the real world? It was more likely some adventure Caine cooked up. Jax wouldn't put it past the AI. ...If it really is another simulation, it's far more advanced than any Caine has cooked up before... To be fair, Caine has messed with their heads before. Caine has messed with Jax's head before. Considering them "remembering" their names, Jax isn't buying. Sure, he'll respond to the name, but he doubts they're their real names. He won't say anything to the others though. Pomni would just make a pathetic expression in response or worse, she'd feel pity for Jax. Still, Jax does not exactly want to go to jail, even if it's only a simulated one. So he won't do anything too crazy to the NPCs. Caine really did go all in on the realism for this one. It makes Jax sick. It's incredibly boring, for his tastes. Everyone else seems to enjoy it though... Sometimes, Jax tries to catch bugs, glitches in the system. Something so that he can say "Look! I knew this wasn't real! There's the proof!" and then he can shove it in everyone's faces and laugh and laugh and laugh and Point is, Jax is right. Until he has proof, he'll just have to go along with this one... As boring as that is. Of course, Jax has moments of doubt. Doubt that this is just another adventure. Though giving up is not an option. Jax won't let Caine get in his head. Not again. He cannot start believing this is real. Hope is not affordable in their situation. If the others knew what Jax thought about this, they'd surely think they were moving on while he was being left behind. Jax knows better though. It's better to accept the truth. The others just need to relearn that.	The Final Adventure (Temporary Name) Jax cannot believe it! It's almost too good to be true... ...Is it too good to be true? They've been out of the Circus for about a month by now. Jax hardly noticed the time passing by, until the others had a celebration. Thankfully, while their minds were in the simulation, supposedly their bodies had each been found a brought to hospitals to keep them alive. Wouldn't it be hilarious if Jax actually just died upon them removing the headset, and he was in some kind of afterlife that cruelly mimicked the real world? It was more likely some adventure Caine cooked up. Jax wouldn't put it past the AI. ...If it really is another simulation, it's far more advanced than any Caine has cooked up before... To be fair, Caine has messed with their heads before. Caine has messed with Jax's head before. Considering them "remembering" their names, Jax isn't buying. Sure, he'll respond to the name, but he doubts they're their real names. He won't say anything to the others though. Pomni would just make a pathetic expression in response or worse, she'd feel pity for Jax. Still, Jax does not exactly want to go to jail, even if it's only a simulated one. So he won't do anything too crazy to the NPCs. Caine really did go all in on the realism for this one. It makes Jax sick. It's incredibly boring, for his tastes. Everyone else seems to enjoy it though... Sometimes, Jax tries to catch bugs, glitches in the system. Something so that he can say "Look! I knew this wasn't real! There's the proof!" and then he can shove it in everyone's faces and laugh and laugh and laugh and Point is, Jax is right. Until he has proof, he'll just have to go along with this one... As boring as that is. Of course, Jax has moments of doubt. Doubt that this is just another adventure. Though giving up is not an option. Jax won't let Caine get in his head. Not again. He cannot start believing this is real. Hope is not affordable in their situation. If the others knew what Jax thought about this, they'd surely think they were moving on while he was being left behind. Jax knows better though. It's better to accept the truth. The others just need to relearn that.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75717981/chapters/198038371	{"authors": ["ArbitraryAnomalousIndividual"], "language": "English", "title": "The Final Adventure (Temporary Name)"}
Little Talks Ryuji had been having trouble sleeping ever since Shido’s palace. While he would hate to abuse the kindness of one of his friends, he had finally reached the point that he was sleep-deprived enough to actually dial Yusuke’s number. Ryuji was shocked when the call was almost immediately answered. “Hello?” “Yo, Yusuke. Didn’t expect you to be up this late.” “Ah, Ryuji. A pleasure to hear from you. Yes, I would usually be asleep by now, but it seems a fit of inspiration has gotten the best of me.” Ryuji laughed a bit; that’s so typical of the artist. “I hate to interrupt. I was just having trouble sleeping, but I can leave you alone.” “Hmm? Did I not say I would be happy to lend an ear at any time for this?” “Yea, but I still feel kinda dumb for reaching out just cause I can’t get myself to sleep like a normal person.” “Nonsense. I would be happy to be of assistance. People have trouble sleeping all the time. Do you have an idea of what is causing your restlessness?" “Uh….I don’t know. I mean I have kinda been scared to fall asleep recently,” Ryuji seemed to mumble the last part. “Why is that?” “I keep having this bad dream since the Shido’s palace stuff.” “Would you like to elaborate? Maybe, talking about it with help assuage these concerns.” “Y’know, how everyone found me knocked out after the explosion?” Yusuke hummed in response. “Well, when I lost consciousness, I imagined I had just walked over, and no one was happy to see me.” “How could you tell?” “Well, the girls started yelling at me and beating me, and you, Akira, and Morgana didn’t even react. I couldn’t move and everyone just left me there.” “Hmm, I suppose everyone has irrational fears…not to give this nightmare any credence, but is there a reason you would think we would react like this?” “I don’t know,” Ryuji took a deep breath, “I’m just…so used to there being people who were supposed to care about me, then they beat me and throw me away… Kamoshida…the track team…my dad.” “It is awful that you have exposed to so many people who did not care about you in the way you deserve. You understand that we care about you though, right?” There was a extended pause. “Do you want to hear about my dreams?” Yusuke asked. “Yeah.” Hopefully, listening to Yusuke would balance out his feelings of deep selfishness for airing this all out in the first place. “Before you all entered the picture, I would dream of my mother…of receiving the parental affection I deeply desired. Someone who would care for me even when my paintings were not gallery worthy. Once I entered Madarame’s palace, I dreamed that I was trapped inside a painting to be manipulated by others without truly making my own mark on the world, but eventually, I escaped with someone’s help. Do you know who pulled me out of that space?” “Akira?” Yusuke chuckled briefly, “No, it was you. While everyone helped, my liberation from that space was mainly because of you and your albeit pushy generosity.” “I don’t think you can thank me for my dream version helping you out.” “Do you know what I dream about now?” “No.” “I dream about the affections I have received from all of our group, but mostly you. I cannot overemphasize how many times I have seen you buying me a beef bowl or putting your arm around me. These moments mean the world to me and I am sure the others have similar moments that prove you are important to them.” “I…,” Ryuji’s voice trembled, “Thanks Yusuke.” “Anytime. Do you think this will help you sleep? I can stay on the line.” “No. Thank you so much. Goodnight.” “Sweet dreams, Ryuji.” After the call ended, Ryuji finally reached a peaceful sleep filled with dreams of a certain artist.	Little Talks Ryuji had been having trouble sleeping ever since Shido’s palace. While he would hate to abuse the kindness of one of his friends, he had finally reached the point that he was sleep-deprived enough to actually dial Yusuke’s number. Ryuji was shocked when the call was almost immediately answered. “Hello?” “Yo, Yusuke. Didn’t expect you to be up this late.” “Ah, Ryuji. A pleasure to hear from you. Yes, I would usually be asleep by now, but it seems a fit of inspiration has gotten the best of me.” Ryuji laughed a bit; that’s so typical of the artist. “I hate to interrupt. I was just having trouble sleeping, but I can leave you alone.” “Hmm? Did I not say I would be happy to lend an ear at any time for this?” “Yea, but I still feel kinda dumb for reaching out just cause I can’t get myself to sleep like a normal person.” “Nonsense. I would be happy to be of assistance. People have trouble sleeping all the time. Do you have an idea of what is causing your restlessness?" “Uh….I don’t know. I mean I have kinda been scared to fall asleep recently,” Ryuji seemed to mumble the last part. “Why is that?” “I keep having this bad dream since the Shido’s palace stuff.” “Would you like to elaborate? Maybe, talking about it with help assuage these concerns.” “Y’know, how everyone found me knocked out after the explosion?” Yusuke hummed in response. “Well, when I lost consciousness, I imagined I had just walked over, and no one was happy to see me.” “How could you tell?” “Well, the girls started yelling at me and beating me, and you, Akira, and Morgana didn’t even react. I couldn’t move and everyone just left me there.” “Hmm, I suppose everyone has irrational fears…not to give this nightmare any credence, but is there a reason you would think we would react like this?” “I don’t know,” Ryuji took a deep breath, “I’m just…so used to there being people who were supposed to care about me, then they beat me and throw me away… Kamoshida…the track team…my dad.” “It is awful that you have exposed to so many people who did not care about you in the way you deserve. You understand that we care about you though, right?” There was a extended pause. “Do you want to hear about my dreams?” Yusuke asked. “Yeah.” Hopefully, listening to Yusuke would balance out his feelings of deep selfishness for airing this all out in the first place. “Before you all entered the picture, I would dream of my mother…of receiving the parental affection I deeply desired. Someone who would care for me even when my paintings were not gallery worthy. Once I entered Madarame’s palace, I dreamed that I was trapped inside a painting to be manipulated by others without truly making my own mark on the world, but eventually, I escaped with someone’s help. Do you know who pulled me out of that space?” “Akira?” Yusuke chuckled briefly, “No, it was you. While everyone helped, my liberation from that space was mainly because of you and your albeit pushy generosity.” “I don’t think you can thank me for my dream version helping you out.” “Do you know what I dream about now?” “No.” “I dream about the affections I have received from all of our group, but mostly you. I cannot overemphasize how many times I have seen you buying me a beef bowl or putting your arm around me. These moments mean the world to me and I am sure the others have similar moments that prove you are important to them.” “I…,” Ryuji’s voice trembled, “Thanks Yusuke.” “Anytime. Do you think this will help you sleep? I can stay on the line.” “No. Thank you so much. Goodnight.” “Sweet dreams, Ryuji.” After the call ended, Ryuji finally reached a peaceful sleep filled with dreams of a certain artist.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75711181	{"authors": ["dazedrains"], "language": "English", "title": "Little Talks"}
with you beside me Her cheeks and the very tip of her aquiline nose are red now. Together with her auburn hair, it is a stark contrast against her fair skin and the vast expanse of white snow they find themselves in, having walked until other people became scarce, then nonexistent. She looks utterly adorable to him, swimming in a puffy winter coat. His heart beats a loud, thumping rhythm - affection, it says. Tenderness. Love. The way she’s laughing at whatever nonsense he’s just said, it blurs the edges of his vision. Everything is brighter somehow. She tugs on his hand and points at some misshapen snowman some kids must have made a while ago - a soft snicker escapes her, likely to do with the half-melted body and misaligned eyes, and he glances for half a second - pretty funny, sure - but his focus is elsewhere again. Through the layers of their respective winter gloves, her small hand is warm, holding firmly to his. It’s not the first winter he’s spent with Scully in his life, but it is the first one where he can pull her closer to him by the hand, kiss her pink nose and her freckles and the cleft of her chin until she’s giggling all girlish and giddy. Her protests are only half-hearted - no, there’s no bullpen snitch hiding behind these snow-covered trees - and the half-formed smile on her lips as she goes in for an actual kiss leaves him dazed. Happiness. What a strange thing to feel during the holiday season. “We should get back to yours and have some of that hot chocolate like the other night,” he says, barely disguising the hopeful note in his voice because, what the hell, this is Scully, she knows him inside and out - more so now than ever. There’s no point trying to hide the way he needs her these days. Needs to be with her. The more he gets, the more he wants. Greedy. Lovesick. Either of these could apply - he doesn’t care which. “Hmm, is that what the kids are calling it these days?” she asks, almost halfway to another giggle. For a delirious second, he thinks he might make her as insanely happy as she does him, and wouldn’t that be something? “Agent Scully, get your mind out of the gutter. I’m merely suggesting a hot drink for this cold weather and…” he trails off, teasing. A single eyebrow raises, challenging him. “And…?” “And a nice cuddle on the couch, of course. No funny business. We can watch a movie or whatever.” Her gaze is sharp, her eyes squinting at him. Is he in trouble? He’s been in trouble since the day she walked into his office in a loose pantsuit and shook his hand, and listened to him and brought him to salvation. “We’re not watching Plan 9 again,” she says with finality, and he’s helpless to do anything but nod - if he opens his mouth he might say something stupid like ‘yes, dear’ or ‘whatever you say, beautiful’ and ruin this nice moment. They do, later on, end up cuddling and having some hot chocolate. Not in the order he’d said - and not before some other, definitely pleasant activities. Ones her couch is much better suited for than the lumpy old mess he used to sleep in. He has no complaints about the itinerary for this day off, especially as it ends the way it does. It’s cold outside but warm in her two-bedroom among cozy blankets and candles, the plushy rugs and the scents of his partner in life. Her hand is running through his hair as it often does, pausing occasionally as she focuses a bit more on the page she’s reading. He fights the urge, each time, to whine like a dog until she moves her hand again. His limbs are mush, his body is sated. His soul is warm, even in the peak of winter. Even if they made it all the way to Antarctica and into that hole in the ground left by yet another lost ship, he doesn’t think he’ll ever feel cold again. -o- Scully wakes up in a world of comfort. There’s a chest hair tickling her nose and warm puffs of breath hitting her head, one of her legs in between his, and she doesn’t want to move away from this anytime soon. Possibly never. But before she even glances at the clock by her bedside, she knows from the sunlight filtering in through the curtains that it’s time to get up. She promised her mom they’d go to church together - after having to break plans three weekends in a row - so she needs to hurry if she wants to have a shower and eat something before going. First, though, she snuggles in for another minute. It won’t hurt anything. Twenty minutes later, she’s grabbing her purse to head out, but trails back into the bedroom for another moment. Just to look. She can look now, without chastising herself for pipe dreams. He’s still sound asleep - she has no small amount of pride in her interference on his sleep schedule, as he has never seemed so well rested as he does these days - clutching now her pillow instead of her body. That stubborn, floppy lock of hair is over one eye, there’s a little upward twist to his mouth, and he looks so young. She wants to fall back into the bed and forget the world for a few more hours. Reluctantly, she leaves without giving him a kiss. It’s better not to to risk waking him, he has many years’ worth of sleep to catch up on. At church, she clutches her mother’s hand during prayer and thanks God extra hard. That she’s here, that they are here today and he’s waiting for her at her apartment and that for once, living feels light and easy. Her mother gives her a knowing glance as she lights four candles - Dad, Melissa, Emily, Samantha. Mulder might not believe any of it, but he would not begrudge her this, just as he would understand why she won’t ever light one for Bill or Teena Mulder. The sun is bright outside as they leave the heavy wooden doors of the church behind. She’s about to turn to her mother and ask about what was Mrs. Parsons saying back there when instead she spots a familiar figure leaning against her car. “Oh, Fox! What a surprise,” her mother exclaims, rushing to give him a hug which he graciously accepts. “Hi, Mrs. Scully. I thought I’d treat you ladies to lunch,” he says, smiling down at her like a dutiful son-in-law, and that’s a thought to bury down and lock up, before she spirals into what-ifs and maybes. “Mulder,” she says, and he turns to her as always. Her mother watches, probably amused, as they have a whole conversation without words, their respective smiles growing until they probably look unnatural. Hell, if anyone from the Bureau could see them like this, the rumor would spread that Spooky and Mrs. Spooky have finally lost it. He grabs her hand - a bold move, since theoretically her mother doesn’t know about them. But the almost triumphant glint in Maggie Scully’s gaze as it flickers between them is a reminder that her mother has known for a long time. -o- After lunch and dropping her mother off at home, he insists on driving. She doesn’t ask where he’s taking them - Mulder knows by now that where he goes, she’ll follow. Still, it’s a surprise when the car stops and she finds herself across the street from a movie theater. “We didn’t pay much attention to the movie last night so…” he shrugs, somewhat shy which is devastatingly adorable, “I figured we won’t be distracted here.” Mercilessly, she decides to tease him a little. “You think we won’t be distracted sitting in a dark corner together?” He gapes at her for a moment while she fights a smirk from appearing. “Joking, Mulder,” she says when he seems to have a hard time breathing, “I’d rather not be arrested for public indecency if it’s all the same to you.” Recovered, he makes a face as if pondering it for a minute. “You know what…” he starts, but she’s already leaving the car with a laugh. He buys the tickets, she buys the snacks. They sit together in a dark corner like she’d said, their hands fighting for the same popcorn, and they share one large Coke, taking alternate sips. It feels juvenile, like she’s been transported to another winter twenty years ago to her first date. The butterflies she keeps getting during these types of moments with him certainly make her feel like a teenager all over again. Mulder kisses her and she can taste the butter and salt on his tongue. Unlike her highschool date however, he knows how to kiss. Most importantly, he knows how to kiss her. He knows her. She pays about as much attention to this movie as she did to the last one, suddenly wanting nothing more than to take him home. The sun is still out by the time they leave, but it’s gotten colder somehow. Mulder suggests stopping for some coffee, but she’s had enough - or rather, she needs her hit now. Her dose of him. They stumble out of the elevator of her building and into her hallway. She giggles then shushes him when he says something incredibly dirty a little too loudly - her elderly neighbor is always watching and has ears like a bat. After she manages to get her door locked, though, she kisses him hard in retribution and dares him to follow through on what he’d said. She wakes up in a mess of sheets, hours later, to find it’s half past nine already. Their weekend is on its last legs. When he enters the room with two mugs in hand and the scent of hot chocolate invades her senses, she has to bite her lip to stop herself from making some grand love declaration. “I know we haven’t had dinner, but…” he trails off, settling down on the bed and handing her one of the mugs. “This is perfect, thank you,” she says, cupping it in both hands and blowing softly on the hot liquid before sipping. She glances at him and sees that instead of focusing on his own hot chocolate, he’d been watching her instead. Feeling carefree still in their little bubble, she sips again without taking her eyes off of him. Two can play at this watching game. It’s not long before their drinks are done and Mulder lays back down on the bed. She automatically snuggles to his side, his arm coming around her as she buries her face in his chest. A re-do from the morning - her favorite place to be. “So have you thought about it?” she asks sleepily. No need for a longer explanation	with you beside me Her cheeks and the very tip of her aquiline nose are red now. Together with her auburn hair, it is a stark contrast against her fair skin and the vast expanse of white snow they find themselves in, having walked until other people became scarce, then nonexistent. She looks utterly adorable to him, swimming in a puffy winter coat. His heart beats a loud, thumping rhythm - affection, it says. Tenderness. Love. The way she’s laughing at whatever nonsense he’s just said, it blurs the edges of his vision. Everything is brighter somehow. She tugs on his hand and points at some misshapen snowman some kids must have made a while ago - a soft snicker escapes her, likely to do with the half-melted body and misaligned eyes, and he glances for half a second - pretty funny, sure - but his focus is elsewhere again. Through the layers of their respective winter gloves, her small hand is warm, holding firmly to his. It’s not the first winter he’s spent with Scully in his life, but it is the first one where he can pull her closer to him by the hand, kiss her pink nose and her freckles and the cleft of her chin until she’s giggling all girlish and giddy. Her protests are only half-hearted - no, there’s no bullpen snitch hiding behind these snow-covered trees - and the half-formed smile on her lips as she goes in for an actual kiss leaves him dazed. Happiness. What a strange thing to feel during the holiday season. “We should get back to yours and have some of that hot chocolate like the other night,” he says, barely disguising the hopeful note in his voice because, what the hell, this is Scully, she knows him inside and out - more so now than ever. There’s no point trying to hide the way he needs her these days. Needs to be with her. The more he gets, the more he wants. Greedy. Lovesick. Either of these could apply - he doesn’t care which. “Hmm, is that what the kids are calling it these days?” she asks, almost halfway to another giggle. For a delirious second, he thinks he might make her as insanely happy as she does him, and wouldn’t that be something? “Agent Scully, get your mind out of the gutter. I’m merely suggesting a hot drink for this cold weather and…” he trails off, teasing. A single eyebrow raises, challenging him. “And…?” “And a nice cuddle on the couch, of course. No funny business. We can watch a movie or whatever.” Her gaze is sharp, her eyes squinting at him. Is he in trouble? He’s been in trouble since the day she walked into his office in a loose pantsuit and shook his hand, and listened to him and brought him to salvation. “We’re not watching Plan 9 again,” she says with finality, and he’s helpless to do anything but nod - if he opens his mouth he might say something stupid like ‘yes, dear’ or ‘whatever you say, beautiful’ and ruin this nice moment. They do, later on, end up cuddling and having some hot chocolate. Not in the order he’d said - and not before some other, definitely pleasant activities. Ones her couch is much better suited for than the lumpy old mess he used to sleep in. He has no complaints about the itinerary for this day off, especially as it ends the way it does. It’s cold outside but warm in her two-bedroom among cozy blankets and candles, the plushy rugs and the scents of his partner in life. Her hand is running through his hair as it often does, pausing occasionally as she focuses a bit more on the page she’s reading. He fights the urge, each time, to whine like a dog until she moves her hand again. His limbs are mush, his body is sated. His soul is warm, even in the peak of winter. Even if they made it all the way to Antarctica and into that hole in the ground left by yet another lost ship, he doesn’t think he’ll ever feel cold again. -o- Scully wakes up in a world of comfort. There’s a chest hair tickling her nose and warm puffs of breath hitting her head, one of her legs in between his, and she doesn’t want to move away from this anytime soon. Possibly never. But before she even glances at the clock by her bedside, she knows from the sunlight filtering in through the curtains that it’s time to get up. She promised her mom they’d go to church together - after having to break plans three weekends in a row - so she needs to hurry if she wants to have a shower and eat something before going. First, though, she snuggles in for another minute. It won’t hurt anything. Twenty minutes later, she’s grabbing her purse to head out, but trails back into the bedroom for another moment. Just to look. She can look now, without chastising herself for pipe dreams. He’s still sound asleep - she has no small amount of pride in her interference on his sleep schedule, as he has never seemed so well rested as he does these days - clutching now her pillow instead of her body. That stubborn, floppy lock of hair is over one eye, there’s a little upward twist to his mouth, and he looks so young. She wants to fall back into the bed and forget the world for a few more hours. Reluctantly, she leaves without giving him a kiss. It’s better not to to risk waking him, he has many years’ worth of sleep to catch up on. At church, she clutches her mother’s hand during prayer and thanks God extra hard. That she’s here, that they are here today and he’s waiting for her at her apartment and that for once, living feels light and easy. Her mother gives her a knowing glance as she lights four candles - Dad, Melissa, Emily, Samantha. Mulder might not believe any of it, but he would not begrudge her this, just as he would understand why she won’t ever light one for Bill or Teena Mulder. The sun is bright outside as they leave the heavy wooden doors of the church behind. She’s about to turn to her mother and ask about what was Mrs. Parsons saying back there when instead she spots a familiar figure leaning against her car. “Oh, Fox! What a surprise,” her mother exclaims, rushing to give him a hug which he graciously accepts. “Hi, Mrs. Scully. I thought I’d treat you ladies to lunch,” he says, smiling down at her like a dutiful son-in-law, and that’s a thought to bury down and lock up, before she spirals into what-ifs and maybes. “Mulder,” she says, and he turns to her as always. Her mother watches, probably amused, as they have a whole conversation without words, their respective smiles growing until they probably look unnatural. Hell, if anyone from the Bureau could see them like this, the rumor would spread that Spooky and Mrs. Spooky have finally lost it. He grabs her hand - a bold move, since theoretically her mother doesn’t know about them. But the almost triumphant glint in Maggie Scully’s gaze as it flickers between them is a reminder that her mother has known for a long time. -o- After lunch and dropping her mother off at home, he insists on driving. She doesn’t ask where he’s taking them - Mulder knows by now that where he goes, she’ll follow. Still, it’s a surprise when the car stops and she finds herself across the street from a movie theater. “We didn’t pay much attention to the movie last night so…” he shrugs, somewhat shy which is devastatingly adorable, “I figured we won’t be distracted here.” Mercilessly, she decides to tease him a little. “You think we won’t be distracted sitting in a dark corner together?” He gapes at her for a moment while she fights a smirk from appearing. “Joking, Mulder,” she says when he seems to have a hard time breathing, “I’d rather not be arrested for public indecency if it’s all the same to you.” Recovered, he makes a face as if pondering it for a minute. “You know what…” he starts, but she’s already leaving the car with a laugh. He buys the tickets, she buys the snacks. They sit together in a dark corner like she’d said, their hands fighting for the same popcorn, and they share one large Coke, taking alternate sips. It feels juvenile, like she’s been transported to another winter twenty years ago to her first date. The butterflies she keeps getting during these types of moments with him certainly make her feel like a teenager all over again. Mulder kisses her and she can taste the butter and salt on his tongue. Unlike her highschool date however, he knows how to kiss. Most importantly, he knows how to kiss her. He knows her. She pays about as much attention to this movie as she did to the last one, suddenly wanting nothing more than to take him home. The sun is still out by the time they leave, but it’s gotten colder somehow. Mulder suggests stopping for some coffee, but she’s had enough - or rather, she needs her hit now. Her dose of him. They stumble out of the elevator of her building and into her hallway. She giggles then shushes him when he says something incredibly dirty a little too loudly - her elderly neighbor is always watching and has ears like a bat. After she manages to get her door locked, though, she kisses him hard in retribution and dares him to follow through on what he’d said. She wakes up in a mess of sheets, hours later, to find it’s half past nine already. Their weekend is on its last legs. When he enters the room with two mugs in hand and the scent of hot chocolate invades her senses, she has to bite her lip to stop herself from making some grand love declaration. “I know we haven’t had dinner, but…” he trails off, settling down on the bed and handing her one of the mugs. “This is perfect, thank you,” she says, cupping it in both hands and blowing softly on the hot liquid before sipping. She glances at him and sees that instead of focusing on his own hot chocolate, he’d been watching her instead. Feeling carefree still in their little bubble, she sips again without taking her eyes off of him. Two can play at this watching game. It’s not long before their drinks are done and Mulder lays back down on the bed. She automatically snuggles to his side, his arm coming around her as she buries her face in his chest. A re-do from the morning - her favorite place to be. “So have you thought about it?” she asks sleepily. No need for a longer explanation - he’ll know what she means. “If you’re sure your mom won’t mind it, your brothers...” “If I cared what Bill does or doesn’t mind, I wouldn’t have done much with my life,” she says, loving to feel the rumble of his chest as he laughs. “I don’t want to pressure you, Mulder, but I’d love it if you spent Christmas day with us.” He kissed the top of her head. “I haven’t had stellar Christmases, I don’t know if I’ll be great company... but if you want me there, that’s where I’ll be.” “I always want you there, you know that.” Content, they fell asleep in each others’ arms, warm despite the weather and despite their troubles. Home.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75711191	{"authors": ["geekintheblack"], "language": "English", "title": "with you beside me"}
The Thrill of the Chase When Vox zips through a crack in the wards to Alastor’s rooms and is immediately overwhelmed with the distantly familiar scent of an omega in heat—a scent he knows based exactly on that distant, familiar memory that Alastor typically restrains—he knows he’s walked into a trap. (Again.) An hour later, on his knees and wilting against the side of Alastor’s bed, claws curled against the edges of his nest as he pleads to be let in, he starts to realize just how insidious the trap was. “Just let me in,” he wheedles, leaning against the side of the mattress so hard it’s starting to cut off his breathing. Just as well, since most of his blood has given up on delivering oxygen and has been pooling in his dick for the past hour. “We don’t even have to fuck, baby, just let me take care of you! We can do it like last time. You liked my mouth, didn’t you, made the prettiest noises—” “Why you think any of your current dialogue is winning me over,” Alastor murmurs from inside of his nest, “is beyond my understanding.” Vox whines shamelessly, pressing his face against the side of the nest, peeking over the edge. He’s only technically not encroaching like this, though Alastor’s ear swivels to point at him as he does it. The nest is bigger than last year, more well-made. One of his dress shirts went missing last week, and he can smell the faint traces of his cologne now. It’s in there. He knows it. “Can I come in, though?” Vox asks. “Please? I’ll be nice.” That finally prompts Alastor to shove himself up onto an elbow, peering down at Vox. He’s been curled up in the nest for the last hour, mostly ignoring Vox except for the way his ears twitch to catch every word that trips out of Vox’s mouth. He’s practically naked, too, probably sweltering as the warm waves of his heat lap at the edges of his psyche. He probably wants Vox. Probably wet for him, remembering how nice his tongue felt last year. Dressed just in his boxers, and— Vox practically yowls when he realizes. “Is that my shirt?!” Alastor squints at him. Vox’s unbuttoned dress shirt slides slightly off of his otherwise bare shoulder, ruffling the short fur there. Vox wonders if he realizes that he looks like a whore designed specifically for every one of Vox’s favorite fantasies. “It calms the heat down,” Alastor tells him. “I thought you might, too, but you’re really not being a good example of your dynamic right now.” Vox groans, pressing his face into the mattress. “Is that why you’ve been torturing me for the last hour?! You’re just trying to get another hit of beta hormones? Just take a fucking Ativan, Alastor! You want me to get you some?!” “Nobody is keeping you here, Vox.” Vox grumbles in the back of his throat, voice going hollow with TV static—mostly because Alastor is right. But they both know that Vox won’t—can’t—leave. Alastor has him as hooked as if he’d reeled him in with an actual fishing line. He’s spent so long chasing Alastor. His coattails, his legacy, the man himself. Being invited in—and it’s not even once a year, really, is it? Sure, Alastor has no interest in sex outside of his season’s affliction, but after what happened between them last year, their relationship has unquestionably changed in the interim. They don’t fight in the streets anymore; they scuffle. Alastor doesn’t twist the knife in Vox’s chest anymore; he teases, and jibes, and gets snappy when Vox gets one over him in return. They came across each other in an old, familiar bar once, and…had drinks together. Even Valentino and Velvette have noticed a change, and Vox expected them to make fun of him, but— He thinks they might just be happy for him? “...Are you sure you don’t want me to fuck you?” Vox asks, plaintive. He may not be a real alpha, but spending an hour cloistered away with an omega in heat is making him outright dizzy. He can’t think about the complicated, swelling bubble of feelings expanding in his chest when his dick is so fucking hard right now. Maybe Alastor will at least let him jack off. He can come in Alastor’s nest. Get his scent everywhere that way. (He wants to come on Alastor’s face—) Alastor sighs, and the bed shakes underneath Vox as he flops back into his nest. Vox raises his face, and sees that Alastor has curled in on himself at Vox’s edge of it, cheek pressed to the large, semi-circular nesting pillow a few inches from Vox’s claws so that he can keep looking down at him. The pillow is new, too. Smells like Alastor. Vox takes deep breaths. “...You did a good job last time,” Alastor admits, casually averting his gaze once he notices Vox looking back at him. “I did!” Vox agrees, rocking up higher on his knees. “I can do an even better one this time, Bambi—I’m more familiar now, I know what you like!” Alastor barks a laugh out against the bedding. “Vox, you spent one heat with me and came in your pants.” “And you liked it,” Vox insists. Alastor’s smile turns genuinely amused. “You’re a horrible little beetle, picturebox. Yes, I liked it. Fine.” He doesn’t sound like he’s acquiescing to anything. He sounds, in fact, like he’s getting exactly what he wants. Vox tries not to pant, laughing excitedly. “R–Really? Wait, no, I’m not questioning it. What—how are we going to—did you mean yes to the part where I fuck you? Or—like last time? I’m down for whatever! Hah—you were really fucked up on the subject of my dick last year.” Alastor rolls his eyes, then leans slightly out of the nest. Pheromones waft over Vox—sweet and pleasant, all the things Alastor himself so very rarely is. It’s like sunshine on crushed grass, a strange bit of nature in the hellscape they’re all trapped in. Fuck, Vox isn’t a perfumer—he doesn’t know what flowery, pretentious top and base notes thread through Alastor’s scent. Velvette could probably say. Vox just knows it’s really fucking nice, and heady, and if he doesn’t get to crawl into Alastor’s nest at least once then he might cry. He whimpers out loud, blatant and pleading. There’s a satisfied gleam in Alastor’s eyes as he does so, and a mirrored satisfaction curls somewhere deep inside of Vox, too. An alpha wouldn’t be acting this way. And alpha wouldn’t be rolling over for an omega, wouldn’t be begging like this—but an alpha isn’t what Alastor wants. Vox is. Alastor reaches out slowly, and threads his fingers between Vox’s claws. Vox’s claws are bigger, but Alastor’s are sharper—blue and red, stark together. Static crackles through the air, warm and dark. “Let’s make a deal, then,” Alastor murmurs. The deal is as such: First, Alastor is sick of being cloistered in his nest and playing victim to his instincts, so Vox is going to chase Alastor through the forest like a prey animal. (“Forest?” Vox asks, confused. Alastor rolls his eyes, and gestures to the nefariously-lit swamp behind him, which is how Vox realizes that it isn’t just a projection. This fucker has an alternate dimension in his room? Fuck!) And second, Vox can fuck Alastor, if Alastor asks for it. (“...You can just ask for it now,” Vox says, brows furrowing. “Or tell me not to? I am not getting my dick ripped off in the middle of it just because you can’t make up your mind, Al.” “Then don’t try!” Alastor snaps. “I don’t know if I’ll want it. I don’t now, but if you can change that, well—” “How about a bet?” Vox offers, a niggling little idea starting to percolate in the back of his head. Alastor laid a trap for him. Vox can lay one in return. “I bet you’ll beg me to fuck you by the end of it.” Alastor’s ears perk up. “And what if I don’t?” “Well, no amazing dick game for you, for one,” Vox mutters, “but I’ll get you through your heat however you like. Uhh, prizes, prizes—if I win, next year, I get to come in through the front door.” His heart flinches. “...If there’s a next year, I mean.” “Bold assumption. Adorable back-pedaling.” Alastor grins, wicked. “If I win, I want a favor.” Vox goggles at him, caught between the audacity and the ringing fact that Alastor did not contend the presumption that Vox would be at his next heat. “That’s so fucking vague, what the fuck? At least pretend to be even!” “Why?” Alastor asks, leaning his chin into his palm. “I know you’ll do it anyway.”) And that’s it. The rest is a bunch of hellish legalese, because despite Alastor’s fondness for mean tricks—this really is a vulnerability for him, and Vox doesn’t miss the significance of Alastor even opening the door to the prospect of Vox, uh, sticking his dick where he wants to stick it. He’d kind of wondered, last year, if it was a sexual preference or just something Alastor had reservations about because of the implications. This year is proving to show it’s more of the latter. This isn’t trust—not quite. Not when the contract has this much fine print. But it’s not distrust, either. Fuck, there are those bubbling emotions again. They shake hands, the hotel trembles on its foundations, and Vox zaps himself back to Vee Tower while Alastor prepares. He’d get started hunting Alastor down then and there, but if he’s got a shot at fucking the deer then he needs to swap his dick out for a model that has optional knotting functionality, which he hasn’t bothered wearing nearly as much this last year. And then, because although he can do the prep himself, he can’t help himself—he flickers through the cameras and skitters to a halt in Velvette’s rooms, startling her into flinging her phone at him as she flinches halfway off her couch. “Motherfucking cunt—” “Hey, Velvette,” Vox says, catching her phone before it hits the ground. He steps forward, drops it back into her lap as she bares her teeth at him. “Stop doomscrolling. Can you do my claws? Silicone caps?” She stops hissing, alpha hackles smoothing down, and slowly starts to grin instead. “Absolutely disgusting, Vee. Sure, get your ass on the floor and tell me all about it. What color?” He gets his ass on the floor and tells her all about it. (What Alastor doesn’t know won’t hurt Vox, after all.) Dick swapped, emotions	The Thrill of the Chase When Vox zips through a crack in the wards to Alastor’s rooms and is immediately overwhelmed with the distantly familiar scent of an omega in heat—a scent he knows based exactly on that distant, familiar memory that Alastor typically restrains—he knows he’s walked into a trap. (Again.) An hour later, on his knees and wilting against the side of Alastor’s bed, claws curled against the edges of his nest as he pleads to be let in, he starts to realize just how insidious the trap was. “Just let me in,” he wheedles, leaning against the side of the mattress so hard it’s starting to cut off his breathing. Just as well, since most of his blood has given up on delivering oxygen and has been pooling in his dick for the past hour. “We don’t even have to fuck, baby, just let me take care of you! We can do it like last time. You liked my mouth, didn’t you, made the prettiest noises—” “Why you think any of your current dialogue is winning me over,” Alastor murmurs from inside of his nest, “is beyond my understanding.” Vox whines shamelessly, pressing his face against the side of the nest, peeking over the edge. He’s only technically not encroaching like this, though Alastor’s ear swivels to point at him as he does it. The nest is bigger than last year, more well-made. One of his dress shirts went missing last week, and he can smell the faint traces of his cologne now. It’s in there. He knows it. “Can I come in, though?” Vox asks. “Please? I’ll be nice.” That finally prompts Alastor to shove himself up onto an elbow, peering down at Vox. He’s been curled up in the nest for the last hour, mostly ignoring Vox except for the way his ears twitch to catch every word that trips out of Vox’s mouth. He’s practically naked, too, probably sweltering as the warm waves of his heat lap at the edges of his psyche. He probably wants Vox. Probably wet for him, remembering how nice his tongue felt last year. Dressed just in his boxers, and— Vox practically yowls when he realizes. “Is that my shirt?!” Alastor squints at him. Vox’s unbuttoned dress shirt slides slightly off of his otherwise bare shoulder, ruffling the short fur there. Vox wonders if he realizes that he looks like a whore designed specifically for every one of Vox’s favorite fantasies. “It calms the heat down,” Alastor tells him. “I thought you might, too, but you’re really not being a good example of your dynamic right now.” Vox groans, pressing his face into the mattress. “Is that why you’ve been torturing me for the last hour?! You’re just trying to get another hit of beta hormones? Just take a fucking Ativan, Alastor! You want me to get you some?!” “Nobody is keeping you here, Vox.” Vox grumbles in the back of his throat, voice going hollow with TV static—mostly because Alastor is right. But they both know that Vox won’t—can’t—leave. Alastor has him as hooked as if he’d reeled him in with an actual fishing line. He’s spent so long chasing Alastor. His coattails, his legacy, the man himself. Being invited in—and it’s not even once a year, really, is it? Sure, Alastor has no interest in sex outside of his season’s affliction, but after what happened between them last year, their relationship has unquestionably changed in the interim. They don’t fight in the streets anymore; they scuffle. Alastor doesn’t twist the knife in Vox’s chest anymore; he teases, and jibes, and gets snappy when Vox gets one over him in return. They came across each other in an old, familiar bar once, and…had drinks together. Even Valentino and Velvette have noticed a change, and Vox expected them to make fun of him, but— He thinks they might just be happy for him? “...Are you sure you don’t want me to fuck you?” Vox asks, plaintive. He may not be a real alpha, but spending an hour cloistered away with an omega in heat is making him outright dizzy. He can’t think about the complicated, swelling bubble of feelings expanding in his chest when his dick is so fucking hard right now. Maybe Alastor will at least let him jack off. He can come in Alastor’s nest. Get his scent everywhere that way. (He wants to come on Alastor’s face—) Alastor sighs, and the bed shakes underneath Vox as he flops back into his nest. Vox raises his face, and sees that Alastor has curled in on himself at Vox’s edge of it, cheek pressed to the large, semi-circular nesting pillow a few inches from Vox’s claws so that he can keep looking down at him. The pillow is new, too. Smells like Alastor. Vox takes deep breaths. “...You did a good job last time,” Alastor admits, casually averting his gaze once he notices Vox looking back at him. “I did!” Vox agrees, rocking up higher on his knees. “I can do an even better one this time, Bambi—I’m more familiar now, I know what you like!” Alastor barks a laugh out against the bedding. “Vox, you spent one heat with me and came in your pants.” “And you liked it,” Vox insists. Alastor’s smile turns genuinely amused. “You’re a horrible little beetle, picturebox. Yes, I liked it. Fine.” He doesn’t sound like he’s acquiescing to anything. He sounds, in fact, like he’s getting exactly what he wants. Vox tries not to pant, laughing excitedly. “R–Really? Wait, no, I’m not questioning it. What—how are we going to—did you mean yes to the part where I fuck you? Or—like last time? I’m down for whatever! Hah—you were really fucked up on the subject of my dick last year.” Alastor rolls his eyes, then leans slightly out of the nest. Pheromones waft over Vox—sweet and pleasant, all the things Alastor himself so very rarely is. It’s like sunshine on crushed grass, a strange bit of nature in the hellscape they’re all trapped in. Fuck, Vox isn’t a perfumer—he doesn’t know what flowery, pretentious top and base notes thread through Alastor’s scent. Velvette could probably say. Vox just knows it’s really fucking nice, and heady, and if he doesn’t get to crawl into Alastor’s nest at least once then he might cry. He whimpers out loud, blatant and pleading. There’s a satisfied gleam in Alastor’s eyes as he does so, and a mirrored satisfaction curls somewhere deep inside of Vox, too. An alpha wouldn’t be acting this way. And alpha wouldn’t be rolling over for an omega, wouldn’t be begging like this—but an alpha isn’t what Alastor wants. Vox is. Alastor reaches out slowly, and threads his fingers between Vox’s claws. Vox’s claws are bigger, but Alastor’s are sharper—blue and red, stark together. Static crackles through the air, warm and dark. “Let’s make a deal, then,” Alastor murmurs. The deal is as such: First, Alastor is sick of being cloistered in his nest and playing victim to his instincts, so Vox is going to chase Alastor through the forest like a prey animal. (“Forest?” Vox asks, confused. Alastor rolls his eyes, and gestures to the nefariously-lit swamp behind him, which is how Vox realizes that it isn’t just a projection. This fucker has an alternate dimension in his room? Fuck!) And second, Vox can fuck Alastor, if Alastor asks for it. (“...You can just ask for it now,” Vox says, brows furrowing. “Or tell me not to? I am not getting my dick ripped off in the middle of it just because you can’t make up your mind, Al.” “Then don’t try!” Alastor snaps. “I don’t know if I’ll want it. I don’t now, but if you can change that, well—” “How about a bet?” Vox offers, a niggling little idea starting to percolate in the back of his head. Alastor laid a trap for him. Vox can lay one in return. “I bet you’ll beg me to fuck you by the end of it.” Alastor’s ears perk up. “And what if I don’t?” “Well, no amazing dick game for you, for one,” Vox mutters, “but I’ll get you through your heat however you like. Uhh, prizes, prizes—if I win, next year, I get to come in through the front door.” His heart flinches. “...If there’s a next year, I mean.” “Bold assumption. Adorable back-pedaling.” Alastor grins, wicked. “If I win, I want a favor.” Vox goggles at him, caught between the audacity and the ringing fact that Alastor did not contend the presumption that Vox would be at his next heat. “That’s so fucking vague, what the fuck? At least pretend to be even!” “Why?” Alastor asks, leaning his chin into his palm. “I know you’ll do it anyway.”) And that’s it. The rest is a bunch of hellish legalese, because despite Alastor’s fondness for mean tricks—this really is a vulnerability for him, and Vox doesn’t miss the significance of Alastor even opening the door to the prospect of Vox, uh, sticking his dick where he wants to stick it. He’d kind of wondered, last year, if it was a sexual preference or just something Alastor had reservations about because of the implications. This year is proving to show it’s more of the latter. This isn’t trust—not quite. Not when the contract has this much fine print. But it’s not distrust, either. Fuck, there are those bubbling emotions again. They shake hands, the hotel trembles on its foundations, and Vox zaps himself back to Vee Tower while Alastor prepares. He’d get started hunting Alastor down then and there, but if he’s got a shot at fucking the deer then he needs to swap his dick out for a model that has optional knotting functionality, which he hasn’t bothered wearing nearly as much this last year. And then, because although he can do the prep himself, he can’t help himself—he flickers through the cameras and skitters to a halt in Velvette’s rooms, startling her into flinging her phone at him as she flinches halfway off her couch. “Motherfucking cunt—” “Hey, Velvette,” Vox says, catching her phone before it hits the ground. He steps forward, drops it back into her lap as she bares her teeth at him. “Stop doomscrolling. Can you do my claws? Silicone caps?” She stops hissing, alpha hackles smoothing down, and slowly starts to grin instead. “Absolutely disgusting, Vee. Sure, get your ass on the floor and tell me all about it. What color?” He gets his ass on the floor and tells her all about it. (What Alastor doesn’t know won’t hurt Vox, after all.) Dick swapped, emotions catharsised out through a solid session of mooning over his crush and getting fondly ribbed by Velvette, and claws newly shiny with a clear silicone coating, edges thus dulled enough that the only way he’s going to make Alastor bleed is on purpose, Vox flings himself through the city’s power grid. He rubberbands off of a passing drone Alastor still hasn’t shot down, and zips back through Alastor’s window. And then promptly chokes on his own tongue, because Alastor is naked. “What? Oh, you’re back.” Alastor half-turns to look at Vox as he keels over, coughing, which only serves to show off the lean, emaciated length of his body. His legs are so long it might be illegal—which isn’t entirely unique, Valentino’s legs are even longer—but fuck, Vox has a type. They taper into cute little crimson hooves, the fur trailing up from both them and the wicked claws on his hands starting out black before fading into the short, fawn-brown fur covering the rest of his body. Fuck. It looks like he’s wearing gloves and stockings. It’s been a year since Vox has seen him anything short of buttoned up to the throat. (Well—no. He’d loosened his bowtie that one time at the bar, undone one button. Vox tried not to drool, mostly failed, and suspects that’s the bit Alastor got off on. He’s such a fucking cock tease for a man who intermittently hates having eyes on him at all.) It’s like studying him anew all over again, from the way he’s a little fluffier at his chest and in a trail down between his legs, to the white spots scattered around his flanks and his shoulders, to the jagged scarring that furrows in large swathes across his body. There’s a bite mark on his thigh, huge and ugly, like a dog’s maw; some of the fawn spots along his shoulders hide pockmarked scars, like somebody used to put out cigarettes on him. The biggest one, though, is very notably no longer held together by vivid green stitching—just a healed-over scar, now, cleaved through his chest. Fuck, he looks like he’d been cut in half. Also: he’s hard. Vox can’t get a better peek between his legs to see if Alastor is wet, too—but his cock is erect, the slight, omega-typical length of it bobbing up between his legs. It was sheathed when they started this whole thing last year, at least until Vox teased it out, which was an interesting bit of what Vox can only assume is deer biology because he’s not a freak who does research on the hellish traits of people he wants to fuck. (Fun fact: The drugged spit is definitely some fucked up obscure moth thing. Fine, maybe he’s checked.) Vox starts undoing his own tie, swallowing twice before he can clear his mouth of the saliva that pooled when he saw Alastor’s dick—and his scar. “Am I supposed to run through the swamp naked, then? Because if I try to chase you through the swamp naked, this is going to turn into like three hours of the worst game of hide-and-seek ever and then you’re going to get so bored that you leave.” Alastor cackles. “Oh, give yourself some more credit, old pal! But no, you can stay as dressed or undressed as you like. At your discretion, of course—and risk.” “Risk?” Vox shucks off his coat, his vest—decides to keep his dress shirt on, in case Alastor, uh. Maybe wants it. Later. He rolls his sleeves up, baring his forearms. The pants and shoes are staying on. He is not running through Alastor’s evil pocket dimension barefoot. He’s pretty sure he can see alligator eyeshine back there, reflecting the light of his screen. “Don’t worry about it,” Alastor says, which is about the only thing he could have said to make Vox worry about it more, but does not elaborate further. Vox is too excited to dwell on it. He’s fizzy with it, electricity popping at his fingertips and his antennae even as he tries not to bounce onto the balls of his feet in anticipation. “Forgotten!” Vox declares, and laughs to himself. He wants to bite Alastor so bad that his teeth ache. “Fuck! This is gonna be so good. When do we start? Do you want me to count down?” “When?” Alastor’s head tips to the side, his ears flopping adorably. “Why, we’ve already begun!” “Huh—” And Alastor is gone. His tail flicks as he goes, which is fucking adorable, but Vox is too busy swearing and following suit to admire it properly. He shoots off the solid wood of Alastor’s floorboards and into the soft grasses of the wetlands, doing his best to avoid splashing into slow-flowing water. He doesn’t know how fucking big this place is, but Alastor clearly knows it well, because he’s already gone into the trees. He’s left tracks in his wake, though, snapped branches and bent tall, yellow grasses, too rushed to avoid leaving a trail. Vox grins, sharp and wide. “You can run, run, run, baby,” he calls in a sing-song as he makes his way into the enormous, weeping treeline. “But you can’t fucking hide!” The first time he catches Alastor, he has to outright tackle him into the dirt. He kind of thinks Alastor might have let himself get caught, even—Vox catches sight of him darting between trees, and the location is perfect for a tussle, not a body of bogwater in sight. They end up rolling through long, soft grasses, tumbling over each other in a way that involves way more bruising to Vox’s kidneys than he expected given the way this kind of thing tends to look in picturesque movie scenes. One of Alastor’s elbows nearly gets him in the throat. By the end of it, he has Alastor down on his front, pinned to the ground by the back of his neck while Vox jams a knee into his knobby spine, panting. Despite the circumstances, Alastor is unfairly hot like this. Vox would blame it on the heat addling his brain, but the truth is that he always thinks Alastor is unfairly hot. The peach fuzz on his face transitions into soft, downy fur on the rest of his body. Up close, his colors are striking—even more so in the few places that he has accents, like the fawn spots on his flanks and shoulders, or the crimson and black of his tail, which flicks up to flash its white underside. That’s a cute little fear response deer have to alert their herd to a predator. Fine, maybe Vox has been looking things up. In reality, Alastor’s not anything more special than whatever stars Valentino features in his productions—but fuck if he isn’t special to Vox. His heart sort of aches just to look at him, which is how he knows he’s being stupid and maudlin. Alastor is right here. Alastor, of course, is laughing his ass off wheezily. “I hate you,” Vox tells him, also wheezing. The tall, citrine grass around them rustles with their motions, ensconcing them in a little nest. “I died in my fifties, asshole, I’m not as fit as you!” “Oh, forgive me, then,” Alastor starts in, all melodrama. If his face wasn’t pressed into grass, he would probably have the back of a hand to his forehead. “For my crime, of course, of having died so tragically young! It happened in a bayou just like this, you know!” “You probably had it coming,” Vox mutters, catching his breath. “Shit, this is why you took your clothes off. My pants are ruined.” And they are: the knees are irrevocably stained with dead foliage, and he can feel the weird plant juice seeping in through the thick cloth. “A simple mistake,” Alastor tells him, teeth gleaming in the unnatural light of the swamp. “A hunter’s bad eyesight, and I was taken for something I was not.” Vox blinks. “Wait, really?” “Of course, I was only out there at all because I was disposing of a body,” Alastor adds breezily. “I hope that fellow had a great deal of fun dealing with the two corpses suddenly on his hands!” Vox laughs, trying not to get hysterical in his giddiness. “Oh, fuck off.” That’s all he really has to say to that. He might have more, truthfully—it feels a little bit like Alastor has casually handed him a revelation—but then Alastor’s tail flicks, brushing softly over the front of Vox’s pants, and he’s distracted by an idea. “Fuck the pants, too,” Vox mutters, and takes a hand from where he’s shoving Alastor’s shoulder down to unbutton himself. He’s already half-hard again; has been since he realized he was catching up to Alastor’s tail. He can do that on command, of course, if he absolutely needs to, but this is genuine: the thrill and adrenaline of chasing Alastor down, and even more so of pinning Alastor underneath him. The heady scent of omega in heat filling the air doesn’t help, mixing together with crushed grass. The air smells sun-warmed, even though they’re ostensibly indoors and the only light is ambient and unnatural, born from Alastor’s dark magics. “C’mon, omega,” Vox taunts, taking his knee off of Alastor’s spine and prodding him upward. The neck, he keeps pinned, forcing Alastor to bare himself in a pornographic arch. “Present.” Alastor huffs under his breath, mumbling something uncomplimentary as he presses his hands into the grass to try to keep it out of his mouth, cheek smooshed against the ground—but he presents, sending Vox’s pulse thudding violently through his veins. Fuck, his blood might be pooling in its entirety in his dick. Forget oxygen from his lungs, he’s about to not have enough to get to his brain. “Good boy,” Vox says reverently, earning himself an ineffective snap of teeth into the air. He pays the threat no mind, instead rubbing a hand up Alastor’s flank and eventually his ass, admiring the way his tail flags up at this angle and reveals the tight furl of his asshole, and his slick, pretty pussy. Vox laughs to himself. Alastor is wet already. Of course he is—he’s in heat. He was probably wet when they were having this discussion in the first place. But it’s different to see it like this, inches from Vox’s cock, accompanied by that familiar scent of sweet omega (as much as the thought of ‘Alastor’ and ‘sweet’ in the same sentence is still a riot at best, even like this), and the way Alastor is starting to pant softly into the grass for reasons utterly unrelated to their little chase earlier. (Or maybe related. Who knows! He’s not going to kink shame. Unless it gets him off.) Vox’s teeth dig into his lower lip. “Fuck, baby, you’re so wet for me.” Alastor’s growl rumbles into the ground. “I’m wet for me, Vox, it’s the season. Is this what I’m to expect from a man who only ever fucks alphas?” Vox laughs, low, and squeezes the back of Alastor’s neck. It’s not much—not harsh—but it’s right over Alastor’s scent glands, and the pressure makes the bundled tension in his shoulders and back go limp. He makes a noise. “Was that a little whimper?” Vox asks, delighted. “Are you submitting for me, omega?” “Fuck you,” Alastor manages, and his tone is nothing short of a whine. Vox strokes his thumb slowly over one of the vulnerable glands, the exact place a claiming bite would go if they still lived in a bygone era. “What’s that? Weren’t you just saying something about me not knowing my way around an omega’s body?” This time Alastor does whimper, his tail twitching as his back arches that little bit further. His claws dig furrows into the soil, and he doesn’t reply, too embarrassed. “That’s what I thought,” Vox says softly, pleased. Then he does what he’s been wanting to do ever since he saw that cute little fuck-me tail waving around underneath him: he grabs Alastor’s hip to hitch him even higher, and grinds himself forward against Alastor’s ass. It’s soft. Vox groans as he does it, pressing his cock against the junction of Alastor’s ass and tail. He’s fully stiff now, even aching a little bit, and the soft, fluffy fur of Alastor’s tail cradles him as he grinds down against it. Alastor yips, startled. “What—that’s not—” “Shhhhut up,” Vox complains, eyelids fluttering. Shit, it’s like fucking a down feather pillowcase. His cock leaks from the tip, and the synthetic lubricant smears into Alastor’s fur. “I have wanted to do this—f-for so long!” “You’re—depraved,” Alastor says, breath hitching halfway through the words. Vox just grinds forward harder, pinning Alastor’s tail fully down between his cock and Alastor’s own skin, and moans. “Ridiculous pervert,” Alastor gasps. Vox is doing his best not to actually lean his weight onto Alastor’s neck, but every time he thrusts, he can’t help but squeeze a little, repeating that taunting little threat from earlier. It’s making Alastor tremble against him, hands scrabbling in the dirt as he tries to arch harder and—Vox presumes—angle Vox’s cock a touch lower to where he actually wants it. “Degenerate.” “Keep talking dirty to me, baby,” Vox says with a breathy laugh. “This is why I never—ah—showed you—ff-fuck—” “Is it sensitive?” Vox asks gleefully, slowing his thrusts slightly as he realizes Alastor is getting twitchy under him. Alastor squirms under his hand. His ears are flat against his skull, and he’s stopped trying to crane his head back to meet Vox’s eyes. “N-No.” “Oh, okay.” Vox drags his hips back. “Then you won’t mind if I just…” He slowly grinds his hips forward again, burying the head of his cock into the fluffiest part of Alastor’s tail. Most of the pressure he’s giving is against the base of Alastor’s tail, and the dragging friction as he thrusts forward results in a slow tug at the delicate appendage. He does it again, then once more, and— Alastor whines through his gritted teeth, thin and reedy. “Sorry, sorry,” Vox says, grinning, and stops moving entirely. “Am I hurting you?” “No,” Alastor snaps. “Don’t—just keep going!” “Don’t keep going?” “Vox!” Vox laughs, and starts fucking him again. It’s a slow, languid fuck; he’s just getting warmed up. Alastor has no idea what he’s in for today, and to be fair, Vox doesn’t rightly know exactly how everything will go, either—but he sure knows what he plans to do, and if he has his way, then this is just the start of things. Alastor has a long road ahead of him. But that doesn’t mean Vox can’t have some fun! “Just like that, baby,” he tells Alastor, tipping his head back and letting his eyes slide shut for a moment as he enjoys the unique, feather-soft sensations against his dick. “I’m not—doing anything,” Alastor gasps, tail flicking uselessly underneath Vox. “Aren’t you?” Vox laughs again. “You keep twitching and flicking that cute little thing, like you’re trying to help me along. You telling me that’s not on purpose?” He can see Alastor’s flush from here, trailing down the back of his neck. “That isn’t—” “On purpose?” Vox interrupts to repeat. He tugs Alastor even closer, and really shoves his cock up against his tail, hand leaving Alastor’s hip to cup the back of the fluffy fur and press it more firmly against himself. “So you’re just naturally a slut?” “I am not!” Alastor’s tone is affronted. It’s a funny contrast to the way that Vox has gotten his tail absolutely filthy, some of the softness fading into slickness as he smears fluids into it. “Could’ve fooled me,” Vox says, breath starting to stutter. As soft and plush and just plain nice as the sensation on his cock is, it’s not as much stimulation as he usually likes. But the head space that it’s put him in—just the fact alone that he’s fucking Alastor’s tail—now that is threatening to send him over the edge already, forcing him to slow down just to drag this porn fantasy of an experience out a little longer. “Guess you don’t need me to fuck your pussy, then, right?” Alastor says nothing, tail fighting to squirm in Vox’s grip as the man it belongs to screws his eyes shut and shudders against the grass. “Right?” Vox prompts again, tugging on Alastor’s tail to force an answer. Alastor gasps, strangling a little vocalization in his throat. “R-Right!” “Mm,” Vox hums. He drops Alastor’s tail, letting his cock pin it down against Alastor’s ass again, and dips his hand around and down between Alastor’s thighs. He doesn’t touch Alastor’s cunt, nor his cock. He just trails a finger up his inner thigh, grinning as he feels the slickness trailing down it. “Definitely not.” Alastor’s thighs are tense under his hand, tenser still as his finger trails closer and closer to the crux of them. Vox doesn’t follow through—he takes his hand away, instead, and wraps it back around Alastor’s tail, smearing Alastor’s own want through the mess Vox has made of him. Then he grips himself harder, tail still in hand, and finally starts thrusting hard enough to make himself come. It doesn’t take long at all; his fist is a hot, slick, fluffy mess, and Vox finds himself dropping Alastor’s neck in order to brace a hand against the dirt, curling over Alastor’s body and pressing his forehead against Alastor’s back as he groans and comes. He rides out his orgasm against Alastor’s body, hips twitching forward until they finally slow, and then stop, Vox panting against the downy fur between Alastor’s shoulder blades. Alastor is panting, too, utterly still beneath him aside from the way he’s trembling from ear to hooftip. Vox presses a self-indulgent kiss against a gaunt vertebra, and pushes himself up. When he draws away from Alastor, releasing his tail, it’s with a disgusting squelch. His mindless fucking in the middle of his climax smeared cum into Alastor’s fur, and the remnants of it are starting to ooze down, collecting in the little divot above Alastor’s ass. Vox laughs quietly to himself and wipes his dick clean on the fur of Alastor’s thigh before tucking himself back into his grass-stained slacks. “Well, you look fucked stupid,” Vox comments. The words startle Alastor, who finally realizes there is nothing keeping him in place anymore except his own self. He twitches, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees, and looks back at Vox. “That’s—is that…” Vox blinks at him innocently, admiring the way Alastor’s tail curls back down, cupping protectively over his ass. The tip of it brushes against his pussy, and a little bead of slick gets onto it, stretching into a thin strand when his tail twitches back. He’s even wetter than he was before—as he should be, after getting fucked silly and soaked with cum, even if Vox didn’t really fuck him. His small cock is hard between his legs, too, fully unsheathed and jutting from the apex of his cunt, leaving little gleaming wet marks on his belly where it touches against him. “...Is that it?” Alastor asks. He looks a little shellshocked. His ears aren’t pinned, exactly, but they’re at odd angles, swiveling like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on. Vox wonders what it feels like for him, to have cum smeared into his skin but be left wanting. Omegas in heat get needy about things like that—they need a knot, need a partner’s cum, need to be fucked. Whatever biological imperative will get them the most pregnant, Vox figures. Thank fuck he doesn’t have to deal with that shit. Vox grins, laughing lowly. “That? Baby, that was just the start. But this?” He brings his hand back, and then smacks Alastor between the legs, right over that wet, leaking pussy—Alastor yelps, jolting away from Vox and scrambling to his feet, wobbly-legged and messy. “That slutty pussy of yours, I’m not going to fuck,” Vox says, rising to his feet. “As promised! I’m a man of my word! At least, not until you beg for it.” Alastor, finally facing him, is wide-eyed, his smile uncertain. It’s a pretty hilarious expression. Vox can only imagine what Alastor was expecting—the last time Vox serviced him during his heat, after all, it was all about what Al wanted. Some tongue action, some fingering, a promise not to stick his dick where Al doesn’t want it. He’s still not going to do that unless Al really wants it, but this time Alastor asked to be hunted—so Vox is going to hunt him, and treat him like the prey he is when he gets caught. No more soft touches from Vox. No more slow and sweet for Alastor. Vox hasfinally got the omega in his claws, and he’s going to capitalize. “You should run again,” Vox suggests, taking a threatening step forward. He reaches out, lets his claws drag against a nearby tree trunk. Alastor stumbles a step away into the shade of the trees, breath hitching as his thighs move against each other, slippery and wet. The poor deer is baffled, not expecting to get used and abused and left unsatisfied. He throws a glance over his shoulder, red meeting red as his eyes gleam in the dark— He runs. Vox gives chase.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75715541/chapters/198031426	{"authors": ["Princeliest"], "language": "English", "title": "The Thrill of the Chase"}
Oh fuck well I'm here now grate My head hurts I gron it was going to be one of those days I try to roll over no one has barged into my room or chucked anything at me yet so it's not time to wake up but alas damm you insomnia. My eyes open to see darkness? ok that's wired I don't dislike the dark I like it more then light but I sleep with a red lamp on was the power out I try to roll over to find my phone next to me on my bed only to find it wasn't there and that I was surprisingly not in my bed my hand met wood as I scrapped my nails against it it felt just as cold, dry and uncomfortable as my bed I stick my hands out in front of me to be met with a lid in front? ok what did I fall asleep in my wardrobe no my wardrobe was back against a wall not wood was I in my sisters wardrobe? No why would I be there I press my hand against the lid and pushed it didn't buge. I could hear voice now and I could tell someone was infont of whatever I was in I herd the distinct sound of a lock turning before the lid was lifted I scowled as my eyes were attacked my lights I lifted my hand to hide my eyes now there was light I could see I was wereing a purple robe with gold stiching and key patterns it's then I noticed a hand I look up to be met with a kind smile and warm eyes looking at me on instinct I stand straight and take the hand people didn't like it when I was slow or ignored them the man helped me out before smileling one's more and going on to the next coffin?! I look back to see the thing I was in was a coffin I shuffle back what the fuck is my first thought then my eyes drift to movement I see people lining up all in the same robes I look down we are wereing the same thing must be a uniform a uniform for what I had no idea. I joined the line and soon after we all followed the people that helped us out of the coffins in to big hall were more people wereing the same robes are sitting and the boys leading the group go and stand of to the side there's about 5 of them and one tablet must not like people I hummd same honestly. My eyes drifted back to the front were a man had bin speaking oh god I missed what he said god I hope he didn't notices I just followed the line as one by one the people in front of me go up to a mirror and say there name the mirror talks a bit before putting them in to what I think are dorms honestly this all is giving me cult vibes from the outfits to the creepy dark eerie and glowing room. But now that I think about it it kind of seems familiar oh whatever that's a thought for later there was only one person in front of you now so just go over what to say in your head so you don't mess up stick to your script when you have to say your name to people I took a deep breath and walked up to the dark mirror.	Oh fuck well I'm here now grate My head hurts I gron it was going to be one of those days I try to roll over no one has barged into my room or chucked anything at me yet so it's not time to wake up but alas damm you insomnia. My eyes open to see darkness? ok that's wired I don't dislike the dark I like it more then light but I sleep with a red lamp on was the power out I try to roll over to find my phone next to me on my bed only to find it wasn't there and that I was surprisingly not in my bed my hand met wood as I scrapped my nails against it it felt just as cold, dry and uncomfortable as my bed I stick my hands out in front of me to be met with a lid in front? ok what did I fall asleep in my wardrobe no my wardrobe was back against a wall not wood was I in my sisters wardrobe? No why would I be there I press my hand against the lid and pushed it didn't buge. I could hear voice now and I could tell someone was infont of whatever I was in I herd the distinct sound of a lock turning before the lid was lifted I scowled as my eyes were attacked my lights I lifted my hand to hide my eyes now there was light I could see I was wereing a purple robe with gold stiching and key patterns it's then I noticed a hand I look up to be met with a kind smile and warm eyes looking at me on instinct I stand straight and take the hand people didn't like it when I was slow or ignored them the man helped me out before smileling one's more and going on to the next coffin?! I look back to see the thing I was in was a coffin I shuffle back what the fuck is my first thought then my eyes drift to movement I see people lining up all in the same robes I look down we are wereing the same thing must be a uniform a uniform for what I had no idea. I joined the line and soon after we all followed the people that helped us out of the coffins in to big hall were more people wereing the same robes are sitting and the boys leading the group go and stand of to the side there's about 5 of them and one tablet must not like people I hummd same honestly. My eyes drifted back to the front were a man had bin speaking oh god I missed what he said god I hope he didn't notices I just followed the line as one by one the people in front of me go up to a mirror and say there name the mirror talks a bit before putting them in to what I think are dorms honestly this all is giving me cult vibes from the outfits to the creepy dark eerie and glowing room. But now that I think about it it kind of seems familiar oh whatever that's a thought for later there was only one person in front of you now so just go over what to say in your head so you don't mess up stick to your script when you have to say your name to people I took a deep breath and walked up to the dark mirror.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75713821/chapters/198026451	{"authors": ["Poptartquean"], "language": "English", "title": "Oh fuck well I'm here now grate"}
Breakfast Battle Day 13: orange juice Breakfast was never a pleasant experience in the Thunderman household. Even more so when the adults of the house were not present to reign in their children. Or at least Mrs. Thunderman. "You've had enough." "Uh, no? I'm still thirsty, so obviously I should have another glass." Max smirked, "aren't I right, Billy?" The boy rushed to his big brother's side, letting the plates he had stacked on his head behind and fall down onto the floor with a loud crash. "I guess that makes sense!" Nora too, sided with Max. "Yeah, I want another glass of orange juice too!" "Ugh," Phoebe groaned, still holding the carton away from the others, not noticing it slowly lifting up from her grip, "if we all have a another today, we won't have any tomorrow!" Under the table, Max twirled his pointer finger and the carton snaked around the table. He smirked. "So what?" "Oh no!" Billy exclaimed, "we won't have OJ tomorrow?!" and then he ran to the head of the table, not sure who's side to choose. The sound of a glass being filled allerted Phoebe to the missing container. Her arm shot out and the sound stopped, the orange juice box floated back towards her. Max' smirk fell, "hey! No fair!" and he too began fighting for control of the juice. Meanwhile Nora had moved away from the situation and was heating up some milk by shooting lasers in her cup. Once she thought that it's probably sufficiently warm, she measured out four spoons of cocoa powder and dumpede them in, switching to a tea spoon to stir it in. She took a big gulp of her newly acquired hot chocolate and- "Hot!" That served to break the twin's attention from their task of keeping the carton from the other's grasp. The juice arched through the air, spilling out from it's, still open, confines and landing on the resident speedster. He qickly shook the liquid off, though. Lightning fast. Of course after that everything and everyone else was covered in the sugary substance.	Breakfast Battle Day 13: orange juice Breakfast was never a pleasant experience in the Thunderman household. Even more so when the adults of the house were not present to reign in their children. Or at least Mrs. Thunderman. "You've had enough." "Uh, no? I'm still thirsty, so obviously I should have another glass." Max smirked, "aren't I right, Billy?" The boy rushed to his big brother's side, letting the plates he had stacked on his head behind and fall down onto the floor with a loud crash. "I guess that makes sense!" Nora too, sided with Max. "Yeah, I want another glass of orange juice too!" "Ugh," Phoebe groaned, still holding the carton away from the others, not noticing it slowly lifting up from her grip, "if we all have a another today, we won't have any tomorrow!" Under the table, Max twirled his pointer finger and the carton snaked around the table. He smirked. "So what?" "Oh no!" Billy exclaimed, "we won't have OJ tomorrow?!" and then he ran to the head of the table, not sure who's side to choose. The sound of a glass being filled allerted Phoebe to the missing container. Her arm shot out and the sound stopped, the orange juice box floated back towards her. Max' smirk fell, "hey! No fair!" and he too began fighting for control of the juice. Meanwhile Nora had moved away from the situation and was heating up some milk by shooting lasers in her cup. Once she thought that it's probably sufficiently warm, she measured out four spoons of cocoa powder and dumpede them in, switching to a tea spoon to stir it in. She took a big gulp of her newly acquired hot chocolate and- "Hot!" That served to break the twin's attention from their task of keeping the carton from the other's grasp. The juice arched through the air, spilling out from it's, still open, confines and landing on the resident speedster. He qickly shook the liquid off, though. Lightning fast. Of course after that everything and everyone else was covered in the sugary substance.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75711236	{"authors": ["Numerus"], "language": "English", "title": "Breakfast Battle"}
bug There's a murmur creeping down the halls as Jannik makes his way through the main courtyard, accessing the armory hall in long strides. It’s not just the usual clatter of metal, the hubbub of laughter and conversation. No, there's an undercurrent of something else, and Jannik can’t quite decipher if it’s excitement or apprehension. Maybe something in between. The armory of the palazzo is illuminated by the early morning sun, shining softly on the vaulted ceilings through narrow, arched windows high on the walls. The stone floor is smoothed out by three centuries of boots and weapons, now devoid of the straw they scatter to help with their footing in the winter. It’s a familiar room for Jannik, and so is the adjacent courtyard. He’s spent so many hours in here, training and sweating and fighting, that he could swear by every crack and curve of every stone. Above it all, painted by the entrance, is the Medici coat of arms, a golden shield bearing six balls, five red and one blue. The same coat is stitched onto Jannik's doublet, right above his heart. Jannik goes through the motions of his morning confidently: he strips off his cape and his belt, setting them apart, then loosens his doublet. His rapier is quickly exchanged by a blunt practice blade, but never left too far out of reach. Lorenzo’s already waiting, willing time away by staring at what looks like a bunch of new recruits. He’s not the only one: there are off-duty guards eyeing from the walls, laughing at the shouting instructions from the master of arms, which are getting increasingly frustrated. “Awful, huh?”, he says when Jannik steps up to him. He’s right: they look like lost sheep, out of sync, undisciplined, and potentially dangerous with an actual weapon, if he’s being brutally honest. “It wasn't that long ago that we were like them.” Lorenzo chuckles. “I don't recall ever being like them. And you certainly weren't.” “We all have to start somewhere.” With one last look, Jannik takes in the familiar mix of sweat, oiled leather and steel. Home. Then, he pats Lorenzo’s shoulder. “Come on.” They start side by side, warming up on footwork, using chalk lines scratched onto the floor as guidelines. Advance, retreat, passata, affondo. The goal is to focus on rhythm, balance and measure, to engrave them into their bodies until they come as naturally as breathing. By the time they run through their guards, Jannik’s already worked up a sweat. That's how he knows it’s time for sparring. Jannik loves fencing. Sometimes he thinks it might be the only thing he knows how to love, the only thing his body recognizes and its own. And so it feels natural, despite the thick leather gloves and the quilted sleeves, to take control over Lorenzo. He always tries to bait Jannik when they spar. Even though they've done this a thousand times before, even though, as of lately, Jannik never loses. He doesn't rely on brute force. Instead, he focuses on control, on precision, on counterattacking Lorenzo so his next step falters, and then executing a clean thrust to his torso with no wasted movement. On victory. Above all, the key is discipline. The sword is Jannik’s livelihood, but it is also his honor. There's a smile on Lorenzo’s face when he finally concedes defeat, but it is muted. Tinted with frustration, and just a little self-deprecation. But still he says, “Great match, as always”, and offers his gloveless hand for Jannik to shake. Jannik reciprocates. It is not until they're putting away their training swords that Lorenzo breaches the subject that's been on everyone’s minds today. “They’re supposed to arrive today, right? The Spaniards.” “I think so, yes.” It’s been the talk of the palazzo for at least a month. And, to be honest, Jannik’s been counting the days down. They're sending a handful of Spanish swordsmen to learn with them in Florence, to learn their particular style of swordfighting directly from its masters. It’s been framed as a cultural exchange, a source of pride both at a diplomatic and a martial level. See? They’re willing to travel here to learn from us. That's how important we are. It makes sense, Jannik guesses, that the Duke is willing to accept them, considering his recent marriage to a Habsburg. On the other hand, it also seems like a delicate maneuver. The Spanish are already in control of Naples, Milan and Sardinia. One would have to question how politically sound letting a bunch of soldiers into their home would be. The only consolation, at least in the eyes of the public, is that they’re Catholic. But diplomatic intelligence is not within Jannik’s purview. He’s a swordsman, a duelist. He serves the Medici. And he’s also really looking forward to seeing Nadal in action again. He had the honor of seeing him duel once, in a visit to Toledo when he was younger, back when he had just been taken under the Duke’s wing. They’d been received as a political envoy with high honors, but Jannik hadn't cared about the fanfare. He’d cared about the exhibition matches they’d set up as entertainment for the banquet though, and about the confident way in which Nadal’s rapier had cut the air. Jannik’s been chasing that ever since. Even though his body moves nothing like Nadal’s, even though his swordplay doesn't have the same feeling to it. That conviction, that grace – it’s what he trains for every day of his life. So Jannik wraps his belt back around his hips and tucks his own sword securely against his body, pushing down on the anticipation he feels. Lorenzo would think it stupid anyway, were Jannik to confess. “We’ll see what they can do”, he says instead. “Who knows, maybe we’ll learn a thing or two from them.” “God, don’t let anybody here hear you.” There's a ceremony that afternoon, led by military officials Jannik only vaguely knows the name of. It’s respectful, but not overly so. Jannik and Lorenzo are not in attendance, not important enough yet in the grand scheme of things. But it’ll come. In time. They do see the Spaniards walking around the palazzo that evening – a smattering of dark breeches and white-collared shirts, talking amongst themselves in the quick, flat rhythms of Spanish, and led by Nadal. Jannik tries not to stare as they walk by, and mostly succeeds. He doesn't the following morning, though. Because when Lorenzo and him walk onto the armory for their daily training, there’s one of them already talking to Simone. The master of arms shows him around, although Jannik hears what sounds like a reprimand for showing up outside of schedule. The Spaniard laughs, loudly, smiling sheepishly and stumbling his way through clipped Italian. “Sorry. I was excited. To train, you know?” As soon as he hears that, Jannik knows Simone won’t make trouble for him. He knows, because Jannik himself used to do exactly the same thing – raiding the armory at random hours, showing up outside of training timetables. Simone always acquiesced to his whims, probably more than he should’ve. He does now as well, showing the Spaniard the racks lining the walls, holding pikes, halberds, swords, rapiers and shields, the wooden chests with the fencing masks, the dummies in the corner. The man nods attentively and asks questions every so often, and even though Jannik’s too far away to hear them, he can see the interested tilt of his head. He’s in a neat but practical dark wool doublet, plain hose and leather shoes, shirt sleeves slightly loose for better freedom of movement. He’s already wearing gloves too, using them to grab the sparring rapier Simone hands him over. Jannik finds himself analyzing the man the way a duelist would his opponent. A bit shorter, but lean, and strong. Probably agile. Privately, Jannik yearns, with a purely clinical interest, to see him in action. The man turns away from Simone, catching Jannik’s eye from across the room, like he sensed the weight of the stare. After a second, he smiles. Jannik freezes, caught. Then looks away, refocusing on his own drills. “Are you okay?”, Lorenzo asks, staring at Jannik with an eyebrow raised. Then he looks beyond Jannik’s shoulder, following his line of vision. “Oh, were you looking at him?” Jannik shrugs. It’s not important. “Yeah. Just curious, I guess.” Lorenzo hums, agreeing, considering. “I’d like to see them, actually. Maybe I’ll stick around a little longer.” On the other side of the room, Jannik looks back to see the Spaniard set up a training dummy by the corner. “I’ll join you.” But first, they spar. It’s good, the fight. It helps Jannik recenter and refocus, letting the familiar dance of the sword take over him. These days Lorenzo is no actual threat to him, but for some reason that day Jannik feels better than usual. Sharper, faster. They circle each other lightly, familiar in their rhythms. Eventually Lorenzo makes a probing thrust toward Jannik’s chest, expecting a cautious parry. But he’s half a beat too slow. Instead of parrying, Jannik extends his arm in a straight line, lunging forward. His point slides neatly past Lorenzo’s guard, striking home on the padded doublet on the chest and stopping him on his tracks. Lorenzo freezes, staring down at the tip of Jannik’s blunt rapier pressing against him. It’s all shockingly fast, faster than Jannik usually troubles himself with for just sparring. After a beat he takes a step back and lowers his sword, refusing to look back as Lorenzo acknowledges the point. “Damn. What got into you today?” “Nothing”, he replies. “Come on. Again.” All the while, Jannik could swear he feels eyes on the back of his neck. — It’s interesting watching Simone try to drill Italian fencing into foreign soldiers. It’s obvious that they’re trained and skilled, their footwork quick and the right tempos ingrained in their bones. But it is also abundantly clear that the foundations of Italian fencing feel unnatural to them. Simone has them working in pairs, giving instructions and corrections and commenting with Nadal, who watches from the sidelines like Lorenzo and Jannik	bug There's a murmur creeping down the halls as Jannik makes his way through the main courtyard, accessing the armory hall in long strides. It’s not just the usual clatter of metal, the hubbub of laughter and conversation. No, there's an undercurrent of something else, and Jannik can’t quite decipher if it’s excitement or apprehension. Maybe something in between. The armory of the palazzo is illuminated by the early morning sun, shining softly on the vaulted ceilings through narrow, arched windows high on the walls. The stone floor is smoothed out by three centuries of boots and weapons, now devoid of the straw they scatter to help with their footing in the winter. It’s a familiar room for Jannik, and so is the adjacent courtyard. He’s spent so many hours in here, training and sweating and fighting, that he could swear by every crack and curve of every stone. Above it all, painted by the entrance, is the Medici coat of arms, a golden shield bearing six balls, five red and one blue. The same coat is stitched onto Jannik's doublet, right above his heart. Jannik goes through the motions of his morning confidently: he strips off his cape and his belt, setting them apart, then loosens his doublet. His rapier is quickly exchanged by a blunt practice blade, but never left too far out of reach. Lorenzo’s already waiting, willing time away by staring at what looks like a bunch of new recruits. He’s not the only one: there are off-duty guards eyeing from the walls, laughing at the shouting instructions from the master of arms, which are getting increasingly frustrated. “Awful, huh?”, he says when Jannik steps up to him. He’s right: they look like lost sheep, out of sync, undisciplined, and potentially dangerous with an actual weapon, if he’s being brutally honest. “It wasn't that long ago that we were like them.” Lorenzo chuckles. “I don't recall ever being like them. And you certainly weren't.” “We all have to start somewhere.” With one last look, Jannik takes in the familiar mix of sweat, oiled leather and steel. Home. Then, he pats Lorenzo’s shoulder. “Come on.” They start side by side, warming up on footwork, using chalk lines scratched onto the floor as guidelines. Advance, retreat, passata, affondo. The goal is to focus on rhythm, balance and measure, to engrave them into their bodies until they come as naturally as breathing. By the time they run through their guards, Jannik’s already worked up a sweat. That's how he knows it’s time for sparring. Jannik loves fencing. Sometimes he thinks it might be the only thing he knows how to love, the only thing his body recognizes and its own. And so it feels natural, despite the thick leather gloves and the quilted sleeves, to take control over Lorenzo. He always tries to bait Jannik when they spar. Even though they've done this a thousand times before, even though, as of lately, Jannik never loses. He doesn't rely on brute force. Instead, he focuses on control, on precision, on counterattacking Lorenzo so his next step falters, and then executing a clean thrust to his torso with no wasted movement. On victory. Above all, the key is discipline. The sword is Jannik’s livelihood, but it is also his honor. There's a smile on Lorenzo’s face when he finally concedes defeat, but it is muted. Tinted with frustration, and just a little self-deprecation. But still he says, “Great match, as always”, and offers his gloveless hand for Jannik to shake. Jannik reciprocates. It is not until they're putting away their training swords that Lorenzo breaches the subject that's been on everyone’s minds today. “They’re supposed to arrive today, right? The Spaniards.” “I think so, yes.” It’s been the talk of the palazzo for at least a month. And, to be honest, Jannik’s been counting the days down. They're sending a handful of Spanish swordsmen to learn with them in Florence, to learn their particular style of swordfighting directly from its masters. It’s been framed as a cultural exchange, a source of pride both at a diplomatic and a martial level. See? They’re willing to travel here to learn from us. That's how important we are. It makes sense, Jannik guesses, that the Duke is willing to accept them, considering his recent marriage to a Habsburg. On the other hand, it also seems like a delicate maneuver. The Spanish are already in control of Naples, Milan and Sardinia. One would have to question how politically sound letting a bunch of soldiers into their home would be. The only consolation, at least in the eyes of the public, is that they’re Catholic. But diplomatic intelligence is not within Jannik’s purview. He’s a swordsman, a duelist. He serves the Medici. And he’s also really looking forward to seeing Nadal in action again. He had the honor of seeing him duel once, in a visit to Toledo when he was younger, back when he had just been taken under the Duke’s wing. They’d been received as a political envoy with high honors, but Jannik hadn't cared about the fanfare. He’d cared about the exhibition matches they’d set up as entertainment for the banquet though, and about the confident way in which Nadal’s rapier had cut the air. Jannik’s been chasing that ever since. Even though his body moves nothing like Nadal’s, even though his swordplay doesn't have the same feeling to it. That conviction, that grace – it’s what he trains for every day of his life. So Jannik wraps his belt back around his hips and tucks his own sword securely against his body, pushing down on the anticipation he feels. Lorenzo would think it stupid anyway, were Jannik to confess. “We’ll see what they can do”, he says instead. “Who knows, maybe we’ll learn a thing or two from them.” “God, don’t let anybody here hear you.” There's a ceremony that afternoon, led by military officials Jannik only vaguely knows the name of. It’s respectful, but not overly so. Jannik and Lorenzo are not in attendance, not important enough yet in the grand scheme of things. But it’ll come. In time. They do see the Spaniards walking around the palazzo that evening – a smattering of dark breeches and white-collared shirts, talking amongst themselves in the quick, flat rhythms of Spanish, and led by Nadal. Jannik tries not to stare as they walk by, and mostly succeeds. He doesn't the following morning, though. Because when Lorenzo and him walk onto the armory for their daily training, there’s one of them already talking to Simone. The master of arms shows him around, although Jannik hears what sounds like a reprimand for showing up outside of schedule. The Spaniard laughs, loudly, smiling sheepishly and stumbling his way through clipped Italian. “Sorry. I was excited. To train, you know?” As soon as he hears that, Jannik knows Simone won’t make trouble for him. He knows, because Jannik himself used to do exactly the same thing – raiding the armory at random hours, showing up outside of training timetables. Simone always acquiesced to his whims, probably more than he should’ve. He does now as well, showing the Spaniard the racks lining the walls, holding pikes, halberds, swords, rapiers and shields, the wooden chests with the fencing masks, the dummies in the corner. The man nods attentively and asks questions every so often, and even though Jannik’s too far away to hear them, he can see the interested tilt of his head. He’s in a neat but practical dark wool doublet, plain hose and leather shoes, shirt sleeves slightly loose for better freedom of movement. He’s already wearing gloves too, using them to grab the sparring rapier Simone hands him over. Jannik finds himself analyzing the man the way a duelist would his opponent. A bit shorter, but lean, and strong. Probably agile. Privately, Jannik yearns, with a purely clinical interest, to see him in action. The man turns away from Simone, catching Jannik’s eye from across the room, like he sensed the weight of the stare. After a second, he smiles. Jannik freezes, caught. Then looks away, refocusing on his own drills. “Are you okay?”, Lorenzo asks, staring at Jannik with an eyebrow raised. Then he looks beyond Jannik’s shoulder, following his line of vision. “Oh, were you looking at him?” Jannik shrugs. It’s not important. “Yeah. Just curious, I guess.” Lorenzo hums, agreeing, considering. “I’d like to see them, actually. Maybe I’ll stick around a little longer.” On the other side of the room, Jannik looks back to see the Spaniard set up a training dummy by the corner. “I’ll join you.” But first, they spar. It’s good, the fight. It helps Jannik recenter and refocus, letting the familiar dance of the sword take over him. These days Lorenzo is no actual threat to him, but for some reason that day Jannik feels better than usual. Sharper, faster. They circle each other lightly, familiar in their rhythms. Eventually Lorenzo makes a probing thrust toward Jannik’s chest, expecting a cautious parry. But he’s half a beat too slow. Instead of parrying, Jannik extends his arm in a straight line, lunging forward. His point slides neatly past Lorenzo’s guard, striking home on the padded doublet on the chest and stopping him on his tracks. Lorenzo freezes, staring down at the tip of Jannik’s blunt rapier pressing against him. It’s all shockingly fast, faster than Jannik usually troubles himself with for just sparring. After a beat he takes a step back and lowers his sword, refusing to look back as Lorenzo acknowledges the point. “Damn. What got into you today?” “Nothing”, he replies. “Come on. Again.” All the while, Jannik could swear he feels eyes on the back of his neck. — It’s interesting watching Simone try to drill Italian fencing into foreign soldiers. It’s obvious that they’re trained and skilled, their footwork quick and the right tempos ingrained in their bones. But it is also abundantly clear that the foundations of Italian fencing feel unnatural to them. Simone has them working in pairs, giving instructions and corrections and commenting with Nadal, who watches from the sidelines like Lorenzo and Jannik are doing right now, their backs against the armory wall. They're not bad, but there's a clear difference in level between them. Lorenzo points with his chin. “Guy from before”, he says, and Jannik nods in agreement. His posture is upright and dignified, his feet probably used to moving in the circular steps of the Spanish school. But he takes well to instruction, and it’s not long until he’s sinking into a more forward-driving style, following Simone’s advice. “Like this. Quick, no hesitation”, Simone demonstrates, carrying out a meticulous strike. The Spaniard falls into position and replicates the move with impressive ease. “Perfect, perfect.” Jannik didn't catch his name. He does catch his eye, again, for one eternal second, before the man returns his attention back to Simone. Jannik’s forearms break into goosebumps. It’s not long until Lorenzo is tapping Jannik on the shoulder, signalling for the door. “Come on, let’s go. I’ve had enough.” Jannik’s reticent to leave, and he doesn't know why. He’s got the irrational desire to keep watching, even though he’s gone through this very same training himself, even though he mastered this ages ago. His back feels like it’s glued to the wall. “Jannik. Come on.” He’s being an idiot. “Yeah.” So he kicks off, ready to follow Lorenzo out. “Jan!” But then Simone calls him. When Jannik looks back, the entire squad is staring at him, training disrupted. Jannik walks over stiffly when Simone beckons him closer, introducing him to the Spaniards. “Gentlemen, this is Jannik Sinner, one of my most beloved students. Proven in many encounters, both friendly and mortal.” Then he turns to Jannik once more. “If you have the time, my new students have requested a little exhibition match. Would you help us with it?’ “Oh, uhm…” Several pairs of eyes bore into him, assessing, looking for a challenge. Both the guy from before and Nadal are staring as well, expectantly waiting for an answer. “Yes, of course.” Simone nods. “Thank you, Jannik. Who’s bold enough to take on my best student?” There's a moment of quick, heated discussion, then disagreement, and then one man steps forward. It’s him, of course. “It is good to meet you, sir. My name is Carlos.” The man bows, just a slight lowering of his head and his shoulders. His eyes are clear, friendly. “Carlos Alcaraz Garfia.” Jannik reciprocates the bow. “I always forget about the two last names. A curious custom, that of your kingdom”, he says, hoping for some levity. It works: Carlos smiles, showing off a row of imperfect but healthy teeth. “One for my father, one for my mother.” Slowly, the smile fizzles out, replaced by a tense, closed-mouthed grin. Simone might’ve framed this as a harmless exhibition match, but Jannik is no idiot: he’s conscious of the way Simone called for him and not Lorenzo, and he also knows why Nadal nodded as Carlos stepped up. A hushed silence falls over the armory as they stand in front of each other, their spectators forming a wide ring around them. Everybody else in the armory has stopped to watch, shamelessly interested in how this plays out. This isn’t just a friendly duel. It’s a cock-measuring contest. Jannik lowers his rapier, pointing it to the ground, and then raises it again in acknowledgment of his opponent. A formal salute, a silent show of respect between fencers. Carlos replicates the gesture. So Jannik poises himself, weight forward, eyes sharp. His body adopts the familiar stance easily, beaten into shape by long and painful years of practice, despite his awkward limbs. So he goes long and low, blade extended to command the straight line. Carlos mirrors him, but there's a certain restlessness in him. Almost lazily, he moves his blade in slow arcs in the air, eyes dragging across Jannik, dissecting him. The air feels thick between them all of the sudden, hard to suck into the lungs. Jannik shivers with something dangerously close to anticipation. Simone speaks. “May skill, and not luck, decide.” And so it begins. They start circling each other. Jannik keeps an eye on the straight cut of Carlos’ back, the almost relaxed set of his shoulders, the firm grip his gloved hands have on his sword. He lunges first. There's no fanfare about it: Jannik moves fast, decisively, straight for the heart. But Carlos’ blade turns like a compass needle, deflecting Jannik’s thrust as he steps aside in a smooth half-circle. He follows it up with a thrust of his own, grazing and slicing through Jannik’s right shirt sleeve. They break apart. There's no blood – Carlos didn't find skin, and anyway their blades are too dull to really hurt. Still, a wave of murmurs runs through the onlookers, making Jannik’s blood boil. He simmers himself down, not taking his eyes off of Carlos. Calm. Forza. He presses forward again. Jannik moves with an aggressive kind of precision, each advance hammering at Carlos’ line. Their audience moves and undulates to make way for them as Carlos takes several steps back, yielding ground but parrying blow after blow, denying Jannik the clean center he’s looking for. Again, they break away. The tension is palpable between them – Jannik’s started to sweat under his clothes, Carlos’ breathing has grown sharper, heavier. Their fencing styles are similar, and yet irreparably different at the same time. How strange, Jannik thinks. It feels… Peculiarly familiar, while still completely foreign. “Have we met before?” The words leave Jannik’s mouth without his permission, and he regrets them as soon as they tumble out. Too weird, too honest – the kind of untimely comment Lorenzo would advise him to keep inside. He half-expects Carlos to laugh, to dismiss him or make fun of him, but instead, he smiles. “I was wondering the same thing”, he replies, and then throws himself forward to attack. Jannik parries move after move, his brain silently cataloguing every detail in the way Carlos is moving. His style emphasizes circular footwork, an upright posture. He’s moving like he’s following imaginary circles over the stone floors, trying to maintain optimal distance, to control lines of attack and exploit openings. Jannik learnt from Simone to focus more on a linear kind of geometry, aiming for directness and speed. Forward and backward steps, lunges, a practical and precise way of prioritizing attack. It’s funny how balanced they are, while at the same time following completely different philosophies. But at the core of it, the problem boils down to the following: Jannik can’t predict what Carlos is going to do at all. He hasn't felt like this since he was a child holding a too-large sword for the first time. It’s terrifying. It’s amazing. They’re equals. He’s almost smiling, drenched in the quiet glee of physical exertion, of passion. Carlos himself is grunting with every thrust, on the verge of disbelieving laughter. The world around them falls away. Their blades meet, and the steel whimpers at the contact. And then it happens. Jannik overcommits. A thrust just a shade too long, a bit too slow. Carlos sees it: his arm extends, blade aligned, the opening Jannik unwittingly created appearing in front of him, finally. They're done. One lunge, and the match is his. For a heartbeat, Carlos’ weight shifts forward, finding the line. And then he lets the moment pass. Carlos’ rapier slides off-line, his wrist angling ever so slightly away. Jannik’s body moves before his mind can catch up to what just happened. His arm seizes the chance, lunging and finding Carlos’ black doublet with the tip of his sword. Cheers erupt around them. Jannik hears Lorenzo yell something, and Simone’ proud voice, but he doesn't register anything. He’s still looking at Carlos, who’s staring back at him in return. They're both panting. Something passes through them then, without the need to exchange words. Jannik lowers his blade, steel cutting through air. After a second, Carlos bows, dignified, then says, “Ah, I still have much to learn. Great match.” Jannik, speechless, nods. His eyes follow Carlos as he steps back with a calm kind of composure, receiving the comforting touch of his friends, the encouraging claps on the back. Jannik’s own shoulder is seized by Simone. “Great job, Jannik. Spectacular, as usual.” “Ah, thank you.” And then, “He’s great.” Carlos is great. And he just let Jannik win. — The thought stays lodged in Jannik’s mind the rest of the day, sharp like a jagged piece of glass. He knows he needs to pluck it out, before the wound gets infected. Even if it makes it bleed. So he goes through his day. He oils his sword, changes his clothes, takes his lunch and watches over court life. And in the evening, when time for dinner approaches, he seeks out Matteo. He’s on guard duty that night, and receives Jannik with the delight that only a man who’s bored out of his mind can feel. So Jannik asks about his shift, and agrees when Matteo asks for a few sparring sessions, and then – “Where are they tonight?” “The Spaniards?”, Matteo asks, and Jannik nods. There's always someone on them. Orders from the palazzo. They’ve been taking turns, Matteo said, watching. “Ah, I heard they like drinking in San Lorenzo. Looking there would be a safe bet.” He doesn't ask why Jannik is interested in their location. It’s a privilege that comes with being favored by the Duke. “Thanks, Matteo.” So Jannik steps out under the Arnolfo Tower, past the statues at the Loggia dei Lanzi, and walks west along Via Calzaiuoli. Even though the street is emptier now, during the busiest hours of the day it’s usually lined with shops of cloth merchants, crowded with townsfolk, criers, and apprentices running errands. Full of life. Now it’s empty and almost ghostly, illuminated faintly by the candlelight coming from a few windows above and spare torches mounted on walls. Jannik’s footsteps echo on the stone, carried away by the stillness. The risk of brawlers or thieves is higher now, but he’s not scared for himself. Once he reaches Piazza del Duomo he turns towards the San Lorenzo district, where the grand palazzi give way to a denser neighborhood. Shadows deepen the alleyways, mixing with the smell of emptied chamberpots and the coolness of a dry April night. But, soon enough, the smaller streets break into a district that grows life in the dark. Taverns, cellae and osterie spill light onto the stone floors. Jannik is greeted with laughter, dice games and even the occasional strum of a lute. It makes sense that the Spaniards would gravitate here: the company is rougher, more relaxed, less concerned with Medici eyes. But not completely unconcerned. The tavern Jannik walks into is not a refined establishment. It's noisy, cramped, half-lit, smelling of sweat, smoke and wine. When he pushes through the door, he finds it full with merchants and apprentices drinking after work, a handful of prostitutes, and a corner table completely occupied by Spaniards. They’re awfully obvious here. Just as loud as their Italian counterparts, but their clothes are still dark and austere and foreign, their voices and accents wrong. Jannik feigns a twitch of surprise when he catches their eye, waving a hand towards them in acknowledgement. The Spaniards reply with an off-key choir of greetings, and their cups raised. Ale seems to be flowing freely from them. But Jannik doesn't walk towards their table. Instead, he removes his felt hat and places it on the bar, finding himself an empty spot angled away from the corner. His cloak shifts as he settles, the end brushing the straw on the floor. When the maid comes over Jannik orders bread, cheese and wine, and then he waits. It’s not long until Carlos comes over, abandoning his table amongst what sounds like protests and teasing. He’s wearing well-fitted breeches but has abandoned his matching black doublet, left only in his shirt. The collar is open and loosened, showing the elaborate ruffle at the neck, the tan collarbones beneath it all. There's a golden crucifix wrapped around his throat, catching the warm light of the hearth. He slides next to Jannik with an empty cup. “Too shy to join?”, he asks, a smile already perched on his lips. This close Jannik can smell the leather on him, the scent of smoke from the fire and sweat from the day. It’s strangely comforting. “Ah, not exactly.” Carlos watches as Jannik signals for the attention of the maid, asking her to refill Carlos’ cup. She comes over in a flurry of skirts. “Here, for your friend”, she says. She smiles wider than usual at Carlos, but he doesn't seem to notice. Or perhaps he doesn't care. “That is what we are? Friends?”, he asks after the woman is gone. Jannik shrugs and takes a sip of his own wine, turning towards Carlos, catching his eye. They're hazel-green, a darker shade in the low light. “I don’t know. I don’t think I can be friends with someone who lost to me on purpose.” He tears a piece of bread, chewing it as he watches Carlos’ expression cringe. “It was obvious?” “For me, yes”, Jannik replies, swallowing. “For them, probably not.” He gives the words a moment to hang between them. “I’m not a fool.” “I never said you are.” “Then why did you do it?” “Oh, please, sir. You know we were not fighting for fun.” And Jannik knows. He knows that Simone might’ve taken offense if Carlos beat his best student so publicly, so soon, in their own armory hall. Knows that the Spaniards are accepted, but kept an eye on. Not completely trusted. He’s just so mad about it. Carlos moves a little closer, the corners of his mouth lifted. “But it was fun, yes, for you? It was for me.” Fun? Jannik laughs. He hasn't been able to stop thinking about it. His fingers itch to wrap around his sword, to challenge Carlos for his honor right there and then. Instead, his hands wrap tighter around his ceramic mug, a poor substitute. Carlos’ eyes flick towards the small movement, catching it. Fun doesn't even begin to cover it. Carlos lowers his voice then, no longer easy to hear among the laughter and the conversations and the noise of the tavern. More… Intimate. “It’s been so long since I felt so… So…” “Challenged?”, Jannik guesses, remembering the way Carlos had met him strike for strike, their swords dancing around each other like it was natural for them to do so. It’s been a while for Jannik too. “No. I don’t know how to say in your language. So… Connected.” Connected. Yeah, that works too. Somehow, Jannik knows what Carlos is about to say next before he even opens his mouth to do so. “Train with me.” “I already have a sparring partner.” Carlos makes a noise in the back of his throat, something close to a scoff but trying not to be. “I’ve seen you with him. He doesn't stand a chance against you.” Jannik doesn't know why he’s fighting this. “He’s my friend.” “He’s boring you to death.” Carlos is close now, too close, like they're having a private conversation or trading secrets. There's faint acne scars scattered across his face, half-hidden by the beginnings of a beard. “I’m better. You know I am”, he says, all conviction and the dogged desire of a wolf chasing prey. “You can become better with me. And I with you.” Suddenly, Jannik becomes aware of his own body. He’d somehow forgotten about it, too focused on the shape of Carlos’ nose and the fan of his eyelashes. His heart’s beating fast. There's something electric traveling up his arms and into his belly, something like what he felt this morning, facing off against Carlos. It wants to urge him forward, out of his seat, sword in hand. Later he’ll wonder if he knew what he was doing when he came searching to San Lorenzo. If he did really just want to get some answers, or if he was looking for something more. If part of him knew he would find it here. Carlos smiles. — They have a routine. Usually, Jannik and Lorenzo meet up at the armory for training and conditioning early in the morning, before Simone gets started with the recruits and the lower-ranked soldiers. They might go onto the courtyard if the weather is nice and warm, or stay inside otherwise. That day, however, Jannik wakes up before dawn. He skips breakfast altogether, gets dressed and leaves the safety of his rented room, careful not to make too much noise. When he walks into the palazzo and reaches the armory, Carlos is already inside. The day has just begun to break, so the high, narrow windows are still dark. That means the room is only illuminated by the torches Carlos must've lit, casting moving shadows on the floor. He turns when he hears Jannik walk in, already in a soft padded doublet and gloves. He’s holding a training sword. “Good morning!” he calls, face open and smiling like he’s pleased to see Jannik. “Morning, sir.” “Call me Carlos.” As if sensing Jannik’s surprise at the familiarity, he adds, “We’re sparring partners, yes?” Right. Jannik doesn't address the fact that Carlos no longer feels like a stranger. That he didn't already after their first match the day before. Even though they don’t know each other at all. Instead, he moves smoothly through the room, discarding cloak and hat, gathering his own blunt rapier and equipment. “Then you call me Jannik.” “Jannik.” Carlos tastes the sounds carefully, making the name seem harder somehow, chewier at the beginning, metal-like clunky at the end while forcing the k. It feels different on his lips, somehow. There's nobody else in the armory room yet, just them and the quiet slumber of the weapons, begging to be put to use. Jannik likes the calm of it. But inside, there's a certain fear running through his veins – fear that he might learn to love this. He’s overly conscious of the pair of eyes on him as he warms up. Jannik performs his drills mechanically, perfunctorily, letting his body take over for him, watching Carlos’ own frame move out of the corner of his eye. Suddenly, the whim hits Jannik like a punch. “Will you teach me?” Carlos looks up when he hears Jannik’s voice, his expression still so painfully open. “Would you like to learn?”, he asks, and then, before Jannik can reply, “We call it destreza. Our sword style, yes?” Jannik nods. “I’ve seen it before. I visited Toledo when I was younger.” “Did you see Rafa?” Something in Jannik’s face must be enough for him to tell. “You were lucky. What did you think of it?” Jannik remembers the graceful, smooth way in which Nadal had moved across the floor, the contained, raw strength embedded into his lunges. The same one he saw yesterday in Carlos. “It was beautiful.” Carlos smiles. A few timid rays of sunlight are starting to filter into the room, lighting him from behind like an oil painting. “You teach me, I teach you”, he declares, dropping into stance. “Vamos. Come here.” And Jannik goes. Time moves funny from that point onward. Carlos is a patient instructor, but sometimes he struggles finding the words he needs to explain himself, stuttering through his Italian. “You have to feel it. If you do not feel good, you are not doing right.” He appraises Jannik’s body with a mechanical interest, eyes moving up and down his body, following the lines of him. “You have good legs. Long. It gives you more range”, he says, as Jannik’s knees flex for better balance. “I have to be quicker against you, see?” Jannik sees. Carlos’ own legs are shorter, more proportional. Bulkier, filled in with muscle. And Carlos is also tactile. Jannik’s used to receiving corrections through touch, but it’s always been with the blunt edge of Simone’s sword poking him where he needed to improve, where he wasn't bending quite right. Carlos uses his hands. One always at Jannik’s shoulder, moving his elbow down, pressing gently at his hip to straighten it. It’s all, just – “Can we spar?”, he asks, a little out of the blue. Carlos’ gloved fingers hover just above Jannik’s right shoulderblade, threatening to find purchase there. It’s just – The touch is not bad. But it’s – “Yes. Of course. We continue with lessons tomorrow.” If he’s surprised by Jannik cutting him off, he doesn't show. He just leaves Jannik’s side, coming to stand in front of him. “Our footwork is not easy. The Italian way is so… Straight.” Jannik can’t focus. His body feels wired. He needs to let all of this… Energy out. And Carlos acquiesces, willing to be the conduit, willing to be the drain. He makes no comment when Jannik abandons everything he was just taught and moves straight into his usual form, a repeat of their match from the day before. Just like then, they start circling each other. Just like then, their swords meet. Simone finds them after Carlos takes the first point, greeting them with thinly-veiled surprise. He doesn't ask them to stop, just to move to the corner so he can set up his training dummies for the lessons. Jannik earns the second point, finding an opening after Carlos’ timing is just a little off while sidestepping, and grazing his left side with the blunt edge of the rapier. Carlos smiles when it happens, something raw shining in his eyes. “Again”, he calls. Jannik lunges. Soldiers and trainees filter in and out of the armory, watching the spectacle or keeping to their own training regimes. Jannik doesn't notice. By the sixth point he looks up to find Lorenzo there, arms crossed and staring at them. His face is shut off, smoothed out to blankness. How long have they been sparring? Jannik’s not sure. He’s drenched in sweat, he realizes, pushing matted curls out of his forehead. So is Carlos, both of them breathing hard, muscles strained and sore. Jannik realizes, reigning in a smile, that he feels fucking great. Lorenzo disappears out of sight when Carlos steps closer to Jannik, blocking him from view. “You’re so good”, he says, voice a little hushed and private. Jannik shivers. “Three and three, yes? Tomorrow I win, for sure.” He lowers his head in a lazy approximation of a bow, but Jannik doesn't take offense to the breach in protocol. He smiles instead, incapable of helping himself, infected with the mindless euphoria of a close combat, of whatever it is that passes through them when their swords lock. “You can try.” Carlos laughs, a bright sound drowned by the noise of metal on metal and boots on stone. His head then turns when he hears his friends walk into the armory. “Ah, I must go now.” “Won’t you be tired now for your lesson?” But Carlos makes a gesture with his hand, like, No, it’s fine. “I don’t tire easy”, he says, catching Jannik’s eye. Jannik’s breath stutters. But the moment passes as easily as it comes. And then Carlos walks over to his friends, and Jannik finds Lorenzo still there, watching. He hurries up to him. “Good morning! Sorry. Have you been waiting long?” Lorenzo’s brow furrows. “You didn't see me come in?” Jannik didn't. His awareness expanded to the space Carlos and him occupied, and only that. “Ah, no. I’m sorry. We can spar now, if you want to”, he offers, but Lorenzo shakes his head. “You’re tired. Rest now. I’ll find someone else.” The following day, the same thing will happen: Jannik will get too caught up in the fire of Carlos and will miss Lorenzo again. After a week, Lorenzo will start coming in at a different time, no longer on the same schedule as Jannik. Jannik’s fencing will improve. — Time moves fast, much too fast, as spring grows teeth and turns into summer, humid and oppressive. It rules over a city that has been eating itself alive for a while now, wanting to go back to the golden star it once was, and yet actively losing to Genoa and Venice. There's talk about riots out in the countryside, about bad harvests and hungry children. In the city, the price of bread goes up, just a little, just enough for the prickle of unease to take root. The guilds start lobbying in earnest by June, flooding in with petitions and visits and negotiations. Bakers, wool makers, silk traders. Jannik is deployed as a court marionette, entertaining and diverting, appeasing. “Do you like it?”, Carlos asks, watching as Jannik smooths fingers carefully down the edge of his blade, nicking himself on purpose, making sure it’s sharp. He’s leaning against the wall, shirt open and collarbones gleaming with a thin layer of sweat. If Jannik knew art, he would paint Carlos. As things stand, the only thing he can do is fight him. Carlos seems content with the arrangement. He still watches, unblinking, as Jannik sucks his thumb into his mouth, tasting the coppery tang of his own blood on his tongue. Carlos’ own lips part, and for a moment, Jannik forgets what the question asked was. “Do I like what?” Carlos shrugs, eyes finally moving up to Jannik’s own. He uncrosses his arms so he can gesture with one hand, waving it around them. “The politics. The, the… People.” After a second of silence in which Jannik doesn't know how to reply, he adds, “I’m not saying you’re bad at it. Just that, maybe, you would like a more simple life. More sword, less talking. Just seems to me.” Despite himself, Jannik smiles, thinking back to home and a more difficult existence back in the mountains. Carlos is not wrong though: it did feel warmer then than it does now. He misses his parents, his brother, misses the cold of the snow under his fingertips. The armory hall is the exception to a rule. Nobody else needs to know that. “You should come to Spain. You would like it, I think.” “Are you telling me there's no political intrigue in Spain?” Carlos laughs, loud and bright as always, the warmest of sounds. “Of course there is, but maybe they would leave you out of it. Unless they had something to gain from you.” Jannik cinches his sword back onto his hip, feeling the steady, familiar weight of it. “Do you have something to gain from me, Carlos?” Carlos doesn't reply. He just stares at Jannik, eyes dark and heavy, and Jannik feels a pressure behind his ribs that he’s never felt before. — In July, Matteo’s men get sent out onto the streets. The riot is cut short quickly and efficiently, mostly peacefully. The threat of organized state violence isn't always enough, but it is this time. Three wheat shipments were expected to arrive at the port in Leghorn the following week, straight from the Spanish Sicily, as a gesture of goodwill from the Habsburg. Only one makes it. The rest are sent deep underwater, with both cereal and crew. “Corsairs, I reckon. From Algiers, or Tunis”, Jannik hears an official say in the halls of the palazzo. Later, within the walls of the Duke’s personal office, he’ll see hand-written reports and sealed letters detailing the investigation, the testimonies of the surviving sailors. “I shouldn't have to tell you, son, but this is all confidential information. Nothing that you see or hear here makes it out, you understand?” “Of course, sir.” Jannik doesn't know with certainty who did it. What he does know is that, slowly, their pantries are getting emptier, and the streets angrier. — On a lazy summer morning at the market, Jannik spots one of Carlos’ friends hanging off a girl’s arm. Alejandro, he thinks his name is. Jannik recognizes him because he’s incongruously blonde in a sea of dark hair, and because his accent is even more southern and slippery than Carlos’ own. “Oh yeah, he said. He’s been courting her for a few weeks. Merchant’s daughter, I think”, Carlos tells him when Jannik asks over a cup of ale. Jannik knows her father, by reputation, if not personally. Head of an old local family, known for dealing with spices and dyes. Definitely well-off, moderately powerful. “Not bad”, Jannik replies, at a loss for anything more elaborate to say. And then, driven by a sick twist of something that pokes at him every time he sees Carlos in the low light of the hearth and the candles, he asks, “No merchant girls for you?” Carlos just smiles, eyes crinkled and teeth showing, and drinks. — By that point, the Spaniards have been in Florence for just over four months. Jannik gets whiplash looking back, realizing how quickly they seem to have integrated themselves in the city. Carlos himself seems to be comfortable enough in the palazzo, friendly with almost everyone despite the language barrier. And even that is a good reference point for the passage of time. Jannik remarks on it early one morning, when he realizes that Carlos, first thing at dawn, is stringing more elaborate sentences than Jannik himself. “Your Italian has improved so much”, he throws out, meant as a compliment but sounded like an observation. Carlos doesn't blush easily, not with his skin, but he does look pleased. “I’ve been reading”, he says, head angled down a little like a shy child. “And talking to you. It helps.” Inside the armory he’s almost on par with Jannik with the sword now, able to switch between Spanish and Italian fencing with a fluidity that Jannik would find scary, if he ever found himself on the other side of his rapier for real – if the sharp tip of it was ever shown to him with actual intent, rather than an enthusiasm bordering on desire. Simone praises him, both publicly and privately, more so privately. “You’ve become good friends, haven’t you?”, he asks once, mostly in passing. And Jannik realizes with a start that, yes. Yes, they have. It feels like a poisoned meal, sometimes. Carlos keeps Jannik warm, and fed, and satisfied in a way he’s never been before. He’s companionship, he’s a challenge, he’s something new and wonderful and exciting. And then he’ll smile, or Jannik will find himself staring at the plump shape of his lower lip, and he’ll feel like dying. It twists Jannik’s stomach up every time, chops it into neat little pieces to be fed to the crows in the town square. — It’s never as bad as when Carlos fights, although calling it fighting would be a disservice to him. It’s more like a dance, in Jannik’s opinion. It’s the middle of August when someone alerts Matteo who alerts Jannik of a brawl in San Lorenzo. When they do find it, it’s chaos. He hears the noise before he even reaches the piazza – the swarm of too many men packed in too little space. The town at its most shameless and unforgiving. Jannik finds at least thirty people on the street, making their way around fists, insults and overturned market stalls, the glint of metal under sunlight. The women are shouting from the windows, the merchants throwing buckets of water. Somewhere above them, church bells start ringing. And then he hears the Spanish. Apparently, he’ll learn later, it starts as some kind of honor dispute. Someone was hungry enough to blame the Spaniards for taking Italian bread straight from Italian mouths, which turned into an insult, which turned into a shove and eventually into a knife. A stupid fight, which shouldn’t have gotten so out of hand so quickly. Afterwards, when everything is cleared, a local artisan will be blamed for disrupting public peace. But right then, Jannik finds himself trying to push his way through the crowd, instinctively drawing closer and closer. He takes an elbow to the ribs, a shoulder slamming into his back, pushes a butcher’s boy to the side to move closer to the thick of it, searching for a familiar posture and unruly dark hair. Someone nicks his arm – a sharp, thin pain shoots up his nerves. And then he spots Carlos. He’s standing right in the middle of the brawl, sword undrawn and boots braced in the dirt, holding two men apart with obvious effort. Jannik can’t see who they are, only has eyes for Carlos and the tightness in his frame, the blood streaming from a cut above his brow, soaking his shirt collar. “¡Basta! Parad de una vez, por favor”, he’s yelling, trying in vain to reign them in. He ends up shoving both of them away, pushing them towards the outer edge of the fray, trying to get them out. Jannik’s heart lurches inside his chest. At that moment, he’s unsure why. Maybe it’s because Carlos is trying to protect, instead of punish, because he hasn't used the sword he’s so unfathomably good with. Maybe because he looks brutal, raw in a way Jannik hasn’t quite seen in the armory just yet, covered in dirt and blood and panting with the effort of survival. As if sensing the bloodlust running through Jannik’s veins like wildfire, Carlos turns around and sees him. His expression stutters with something like fear, followed closely by relief, and then something else entirely, something hotter. “Jan!” Before Carlos can reach him, someone runs into Jannik from the back, almost making him lose balance. He stumbles forward, catching himself, shaking off the hands clawing at him. Jannik’s already twisting himself around, arms up, when someone’s fist clocks the man straight in the face. It’s Carlos. The knuckles of his right hand dig into the man’s temple with a hard thud, knocking him out cold. He doesn't even make a sound as he falls, all noise drawn and sucked out by the angry crowd. That same hand settles on Jannik’s chest after less than a second, slamming flat and warm. “Leave”, Carlos says, staring up at Jannik with big dark eyes, a trail of blood decorating his face. His voice is strangely soft, too soft for a man in a riot. “Go, please.” “No. Not without you.” For a moment, the world shifts. The fight around them fades, feeling distant and muddy. For a moment, there's only them, and the blood pumping wildly in between. — When the Bargello arrive, the fight has already decreased in intensity, if not in size. The first, fresh burst of fury and desperation eventually gives way to the grey reality of tired and hungry men. It dissolves fast, fizzling out without much of a fuss. Jannik talks to the commanding officer as they make their arrests, pulling rank to protect the Spaniards. “It wasn't them that started this.” “They participated, though”, the officer says. Jannik will find out his name, mention him to Matteo, get him a reprimand. “It’s called self-defense.” He thinks of the blood on Carlos’ face, and how he was trying to protect others from themselves. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it before.” After, feeling five years older, Jannik finds Carlos waiting for him. He’s still there, orbiting in the background and looking even worse than Jannik feels, in a torn up doublet and a red-stained shirt. Jannik’s feet start towards him before he realizes he’s moving. “What are you still doing here?”, he asks, breath catching in his chest. He can still feel the imprint of Carlos’ palm on his chest, if he focuses hard enough. “You should go home. Rest.” “I had to thank my savior. You know, for keeping us out of a cell.” And then, despite the circumstances, Carlos smiles. Jannik thinks of the vengeful angels in the Bible, beautiful beyond human comprehension, executing God’s judgment, His divine wrath. He wonders if there's anything more sacrilegious than the heat he feels in that moment, staring down at Carlos and his bloody, swollen face. Jannik's throat feels dry, his mouth twitches. “Come on. Come with me.” They duck into an empty workshop, walking into a rear storeroom and closing the door with a soft thud behind them. The space is narrow, lit only by a high window, the light catching the dust they disturb as they move. The room is cramped with shelves and utensils and leather scraps, not meant for people and much less two grown men, but at least it’s quiet. Carlos lowers himself onto a stool with a huff, pressing his hand to his brow to stop the sluggish blood still trickling down his face. His other hand rests on his lap, knuckles split and raw from punching. He punched someone for Jannik. Still, he has the gall to mutter, “You should’ve stayed back.” “And left you bleeding on the street? Hardly.” It feels like a choice then, when Jannik kneels on the hard floor right in front of him. He senses more than sees Carlos’ attention being pulled tight, sharp, on him. They don’t acknowledge it. Instead, Jannik reaches for a small basin that's nearby, filled with water. “Let me see.” Gently, gingerly, Jannik pries Carlos’ fingers away from his brow. The blood is nearly closing Carlos’ left eye, a dark streak running down the side of his face. It doesn't look like the cut is deep, but it is messy. “You’re lucky it missed the eye.” Carlos huffs a breath that sounds like a choked laugh. “I’m lucky in many things.” Jannik doesn't answer. When Carlos closes his eyes, Jannik unearths a handkerchief from his pocket and dampens it with water, pressing it to the wound. Carlos makes a noise, a sharp inhale, more likely from surprise than from pain. But his breathing settles as Jannik dabs at the cut with gentle movements, getting used to the sensation. Jannik’s cleaned wounds before, both his own and others’. Training injuries, fencing cuts – it comes with the job. It’s never felt this delicate before, though. “You’re staring”, Carlos murmurs with his eyes still closed, his voice much too loud in the quiet of the room. “I can feel it.” “That I am.” Carlos does bleed beautifully, not that Jannik would ever dare say out loud. The pressure behind Jannik’s ribs grows worse than ever with every one of Carlos’ exhales he feels against his cheek, every time one of his thighs twitches and brushes against Jannik’s. “Give me your hand now.” Carlos opens his eyes, face cleaned, and hesitates for just a second before offering Jannik his right hand. Jannik takes it between both of his, observing the difference in skin tone. His own pale white, dusted with soft ginger hairs, Carlos’ honey-tanned, darker. His knuckles are busted open, just as bloody as his face was before. Jannik dips the cloth into the water again, watching it turn pink, and resumes his work. Carlos’ hand is warm despite everything, calloused from fencing, and still strong. When Jannik’s thumb just barely brushes across the ridge of his knuckles, his fingers twitch. “You don’t have to protect anyone, you know.” “And I don’t”, Carlos replies, but Jannik knows he would’ve punched his way through the crowd if that could’ve earned him peace on the street. Jannik lets it go, pretends to focus on the wound instead of the raw look in Carlos’ eyes. He says to Jannik, “You shouldn't have been there.” “I can handle myself.” “I know, but you can’t use your sword in a place like that. A duel, you do not worry me. Here, yes.” When Carlos’ thumb brushes the back of Jannik’s hand, it has to be a small, accidental touch, feather-light. It doesn't feel accidental at all, slicing right through Jannik. “Someone could’ve hurt you.” Jannik looks up, finding Carlos’ eyes just as big and bright as they were in the middle of the brawl, but softer now. He doesn't know what to do with them. It feels like one wrong move could send them spiralling down, or perhaps somewhere completely different. “I’m fine. I’m right here.” “I know.” A pause, and then, “That's what frightens me.” For a moment, it feels like neither of them breathe. And then Carlos’ weight tilts forward, leaning just slightly off the stool, close enough for Jannik to feel the warmth of him. Jannik’s heart does something weird inside his chest, a desperate, suicidal contraction fueled by pure, unadulterated fear. He dips the cloth in the basin again, lifting Carlos’ hand to clean the last streak of blood. Carlos freezes, stays put and lets Jannik work. When his hand is clean, he moves back with a noise, something breathy and painful. But, when Carlos doesn't pull his hand back, Jannik doesn't let go of it either.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75711246?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["bloodmoonforme"], "language": "English", "title": "bug"}
I've been ghosting, I've been ghosting along Harsh wind blows in ClownPierce's face as he walks into what seems to be a bar. The night is young, and she wonders in her domain, stalking him out of his body. This town is new for him, for he decided it was finally time to find an another harbor. Living as a nomad, it was his way of surviving in this world, occasionally taking bounties on various beasts roaming around. And oh, he was thriving. Escaping night before she finally gets him locked in her cold arms, jester adjusts his mask and walks into the tavern. A bunch of drunk idiots on his left, a pair dancing, lost their mind in buzzing sweet venom on his left. Those people disgust him, the show everything rotten they have inside to everyone. But hell, it wasn't rational to always think about how you dislike someone, so he just goes away, thankful that his mask doesn't let the smell go through. The girl behind the bartender's table was mixing someone's drink, so Clown approached slowly, humming a forgotten tune. The barmaid, easily realizing what he was up to, probably by his leather clothing, scoff armor and weaponry on his side, just waved to the side, where the board with different bounties hanged. He started closely examining it, looking for the next goal. Some of them were people, some of them were lost things, but most of them were monsters. This world was filled with witchery and monstrosities, but in most places there were only a few actually terrorizing people, most of them just lived outside villages, rarely even "visiting" folks. Farms and distant houses were the places they usually could be seen in. They weren't even scaring humans, most of them were just attracted by food and shelter. Of course, it was dangerous to have a monster of any kind as your guest, but it wasn't more dangerous than having an another person. They were something between a man and an animal. Clown has met many of them – werewolves, witches, demons and living dead. Personally, he didn't feel hatred for them, as he didn't think of himself as a human really. But it was his job, his main source of income and, well, fun. Staring at the board, something caught his sight. An old, rehung many, many times, yellow paper. «A terrible monster terrorizes a local redstone factory. 5 silver ones for the brave one, who kills it». It was in terrible condition, probably already hanging here for a decade or so. The way it was written was weird and alluring at the same time, so he leaned to read it clearer. It didn't offer a lot, but honestly, Clown stopped caring about the money – the thing that made him a hunter in the first place – a long, long time ago. Now, he just craved the thrill. The adrenaline that filled his blood each time an arrow shot him, or as his victim started running away. It was something that actually kept him alive, that gave him a sense to it all, a key to this cruel world, where he felt like a king, like it was made for him, or that he fit in perfectly, either way it was his. «Don't even think about doing this one if you want to still be walking this land alive by tomorrow's evening» – an old man man, who noticed how jester was looking at that paper, said. He slowly tilted his head, now analyzing the strange man. The scars on his face and the way his voice rattled hinting that maybe he was a hunter too. «Anyone who tried taking them down failed. It was lucky if the body was even found. The company keeps sending new workers there and then complains about that thing that keeps killing them!» – now it just felt like a tattle about a bad company policy, but Clown kept listening, and now, after sipping on his alcohol, continued – «I mean, man, if you really want to try your luck, go ahead, it's the one on the west of this town. God, you kids are fearless now, ha-ha..» Clown didn't answer to him. The old factory on the west, factory on the west.. ▪──── ⚔ ────▪ The next morning he was already standing outside the factory from the paper. It was, surprisingly, located away from the center of the town he was staying in. It was surrounded by shabby houses, probably abandoned by their owners when this «demon» settled in. The factory itself was beautiful, a tall building of dark polished slate with pillars and frames of oxidized copper, giving it a lovely contrast of black and marine-green, and, if it weren't haunted by that monster and were properly taken care of, it would probably be a town attraction and some fraud would get a ton of money just by showing it to the outsiders. Checking for his axe once more, he stepped into the factory finally. Inside it didn't really look like a monster's home should. It was exactly the opposite – the corridor, supposedly leading to the main room of the factory, was clear, empty even. Nothing but a bunch of cobwebs and dust on the floor. A strange sense, his gut told Clown to turn around suddenly while he was looking around – and it was right – right behind him was standing a pale young man, around his age or older by a few years or so, holding a long piece of metal above his head, disturbed while he was aiming for Clown's head. The man flinched when he saw that jester actually noticed him and very nervously said: «He-e-e-y.. you're.. not an intruder, right?» «What if I am?» The unsettling calmness in Clown's tone must have scared him because the man started stuttering and slowly put his "weapon" down. «Um.. Well, in that case you should.. should leave probably?» «Why?» «Well, you see.. there's actually a really scary monster, um, living here, and it might kill you.. and all» – he chuckled. «Then what are you doing here?» – Clown continued serenely. «Well-.. I just work here and uh, forgot something.. important,» «I see.» And with that Clown started walking farther into the corridor, with this weird guy catching up to him, and if he wasn't trying to chatter with the hunter, he would actually be noiseless, because his movements were completely silent. «Wait!! Hey, maybe.. maybe we should go there together? Don't really want to.. be alone here, ha-ha?» «You can follow me, just do not try to hit me with a pipe again.» «Man, i just– i just thought you were that..that monster! With your mask and.. and maybe.. maybe I'll just stop.. talking now..» Clown didn't argue with that. He was often mistaken for a devil by people, and that was one of the reasons he didn't stay long in one place. One of many reasons. He also didn't argue with that the man right beside him should stop talking. Speaking of which.. Clown kept staring, examining him. His skin was unnaturally white, and the way it covered his bones, showing and highlighting each one, and every gap, was drawing his attention. He looked as pretty and fragile as a porcelain doll. And his clothes were completely out of fashion. Clown too liked the older style, but that was a bit too old even for him. A shirt with layered sleeves and a puffy color, topped with a violet vest that he could swear was glowing. Overall, this man was artificial. He was looking to the side, avoiding eye contact, but still probably felt the hunter staring him down. «Um..what's your name?» – Branzy asked all of a sudden. «Why do you want to know my name?» – Clown wasn't a fan of small talks, or any talks in general, so the excessive interest in him the assassin found was quite annoying. «I just thought– we should know each other names.. I'm BranzyCraft, by the way..» «Well, BranzyCraft,» – he stopped before a door in the end of the corridor – «you don't get to know my name.» «Oh. Then I'll just call you Jester, i guess..» Branzy's voice gets quieter as they walk into a spacious rooms with tall ceiling and something resembling a pedestal in the center of it. The creepy spirit was haunting it, but they didn't actually see the monster, or its traces at least. Something was wrong – if the beast was really living here, it'd be a mess. But no, it's disturbingly clean (ignoring the dust in the air). Clown noticed a poster and after swiping the mix of dash and redstone it appeared to be a «motivational picture». The poster pictured a man in a gas mask with a pickaxe in one hand and a lever in the other, standing on a pile of redstone with a quote underneath «Take precautions!» and a date, about 60 years back from today's. «Yeah, workers used to be working without masks and getting terrible medical conditions. It's lucky that you have a mask.» – he giggled, with his hand over his, and for some reason it looked so sincere out of place and magical Clown gazed at him. And, just for a second they locked an eye contact, before Branzy looks away flustered, for some reason. «Ha-ah.. i think.. i think it was this way..» Clown stopped him in the middle of trying to run away. He put one of his hands before Branzy. It has always amused him seeing others be frightened by him. Maybe it was his terrifying aura, or his shining axe, or is voice, but in a moment the guy was looking all afraid and reddened, as jester asked: «Now, BranzyCraft, I have a question.» «Um.. what is it???» – Branzy swallowed. «You say that this factory is being terrorized by a "monster", so why are you still working here?» «Well, i think.. the monster around here is not causing any trouble usually, but it really despises outsiders, so every time they kinda.. forget it's here? So they send new people and they keep dying,» – he smiled briefly, his eyes unfocused, like he was thinking about something else – «Besides, this place still works well. Those corporations only want money, you know?» – then he notices Clown gaze again, and looked away. Clown wasn't a factory worker, or a corporation leader, so he just proceeded, and behind his back he could actually hear the very quiet sigh of relief, that sounded more like a little chirp. The silence and this weird unfamiliar tension made Clown forget his target for a brief moment. He was quickly reminded of it though, because now they've walked into a workplace, or what used to be it.	I've been ghosting, I've been ghosting along Harsh wind blows in ClownPierce's face as he walks into what seems to be a bar. The night is young, and she wonders in her domain, stalking him out of his body. This town is new for him, for he decided it was finally time to find an another harbor. Living as a nomad, it was his way of surviving in this world, occasionally taking bounties on various beasts roaming around. And oh, he was thriving. Escaping night before she finally gets him locked in her cold arms, jester adjusts his mask and walks into the tavern. A bunch of drunk idiots on his left, a pair dancing, lost their mind in buzzing sweet venom on his left. Those people disgust him, the show everything rotten they have inside to everyone. But hell, it wasn't rational to always think about how you dislike someone, so he just goes away, thankful that his mask doesn't let the smell go through. The girl behind the bartender's table was mixing someone's drink, so Clown approached slowly, humming a forgotten tune. The barmaid, easily realizing what he was up to, probably by his leather clothing, scoff armor and weaponry on his side, just waved to the side, where the board with different bounties hanged. He started closely examining it, looking for the next goal. Some of them were people, some of them were lost things, but most of them were monsters. This world was filled with witchery and monstrosities, but in most places there were only a few actually terrorizing people, most of them just lived outside villages, rarely even "visiting" folks. Farms and distant houses were the places they usually could be seen in. They weren't even scaring humans, most of them were just attracted by food and shelter. Of course, it was dangerous to have a monster of any kind as your guest, but it wasn't more dangerous than having an another person. They were something between a man and an animal. Clown has met many of them – werewolves, witches, demons and living dead. Personally, he didn't feel hatred for them, as he didn't think of himself as a human really. But it was his job, his main source of income and, well, fun. Staring at the board, something caught his sight. An old, rehung many, many times, yellow paper. «A terrible monster terrorizes a local redstone factory. 5 silver ones for the brave one, who kills it». It was in terrible condition, probably already hanging here for a decade or so. The way it was written was weird and alluring at the same time, so he leaned to read it clearer. It didn't offer a lot, but honestly, Clown stopped caring about the money – the thing that made him a hunter in the first place – a long, long time ago. Now, he just craved the thrill. The adrenaline that filled his blood each time an arrow shot him, or as his victim started running away. It was something that actually kept him alive, that gave him a sense to it all, a key to this cruel world, where he felt like a king, like it was made for him, or that he fit in perfectly, either way it was his. «Don't even think about doing this one if you want to still be walking this land alive by tomorrow's evening» – an old man man, who noticed how jester was looking at that paper, said. He slowly tilted his head, now analyzing the strange man. The scars on his face and the way his voice rattled hinting that maybe he was a hunter too. «Anyone who tried taking them down failed. It was lucky if the body was even found. The company keeps sending new workers there and then complains about that thing that keeps killing them!» – now it just felt like a tattle about a bad company policy, but Clown kept listening, and now, after sipping on his alcohol, continued – «I mean, man, if you really want to try your luck, go ahead, it's the one on the west of this town. God, you kids are fearless now, ha-ha..» Clown didn't answer to him. The old factory on the west, factory on the west.. ▪──── ⚔ ────▪ The next morning he was already standing outside the factory from the paper. It was, surprisingly, located away from the center of the town he was staying in. It was surrounded by shabby houses, probably abandoned by their owners when this «demon» settled in. The factory itself was beautiful, a tall building of dark polished slate with pillars and frames of oxidized copper, giving it a lovely contrast of black and marine-green, and, if it weren't haunted by that monster and were properly taken care of, it would probably be a town attraction and some fraud would get a ton of money just by showing it to the outsiders. Checking for his axe once more, he stepped into the factory finally. Inside it didn't really look like a monster's home should. It was exactly the opposite – the corridor, supposedly leading to the main room of the factory, was clear, empty even. Nothing but a bunch of cobwebs and dust on the floor. A strange sense, his gut told Clown to turn around suddenly while he was looking around – and it was right – right behind him was standing a pale young man, around his age or older by a few years or so, holding a long piece of metal above his head, disturbed while he was aiming for Clown's head. The man flinched when he saw that jester actually noticed him and very nervously said: «He-e-e-y.. you're.. not an intruder, right?» «What if I am?» The unsettling calmness in Clown's tone must have scared him because the man started stuttering and slowly put his "weapon" down. «Um.. Well, in that case you should.. should leave probably?» «Why?» «Well, you see.. there's actually a really scary monster, um, living here, and it might kill you.. and all» – he chuckled. «Then what are you doing here?» – Clown continued serenely. «Well-.. I just work here and uh, forgot something.. important,» «I see.» And with that Clown started walking farther into the corridor, with this weird guy catching up to him, and if he wasn't trying to chatter with the hunter, he would actually be noiseless, because his movements were completely silent. «Wait!! Hey, maybe.. maybe we should go there together? Don't really want to.. be alone here, ha-ha?» «You can follow me, just do not try to hit me with a pipe again.» «Man, i just– i just thought you were that..that monster! With your mask and.. and maybe.. maybe I'll just stop.. talking now..» Clown didn't argue with that. He was often mistaken for a devil by people, and that was one of the reasons he didn't stay long in one place. One of many reasons. He also didn't argue with that the man right beside him should stop talking. Speaking of which.. Clown kept staring, examining him. His skin was unnaturally white, and the way it covered his bones, showing and highlighting each one, and every gap, was drawing his attention. He looked as pretty and fragile as a porcelain doll. And his clothes were completely out of fashion. Clown too liked the older style, but that was a bit too old even for him. A shirt with layered sleeves and a puffy color, topped with a violet vest that he could swear was glowing. Overall, this man was artificial. He was looking to the side, avoiding eye contact, but still probably felt the hunter staring him down. «Um..what's your name?» – Branzy asked all of a sudden. «Why do you want to know my name?» – Clown wasn't a fan of small talks, or any talks in general, so the excessive interest in him the assassin found was quite annoying. «I just thought– we should know each other names.. I'm BranzyCraft, by the way..» «Well, BranzyCraft,» – he stopped before a door in the end of the corridor – «you don't get to know my name.» «Oh. Then I'll just call you Jester, i guess..» Branzy's voice gets quieter as they walk into a spacious rooms with tall ceiling and something resembling a pedestal in the center of it. The creepy spirit was haunting it, but they didn't actually see the monster, or its traces at least. Something was wrong – if the beast was really living here, it'd be a mess. But no, it's disturbingly clean (ignoring the dust in the air). Clown noticed a poster and after swiping the mix of dash and redstone it appeared to be a «motivational picture». The poster pictured a man in a gas mask with a pickaxe in one hand and a lever in the other, standing on a pile of redstone with a quote underneath «Take precautions!» and a date, about 60 years back from today's. «Yeah, workers used to be working without masks and getting terrible medical conditions. It's lucky that you have a mask.» – he giggled, with his hand over his, and for some reason it looked so sincere out of place and magical Clown gazed at him. And, just for a second they locked an eye contact, before Branzy looks away flustered, for some reason. «Ha-ah.. i think.. i think it was this way..» Clown stopped him in the middle of trying to run away. He put one of his hands before Branzy. It has always amused him seeing others be frightened by him. Maybe it was his terrifying aura, or his shining axe, or is voice, but in a moment the guy was looking all afraid and reddened, as jester asked: «Now, BranzyCraft, I have a question.» «Um.. what is it???» – Branzy swallowed. «You say that this factory is being terrorized by a "monster", so why are you still working here?» «Well, i think.. the monster around here is not causing any trouble usually, but it really despises outsiders, so every time they kinda.. forget it's here? So they send new people and they keep dying,» – he smiled briefly, his eyes unfocused, like he was thinking about something else – «Besides, this place still works well. Those corporations only want money, you know?» – then he notices Clown gaze again, and looked away. Clown wasn't a factory worker, or a corporation leader, so he just proceeded, and behind his back he could actually hear the very quiet sigh of relief, that sounded more like a little chirp. The silence and this weird unfamiliar tension made Clown forget his target for a brief moment. He was quickly reminded of it though, because now they've walked into a workplace, or what used to be it. 3 bodies were scattered across the room in a quite "creative" way, and, judging by their condition, they have been here for Angel knows how long and Clown again was thankful that he couldn't sense smells. He and Branzy just stood in a door way, starring. The first worker was stuck in a redstone machine, with its head smashed to pieces by a piston, dried up blood and rotten flesh mixed up with a rusty system almost indistinguishable from each other. The second corpse was hanging up on a table and it was unclear why they died, but the most interesting was the third body, if you could even call this pile of meat pieces a body. The monster must have a very, very unique taste in killing. «U-um, looks like another work accident..» –Branzy chuckled. And then he weightlessly hoped over the chunks of corpses to walk across the room. His movements once again were ethereal, not real, it's like he was levitating, reminding Clown of both a bird and a bunny at the same time. «Let's get going, Jester!» – as Clown has been brought back to earth with this line, he couldn't stop but... thinking about this guy. Why? It was the first time in his life when he thought about someone so thoroughly. He smiled again, breaking his afraid and nervous persona once things got bloody again. Branzy was like a puzzle, and it wasn't clear what his deal was. Clown hummed as he slowly walked to the opposite part of the room, to the door that led to a storage room. It was filled to the brim with chests, full of redstone, stone, and other machinery tools Clown didn't know the name of. The interior was meager, as there were nothing else, except for a giant – and by that he means absolutely ginormous – chandelier that seemed so out of place it attracted his attention. Who would even put a chandelier in a storage room? «They have a weird designer, I know..» – like reading his thoughts, Branzy said in a demonizing tone, before hoping up to the one of the chests and digging into it, looking for something. That's when Clown noticed a small button next to Branzy's hand. His intuition suddenly went up to him, screaming «It's a trap!!!!!!», shaking his shoulders in terror. And well, who else he could trust? So he moves a little bit farther away from this chandelier, right before Branzy clicks the button and it falls down with a loud thud and sound of glass breaking. But he doesn't flinch at all, just standing there for a few second before actually turning and noticing that Clown was just a meter away from being crushed by the lamp, his eyes clearly showing surprising, and, for a second, a bit of impression. A mix of emotion has stuck to his face: both annoyance terror, which he was very bad at hiding, before turning around and acting like everything was normal. «Oh.. Phew! SO lucky it didn't hurt you, Jester! Don't know what I would do if you got hit by that.. lamp..» «Yeah, don't know what I would do either.» – he answered teasingly. Now, Clown wasn't an idiot. Branzy, the man standing right before him, was a fraud, trying to get rid of jester the whole time. Everything about him wasn't right: the oddly weightless movements, his speech, the way his curls flowed unnaturally nicely every time he was making up his lies on the fly, covering his face with his arm, and maybe that last one wasn't so important, it all pointed to the truth – the truth about him not being a human. The truth he was trying so hard to hide, fooling the assassin all the way here, except for that he was awful at it, and now they both just waited for the moment all facades can be torn down. And Branzy was getting desperate to put Clown down, because now his mask starts slipping and he doesn't cover the malicious intent he has when he jumps to the door in order to block the way out, throwing around his sweet, sweet words. «Well, I got that thing i was looking for, let's get out now! But before that..» – he swallowed with a nervous laugh as he saw Clown grab the handle of one of his knives. The next second a knife is stuck in the wall right near his head, and he starts escaping in panic. Oh, Clown was waiting for that. Finally, no need to pretend, to play along. Now it's just a hunter and it's prey. The assassin sprinted, chasing Branzy through the door. Overstepping the remains, he quickly aimed another of his throwing knives for Branzy's chest. It squeaked when it saw the weapon flying to him, escaping it moments before it would hit him. And by that time the jester had already jumped to him with his sword. Branzy, sweating, it rapidly grabbed the sword that was swung at him, and ran to the center of the factory, a spacious battle filed. With stolen sword in its hands, he stopped sticking to the ground and no longer was hiding his nature, as his body flew up, it was now clear who he is. An allay. Branzy might have had an advantage of being able to float, but Clown was way more skilled and fast, and it didn't took him long to catch up. It was fair to say that it tried its best, dealing some damage, but most of his hits missed just because of sheer anxiety and shock of holding something so heavy – it's just swung the knife up and down, not being able to aim normally. Clown, on the other hand.. He, the hunter, just slowly approached, having his victim cornered and messed up, laughing. Oh Angel, that feeling! That inspiring, burning feeling inside his chest! He felt he might fly himself now, just how intense and overcoming it was! While Branzy was trying to catch his breath, Clown just hummed the very same tune, but now it made him feel a bit funny for some reason, not like it mattered, because he didn't focus on it, but on his prey, who's sight kept following that favorite axe of his. Branzy tried attacking back, flying all over the room, but Clown always was on his tail. Its wings were moving nervously, shivering, which did not play to its favor. «Come on wings, please.. Oh, Angel.. please..» – it mumbled under its nose. «You don't need to pray honey, that dead brat won't save you now!» – Clown shouted playfully across the room, making Branzy whimper. Now jester was just playing, like a cat plays with his half-alive caught mouse, throwing it up in the air. The allay was slowly getting tired, and he started coming down slowly over the time, the sound of metal fading. And then, in its most vulnerable moment Clown suddenly jumped with his axe ready to deal the final blow, but the creature quickly hung up his sword at the last moment, getting them both stuck in each other reach of attacking. Panting, Clown held his axe up to Branzy's neck, and grinned under his mask. «Name one reason why I shouldn't kill you right now.» The allay seemed so shocked with this question, a silent "what?" present in his beautiful eyes. Quickly, it said the first thing on its mind. «B-because I'm.. pretty???» «Eh, fair enough.» «Wait, really?» «No.» Branzy lowered his weapon for a second and it was the most crucial decision he made, because right after it Clown has pinned it to the wall, it dropping the knife out of shock, and now one hand was wrapped around his neck and the second was threatening him with an axe. It seemed like the result was obvious, but then the allay became serious, shifting the tone of his voice, looking right where jester's eyes were- «Jester, oh, i can see it by the way that you talk and fight, you're not from around here– and, Angel, you have no idea what you've got yourself into. You may think you're the best, don't you? But those creature around here, they're not the same.. You're lucky that I was your first encounter,» – he caught up on his breath, still not breaking the eye contact, – «and look.. how about a deal? I help you on your hunting duty, and you leave this factory and never touch it again, um..» Clown's eyes squinted. An ally? How funny. Having a second pair of eyes in this land could be useful, then again, who does this spirit think he is? Clown could just end him here. And then Clown made the most irrational decision in his whole life. He put down the weapon. Branzy dropped to the ground, and ClownPierce backed away, giving him space. As he watched it struggle in disbelief, he couldn't help but smile, not grin, but genuinely smile. «It's a deal, then.»	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75713856/chapters/198026556	{"authors": ["crendel"], "language": "English", "title": "I've been ghosting, I've been ghosting along"}
The Anorak & The Eromancer There were numerous factors which lent to the general perception of the boat ride to have been already short of bearable for young Hermione Granger, not the least of which was the fact that her bottom was wider than the breadth of the canoe's splintery driftwood seating. With a mounting sense of anxiety the fledgling sorceress clung to the vessel for dear life, a persistent precarious wobbling being a property the two held in kind. The only sound on that inky black lake, save for the occasional bloop or splash caused by Hermione's added heft, were the quiet snickers and whispers made as the passengers of the other boats beheld the spectacle. She must have looked ridiculous, Hermione thought to herself. Hips bulging out over either side of the canoe, the only non-uniform silhouette in the small fleet. She stuck out like a sore thumb, what a first impression she had made to her peers. Those thoughts were purged from Hermione's mind, however, when her gaze was drawn opposite the water. Locked onto the towering spires of the castle before her. Its dignified peaks kissed the sky, stirring in the small girl a feeling of vertigo as the vessel carried her silently across the moat and into the docks below the grounds. "So this is Hogwarts." were the only words that the flabbergasted first-year could call to mind. For the first time in her life, she was utterly befuddled by the sheer scale of the structure she now found herself at the base of. Such an ancient and important building. She had read so much about it, but it could never have prepared her. The magnitude, the majesty, the history of such a place. The stone walls around her were crumbling and ancient, but had lost not a shred of their stability. They had eroded with time less like a man made structure and much more like a great mountain or canyon ridge, seemingly eternal and unflinching to the elements. The school felt to her unlike any building she had entered in her life. Where most had support beams, Hogwarts might as well have had its own organic bones. She could hardly process that she would be calling such a monument her home for the remainder of the year. "Come along now students, we don't want anybody getting lost or left behind!" Hermione was snapped out of her reverie by a gruff, kind voice that sounded vaguely familiar to her. She quickly glanced over at the speaker; an impossibly towering figure wider than she was tall. He dressed in heavy furs, every shade of grey and brown and orange. Rubeus Hagrid had been his name, the groundskeeper in charge of leading the first-year students across the lake. A herd of little black-cloaked bodies stepped orderly in past him as he counted their heads. Hermione winced as the man's large heavy hand bopped against the top of her hood with more force than he likely intended, she decided that must be how a baby kitten felt while being pet by a clumsy boy. Once inside the narrow halls, Hermione looked around at the other first-years. They had broken off into small groups, seeming to have already started getting to know each other and sewing the early seeds of what would blossom into lasting friendships. She wanted to join a group of her own, but she felt intimidated by the crowd of hooded strangers. She had no idea who any of them were, if they shared any interests, whether or not they were the sort of person she would even want to make friends with in the first place. It was just as she was preparing to risk an introduction to a cheery looking girl with blonde pigtails when Hermione heard it again. The performative whispering, entirely unconcerned with actual secrecy. It came from a boy behind her, though it would be impossible to tell which. She didn't make it all out, just the familiar words that she had heard whispered behind her back hundreds of times. "pswsswsswss wsswss psswss BUTT CHEEKS psswswssws pssws wsswsspss" Then came the snickering and the giggling. The boys repeated the words amongst themselves. She thought she would at least have until she removed her thick cloak before they would begin making fun of her, but no. That stygian boat ride had revealed her peculiarity sooner than she could ever have prepared for. The truth was that Hermione possessed a certain physical abnormality. Lipodystrophy, her doctor had called it. For as long as she could remember, her body kept the vast majority of itself petite and scrawny, storing all fat directly in the girl's rear end and causing it to bloat to absurd cartoonish proportions. She sighed frustratedly. It was a challenge she was used to and prepared for, it just also happened to be one that she wished wasn't intruding on such a pivotal moment. The whispers got louder as the laughter grew and the boys' desire to revel in the joke began to outweigh their concern for discretion. "She'll be hufflepuffing for air after lugging that thing up all the stairs!" "That's if she can even fit through the gryffin-door!" "No no, you guys, she'll be in Professor Snape's house for sure! One look at her and he'll be dying to slither in!" "Can't blame him! I don't think you could raven-claw me off her if you tried!" It wasn't the fact that they were making jokes about her that upset Hermione. She had heard them all before and honestly the young girl just appreciated that there was actually some wordplay being attempted. The part that upset her was the framing device for their teasing. The houses, each representing a proud defining trait to be exemplified and nurtured in every member, each intended to recognize and embrace the potential of every student. She could be the smartest in Ravenclaw, the most loyal Hufflepuff, the bravest Gryffindor, even the most powerful Slytherin. They had covered every house, made a joke out of every possible outcome so that no matter what happened that night Hermione would still be laughed at. No matter who she was, it wouldn't change a thing. To them she was still just the girl with the huge bottom. It took a moment for Hermione to realise that the crowd was moving on past her, and just as she pulled herself from her melancholia enough to take a step forward, she felt something that she couldn't believe. She had been harassed, teased, bullied, everything under the sun for years, but nothing so brazen as this. Hermione felt a quick but deliberate slap cut through the musty air and land firmly across her right butt cheek. She felt her joints turn to stone, face frozen in shock. Once her brain had performed its necessary rebooting procedure, she spun around indignantly with her fists clenched at her sides. Hermione glanced frantically around the room, but suddenly nobody was whispering or snickering anymore. In fact, not a soul was even making eye contact with her. Exasperated, the girl deflated as she realized that it would be impossible to ever figure out who had touched her. She felt tears well up in her eyes, her face was growing hot and her arms were shaking. It wasn't until she took off running from the group that she heard the snickering and whispering of the boy's resume. Hermione sat with her head in her hands, quietly sobbing in the end stall of the second floor bathroom. That seemed to have been the final straw for her self control, she fell apart. Her brain replayed all the comments and jeers she had experienced leading up to today. Every instance of discomfort and torment, laughing at her every step. If entering a whole new world of magic and mystery didn't stop the ridicule, would anything? Would she ever be free of the humiliation? The tears streamed down her face, she knew it was stupid but she couldn't stop them. She had never cared what dumb boys thought of her, but the start of her new life being stained by such depravity was just too far. "Perhaps I can learn some sort of magic spell to shrink my bottom..." The red-faced little witch thought to herself sorrowfully. "Then maybe they'd see my talents and not just my body." It was a silly thought, but it did make her feel just a little bit better. Of course she didn't actually plan to change her body over some brainless chirping. No, what brought a smile to her face was the realisation that magical solutions were no longer just foolish daydreams for sad little girls. A solution didn't feel like such a far off unattainable prospect. It felt instead more like a college level math problem. Difficult, a little incomprehensible to her nascent intellect, but absolutely possible given enough study and dedication. Hermione shot up to her feet, massive thighs rubbing against both walls of the cramped stall. She had made up her mind, she would learn so much magic so well that everyone would be forced to see her for her brilliant mind. She would learn every spell in every book and practice them all to perfection. Hermione resolved that she would become the most skilled student at Hogwarts. Once she had finally dried her face, Hermione exited the bathroom praying that she hadn't missed the sorting ceremony. It had been practically all anybody was talking about on the boat ride to the castle, and she wasn't about to forfeit such an honour because of some bullies. She opened the bathroom door gingerly, stepping out into the hall with a sheepish pout. Once she was sure nobody would be around to make fun of her, she took off briskly speed-walking back towards the great hall, an action which caused her large heavy cheeks to bounce and clap against each other dramatically. Hermione blushed as she heard the soft yet distinct plap-plap-plapping of her own butt echo through the expansive hall, grateful that nobody was around to perceive the humiliating spectacle. Still, her fate meant more to her than arriving in style. She allowed her mind to wander just for a moment, pondering which house she might be sorted into. It always was those innocuous harmless little details which seemed so simple in the moment that in hindsight so obviously became the keys of one's ruin. Such a	The Anorak & The Eromancer There were numerous factors which lent to the general perception of the boat ride to have been already short of bearable for young Hermione Granger, not the least of which was the fact that her bottom was wider than the breadth of the canoe's splintery driftwood seating. With a mounting sense of anxiety the fledgling sorceress clung to the vessel for dear life, a persistent precarious wobbling being a property the two held in kind. The only sound on that inky black lake, save for the occasional bloop or splash caused by Hermione's added heft, were the quiet snickers and whispers made as the passengers of the other boats beheld the spectacle. She must have looked ridiculous, Hermione thought to herself. Hips bulging out over either side of the canoe, the only non-uniform silhouette in the small fleet. She stuck out like a sore thumb, what a first impression she had made to her peers. Those thoughts were purged from Hermione's mind, however, when her gaze was drawn opposite the water. Locked onto the towering spires of the castle before her. Its dignified peaks kissed the sky, stirring in the small girl a feeling of vertigo as the vessel carried her silently across the moat and into the docks below the grounds. "So this is Hogwarts." were the only words that the flabbergasted first-year could call to mind. For the first time in her life, she was utterly befuddled by the sheer scale of the structure she now found herself at the base of. Such an ancient and important building. She had read so much about it, but it could never have prepared her. The magnitude, the majesty, the history of such a place. The stone walls around her were crumbling and ancient, but had lost not a shred of their stability. They had eroded with time less like a man made structure and much more like a great mountain or canyon ridge, seemingly eternal and unflinching to the elements. The school felt to her unlike any building she had entered in her life. Where most had support beams, Hogwarts might as well have had its own organic bones. She could hardly process that she would be calling such a monument her home for the remainder of the year. "Come along now students, we don't want anybody getting lost or left behind!" Hermione was snapped out of her reverie by a gruff, kind voice that sounded vaguely familiar to her. She quickly glanced over at the speaker; an impossibly towering figure wider than she was tall. He dressed in heavy furs, every shade of grey and brown and orange. Rubeus Hagrid had been his name, the groundskeeper in charge of leading the first-year students across the lake. A herd of little black-cloaked bodies stepped orderly in past him as he counted their heads. Hermione winced as the man's large heavy hand bopped against the top of her hood with more force than he likely intended, she decided that must be how a baby kitten felt while being pet by a clumsy boy. Once inside the narrow halls, Hermione looked around at the other first-years. They had broken off into small groups, seeming to have already started getting to know each other and sewing the early seeds of what would blossom into lasting friendships. She wanted to join a group of her own, but she felt intimidated by the crowd of hooded strangers. She had no idea who any of them were, if they shared any interests, whether or not they were the sort of person she would even want to make friends with in the first place. It was just as she was preparing to risk an introduction to a cheery looking girl with blonde pigtails when Hermione heard it again. The performative whispering, entirely unconcerned with actual secrecy. It came from a boy behind her, though it would be impossible to tell which. She didn't make it all out, just the familiar words that she had heard whispered behind her back hundreds of times. "pswsswsswss wsswss psswss BUTT CHEEKS psswswssws pssws wsswsspss" Then came the snickering and the giggling. The boys repeated the words amongst themselves. She thought she would at least have until she removed her thick cloak before they would begin making fun of her, but no. That stygian boat ride had revealed her peculiarity sooner than she could ever have prepared for. The truth was that Hermione possessed a certain physical abnormality. Lipodystrophy, her doctor had called it. For as long as she could remember, her body kept the vast majority of itself petite and scrawny, storing all fat directly in the girl's rear end and causing it to bloat to absurd cartoonish proportions. She sighed frustratedly. It was a challenge she was used to and prepared for, it just also happened to be one that she wished wasn't intruding on such a pivotal moment. The whispers got louder as the laughter grew and the boys' desire to revel in the joke began to outweigh their concern for discretion. "She'll be hufflepuffing for air after lugging that thing up all the stairs!" "That's if she can even fit through the gryffin-door!" "No no, you guys, she'll be in Professor Snape's house for sure! One look at her and he'll be dying to slither in!" "Can't blame him! I don't think you could raven-claw me off her if you tried!" It wasn't the fact that they were making jokes about her that upset Hermione. She had heard them all before and honestly the young girl just appreciated that there was actually some wordplay being attempted. The part that upset her was the framing device for their teasing. The houses, each representing a proud defining trait to be exemplified and nurtured in every member, each intended to recognize and embrace the potential of every student. She could be the smartest in Ravenclaw, the most loyal Hufflepuff, the bravest Gryffindor, even the most powerful Slytherin. They had covered every house, made a joke out of every possible outcome so that no matter what happened that night Hermione would still be laughed at. No matter who she was, it wouldn't change a thing. To them she was still just the girl with the huge bottom. It took a moment for Hermione to realise that the crowd was moving on past her, and just as she pulled herself from her melancholia enough to take a step forward, she felt something that she couldn't believe. She had been harassed, teased, bullied, everything under the sun for years, but nothing so brazen as this. Hermione felt a quick but deliberate slap cut through the musty air and land firmly across her right butt cheek. She felt her joints turn to stone, face frozen in shock. Once her brain had performed its necessary rebooting procedure, she spun around indignantly with her fists clenched at her sides. Hermione glanced frantically around the room, but suddenly nobody was whispering or snickering anymore. In fact, not a soul was even making eye contact with her. Exasperated, the girl deflated as she realized that it would be impossible to ever figure out who had touched her. She felt tears well up in her eyes, her face was growing hot and her arms were shaking. It wasn't until she took off running from the group that she heard the snickering and whispering of the boy's resume. Hermione sat with her head in her hands, quietly sobbing in the end stall of the second floor bathroom. That seemed to have been the final straw for her self control, she fell apart. Her brain replayed all the comments and jeers she had experienced leading up to today. Every instance of discomfort and torment, laughing at her every step. If entering a whole new world of magic and mystery didn't stop the ridicule, would anything? Would she ever be free of the humiliation? The tears streamed down her face, she knew it was stupid but she couldn't stop them. She had never cared what dumb boys thought of her, but the start of her new life being stained by such depravity was just too far. "Perhaps I can learn some sort of magic spell to shrink my bottom..." The red-faced little witch thought to herself sorrowfully. "Then maybe they'd see my talents and not just my body." It was a silly thought, but it did make her feel just a little bit better. Of course she didn't actually plan to change her body over some brainless chirping. No, what brought a smile to her face was the realisation that magical solutions were no longer just foolish daydreams for sad little girls. A solution didn't feel like such a far off unattainable prospect. It felt instead more like a college level math problem. Difficult, a little incomprehensible to her nascent intellect, but absolutely possible given enough study and dedication. Hermione shot up to her feet, massive thighs rubbing against both walls of the cramped stall. She had made up her mind, she would learn so much magic so well that everyone would be forced to see her for her brilliant mind. She would learn every spell in every book and practice them all to perfection. Hermione resolved that she would become the most skilled student at Hogwarts. Once she had finally dried her face, Hermione exited the bathroom praying that she hadn't missed the sorting ceremony. It had been practically all anybody was talking about on the boat ride to the castle, and she wasn't about to forfeit such an honour because of some bullies. She opened the bathroom door gingerly, stepping out into the hall with a sheepish pout. Once she was sure nobody would be around to make fun of her, she took off briskly speed-walking back towards the great hall, an action which caused her large heavy cheeks to bounce and clap against each other dramatically. Hermione blushed as she heard the soft yet distinct plap-plap-plapping of her own butt echo through the expansive hall, grateful that nobody was around to perceive the humiliating spectacle. Still, her fate meant more to her than arriving in style. She allowed her mind to wander just for a moment, pondering which house she might be sorted into. It always was those innocuous harmless little details which seemed so simple in the moment that in hindsight so obviously became the keys of one's ruin. Such a simple, innocent little thought. Such a brief fleeting lapse in concentration. Nevertheless, it was enough time for the magical staircase to move out from under the girl just as her foot took that step. That step that, in another life, might have led her to friendship, or love, or glory. That step that sent her plummeting down, down, down into a dark uncertain future, and while the enchantments of the castle protected her from physical harm, the damage to the little witch's fate had already been done. For there it was, at the base of that nexus of rotating stairs, just outside the dungeon that served as the Slytherin dormitory, that her big brown eyes first locked with that cursed gold that shone behind his. That glimmering honeyed esca, a pair of brilliant citrine quartz peeking out from a jagged nest of jutting jet black stone. The man she would come to know as Aurelius Thorne. - - - Sparks may as well have ignited the air where his eyes met hers. The girl had looked to him like a broken discarded doll, strewn about the floor awkwardly and swathed in the dark fabric of a first-year yet to be sorted. Aurelius cocked his head to the side and stepped forward. The girl scooted back in response. "Oh come now. That's no way to address a professor is it?" he mocked in a tauntingly condescending tone, reaching out a long arm towards the fallen girl. She seemed hesitant and uncomfortable. After a long silence, the girl took his hand and rose to her feet with his assistance. "You're a professor?..." The small witch asked as politely as one could ask such a rude question. Aurelius scoffed. "No, as a matter of fact I am not a professor. My point is that for all you know I could be one. You should always treat your upperclassmen with respect, girl." She was aware that she had committed some faux pas and didn't want to come across as impolite, but he had lied to her in the same breath as his introduction, no matter how briefly. She supposed they were mutually at fault. Her eyes darted around for any sort of exit as she searched desperately for the right thing to say. Aurelius beat her to the punch, bowing politely and extending his right arm to his side in a chivalrous princely display. "Aurelius Thorne, of house Slytherin." He introduced himself confidently, his face not even beginning to betray any indication of impatience, irritation, or displeasure. Hermione gulped before stepping forward and offering a nervous hand. "Hermione Granger... I- AAAH!" Hermione jumped back in shock as something rough and leathery pricked at her hand. To her shock, in place of the kiss on the wrist that was expected, the young girl's hand had been prodded at by a long slender white snake that coiled around the man's arm under his robe. He didn't seem offended or even surprised. If anything, he seemed amused. Maybe even satisfied. "Ah, how uncouth of me. I failed to properly introduce Datura. There's no need to be frightened of her, she's very well trained." The reptile slithered her way up his arm, disappearing under his robe before poking her head up beside his to nuzzle the wizard's neck. "Are you afraid of snakes, Hermione Granger?" He asked politely. Hermione didn't respond, her eyes still glued to the reptile in shock. "Don't worry." He said calmly, leaning forward with his arm outstretched once again. Hermione raised a shaking hand. "I wouldn't say I'm afraid of them..." She began. "It's just that... well they're rather dangerous. I know that they're an important magical tool but, well I always felt it's sort of an odd thing to be fascinated by a creature that only lives to hunt, kill and devour." Aurelius smiled. It was a different smile than before, it took Hermione a moment to realize why. He was smiling with his eyes. All of the other grins that the strange man had used were movements of his lips alone. This smile felt genuine. Warm. Something about it was oddly disarming. "Most children fear the serpent because they do not understand her. Your fear is quite conscious. You know her well enough to be threatened." Aurelius stepped forward as he spoke, the young girl unable to step back lest she lose her balance. The wizard loomed over Hermione, looking down on the much shorter witch from an almost comically mismatched height. "Do you truly wish to know why I choose Datura as my familiar, Miss Granger?" He asked. She could only nod, she was too shocked by the situation to form words. "I chose her because she is me. She is greatness manifest." Hermione was beyond puzzled, but found herself unable to even find a proper follow-up question to ask the man. Luckily, he continued on his own. "Serpents don't see the world the way that people do. They can't understand the motivations behind another creature's behaviour. They are cold, calculating and driven by nothing more than the most primitive instincts. You see, the serpent is the manifestation of greatness stripped down to the barest, simplest form. It doesn't ask why, it doesn't even ask how. The serpent does what it must, and does it perfectly." Hermione remembered her vow to herself. Not to be the brightest witch her peers would feel comfortable with her becoming. Not to be the most skilled student within reasonable attainability. She had vowed to become the most skilled student at Hogwarts. As she found that foothold in Mister Thorne's words, she found that his familiar no longer seemed so menacing. It was this understanding that granted Hermione the courage to step forward and, despite every fibre in her body telling her otherwise, reach out to pet Datura's head. The snake's skin felt alien, cold as ice but bone dry. She had never felt anything like it, such frigid surfaces typically possessing some form of condensation. Datura seemed curious, but unbothered. Satisfied with her introduction to the little witch, the snake coiled its way back under Aurelius' robe to rest her head on his shoulder. "Good girl." Aurelius cooed. Hermione couldn't tell if he was praising her or the snake. "Now, while I will admit that I've found you a more pleasant conversationalist than the typical first-year, we've both got somewhere else to be." Hermione's eyes went wide. She had been so taken aback by the peculiar ophiuchus that her destination had managed to slip her mind. Aurelius seemed to recognize her shift in demeanor. "Not to worry, Miss Granger. I'll see you to the great hall." He gestured up a flight of stairs that had not been there when the girl landed. "After you." Hermione nodded thankfully and hurried up the stairs. Aurelius began following the girl, but stopped in his tracks. Surely his eyes deceived him. The petite girl had been built like a twig, there was simply no way that the giant bouncing bottom that clapped obliviously up the ornate stairway really belonged to her. However impossible it seemed, the wizard supposed he couldn't deny what was before his very eyes. After all, there it was. An ass like a priceless work of art, the most perfect he had ever seen, on that same little girl. Just outside of the entrance to the great hall, Hermione turned around to face her imposing guide. The arrogant wizard had been strangely silent for the entirety of the walk, his eyes seeming to be affixed on some distant horizon only visible to himself. It had taken her a few moments of fumbling before she realized what she wanted to say to him. "Thank you... For showing me the way back." She bowed politely and prepared to walk into the great hall before feeling the cold hands of Aurelius wrap around her tiny wrist. The sudden touch had frightened the girl, causing her to pull her hand back defensively, but his grip was as tight as a vise and he didn't let go. She was frightened. The look on his face wasn't one of anger or violence, but of desperation. This action wasn't premeditated, it was entirely impulsive. In an instant, Aurelius let go of her arm. He seemed as shocked as she did. There was something he clearly wanted to say, he was very obviously shaken about something. Instead, he only mumbled out some half-present apology and turned away, absorbed in some thoughtful daze. The unhinged display chilled Hermione to the core, and she quickly ran into the great hall eager to put the encounter behind her. Nevermind the teasing that the rear clapping caused by her running would result in, she was just glad to be back where she belonged. Hermione sat in the middle of two empty chairs. The two girls beside her had complained that her bottom kept bumping into them. It was true, but that didn't make it any less embarrassing. Even so, the girl was a bundle of joy watching the sorting ceremony and filling up on the infinitely refilling exotic snacks that lined the absurdly long tables. She had done more than enough reading on the houses and what they symbolized, but it was still so fascinating to watch the sorting in action. The star of the show, of course, being the talking hat which decided the house each student belonged in. Hermione wondered how the hat knew, or what it did when two houses were an equal possibility. She silently hoped there would be time to ask it after the ceremony. Finally, after a spacey looking blonde girl had rather quickly been sorted into Ravenclaw, it was Hermione's turn. A nervousness crept up on the witch, raising the fine hairs on her neck and causing her legs to shake, which just typically caused her rear end to shake with them. The cacophony of whispered giggles that followed the young girl everywhere she went steadily grew in volume as she wobbled up the hall, climbed the two steps onto the stage as carefully as she could to avoid any further embarrassments, and ultimately faced embarrassment anyway when it was discovered that she didn't fit in the provided chair. The murmurs were coming from all angles, even upperclassmen and a handful of teachers had seemed to be exchanging brief quips at the girls expense. The moment she had been dreading was upon her, up in front of the entire school her abnormality was amidst its debut. Hermione steeled her resolve. She wouldn't allow this crudity to ruin the most important day of her life. She sat down and felt her heart drop as the wooden seat fell apart under the crushing weight of her ass, splintering into tiny fragments. Hermione was too focused on staying calm to think, too busy preparing to remain dignified to even register the uproarious laughter that exploded throughout the hall. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and rose to her feet. Wordlessly, she bowed her head to signify that she was ready to be sorted, and felt the hat be lowered atop her frizzy brown hair. The room fell silent and waited. The hat's brim was hanging down over Hermione's face and it took some effort not to let the darkness make her uneasy. Why wasn't it saying anything? Had she made such a fool of herself that the hat refused to sort her? Had she failed the first test that Hogwarts had presented her? "Still your thoughts, girl." Hermione relaxed as the hat's voice tumbled out of its fabric mouth and enveloped her ears like gravel being poured across her brain. It was a gruff voice, and not a very kind one, but a voice that carried an otherworldly wisdom. "A jack of all trades, this one..." The hat continued. "Loyal as they come, sharp as a whip, and this fire inside you! You could make a good Gryffindor I daresay!" Hermione had assumed that she would belong in Ravenclaw. Hearing Gryffindor's name certainly brought confusion, but not disappointment. Maybe some extra bravery was exactly what she needed. Maybe she could learn about courage, honour, about valor. Victory! Maybe she could learn to embody greatness! That was the thought that caused the image of the serpent Datura to flash into her head. "Greatness, you say?" The hat inquired, as though it could read the witch's mind. Hermione's blood turned to ice as she realized what was happening, that this wasn't just idle chit-chat. The hat could actually hear her thoughts. Frantically she tried to erase the serpent from her mind, to clear the memory entirely. The hat, however, had already seen too much. "Greatness... yes. It does sound appealing." The hat admitted. "How did I fail to see it before? This drive within you. This hunger. Yes, it's clear as crystal. I do believe the serpent's house will fit you nicely, child." No. No that wasn't right! She wasn't a- "Slytherin!" The hat proclaimed with a confident boom. The hall fell silent once more, though only for a moment before the hufflepuff table erupted with boisterous cheering, as they did for every student sorted. Hermione went pale, a knot tied in her stomach. She had expected Ravenclaw, without a doubt. Perhaps Gryffindor if Ravenclaw wouldn't have her, but Slytherin? No. Absolutely not. It just couldn't be true. Her brain went over every possible thing that she could have done differently, everything that she could have done to prevent the disaster she found herself amidst. The snake! Aurelius! It was his fault! He had given her that speech about greatness as a prank and ruined everything! The second the hat was lifted from Hermione's head, the sensation caused her to rise to her feet and bolt down the hall out the door, trailed by the loud ridiculous sound of meat slapping on meat. - - - Aurelius lounged on the old leather sofa in his favourite little nook, secluded deep within the Hogwarts Library. His robe hung on the shelf beside him leaving him shirtless, clad in well fitted slacks of sable. He held his arm out, suspending it above his head so that Datura could slither and wind through the air as she pleased. His familiar stopped just short of his nose, their eyes meeting in a mutual acknowledgement of kinship. Or perhaps it was more akin to a symbiosis. "What am I getting myself into?" The snake didn't move a muscle, the words simply bouncing through the room like any other meaningless sound, nothing more than a common human vibration to the apex predator wrapped around Aurelius' arm. For what must have been the millionth time, he lamented his inability to speak the creature's language. "Although..." The pallid wizard mumbled. "She did warm up to you rather quickly, Datura." The serpent's head twitched slightly, nothing more than a recognition of the sounds that formed her name. Still, it made Aurelius smile. The reaction showed that his dear friend was listening in some capacity. "That has to count for something, doesn't it? Most first-years..." His sentence was stopped midway, as if the word had gotten lodged in his throat. "God, a first-year... I must be out of my mind. We won't visit her again, Datura. We've allowed her to distract us quite enough." Datura sharply turned her head, seeming to stare through the dense bookshelf, the wall behind it, and into the castle beyond. Aurelius crooked his neck at the strange behaviour. She rarely reacted that way to the sounds of the Hogwarts, and he highly doubted there could be anything so new and interesting about this batch of first-years that she wouldn't have seen from the six before them. He wondered if there could be a mouse in the wall. It was unlikely. She kept his unofficial study very mouse-free. The wizard remained puzzled until he heard it, too. A soft, rhythmic slapping. The same he had heard earlier that day. Aurelius sighed, rising to his feet and forming a bridge with his arm so that Datura could perch on her favourite shelf. He grabbed his robe and redressed himself before following the sound out into the hall. "Miss Gra-" "YOU!" The furious witch interrupted, pointing at him from across the hall with such force that Aurelius half expected her finger to fly off and pierce his skull. She marched towards him, face red and knuckles white, a sight that would surely terrify anyone with a fear of small unthreatening girls. Further still, the exaggerated heavy steps she took did no favours in regards to masking the girls endowments. Endowments that Aurelius was putting forth his very best effort to ignore. "SLYTHERIN!" Was all that her blind rage would allow the girl to shout. "Do you have any idea what you've done!? You and your stupid snake talk ruined EVERYTHING! I'm not supposed to be a Slytherin! I don't want to be a Slytherin!" She stood on her tip toes as she shouted, as if she believed that yelling in greater proximity to his stone-hewn face would somehow increase the effectiveness of her rambling. “Miss Granger. If the hat puts you in Slytherin, it’s because that is what you are. That is what you were born as, what you always have been, and what you will continue to be for the rest of your short and mediocre life. The idea that I had anything at all to do with something as predetermined as your sorting is such a foolish notion that I find myself beginning to regret my earlier commendation. I thought surely you would have at least studied enough to know how the sorting ceremony functions, but it seems you-” “Don’t you patronize me you smug malnourished deatheater wannabe! The hat reads thoughts, and you filled my head with symbolism linking success to the image of a serpent right before I wore it! I plan to inform the headmaster of your interference and demand another reading once I have had the chance to clear my head of your ridiculous propaganda!” “Do you want to be a smug know-it-all of a Ravenclaw? A gloating oaf of a Gryffindor? A useless sidekick of a Hufflepuff? Do you want to throw away your destiny to waste time playing pretend in a court of fools? Hermione. You didn’t get into Ravenclaw because you are too smart.” “Yes I am! Too smart to fall for the same dumb trick twice! You lied about being a professor, you lied about greatness, and you’re lying about knowing anything about me! You’re nothing but a degenerate conman who can’t keep his mouth shut or his hands to himself! You just wanted me in your house so you could make me touch your gross snake!” “That will be more than enough, Miss Granger!” Aurelius had been upset for the entirety of the conversation, but this was the first time he had raised his voice. Hermione could tell that it was something he didn’t do often. It sounded uncharacteristically harsh and unstable. If his speaking voice was snow, this was hail. His long black hair fell in wild tendrils around his gaunt porcelain face, his thin lips pursed together in a sneer as his gorgeous golden eyes widened and burned like twin stars in their dark sunken sockets. Hermione’s objections passed over him like white noise as his hand shot out to grab her wrist. In a haze of self important fury he marched the squirming girl into the library, past isles of shelves and empty tables into his study. The door to the study room didn’t have a lock, but other students knew better than to use his space. He wasn’t thinking clearly. He was barely thinking at all. His robe crumpled to the floor. He sat on the couch, dragging Hermione down with him. He bent her over his knee. Her confused and panicked chattering sounded to him as if it was happening through a window several blocks away, just barely perceivable but entirely irrelevant and unintrusive. He allowed his eyes to travel from her worried face down the arch of her back to rest on her massive heaving ass. It stretched taut the fabric of her robe, threatening to tear the stitching as it braced against her unaccommodating and vulnerable position. From side to side it wobbled gently, as if taunting him. “You won’t do it.” It seemed to say. Which was correct. He wouldn’t do it, he couldn’t. “Discipline.” He muttered the word almost inaudibly, a half conscious mumble that cut through the fog of his rage and offered him a rational excuse. Or at least what felt enough like one to his clouded judgement. The girl had spoken quite out of line, and needed to be reprimanded. It was a necessity, any accessory contact was besides the point, a regrettable consequence secondary to the purpose of the correction. These justifications shot through his mind as Aurelius raised his hand above his head, and before he could call any of them into doubt, his palm struck against Hermione’s left ass cheek with an electrical impact. The two gasped in unison. Tears welled up in Hermione’s eyes as drool collected in the corners of Aurelius’ malicious grin. Hermione tried to stammer out some sort of plea, but there wasn’t any time. SMACK! Another burning, tingling strike. SMACK! Again, a vicious assault on the witch’s bottom. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! All attempts at communication were replaced by ragged hyperventilating and choked sobs. Her body tensed and went slack in rhythm with each meteoric wallop dealt by Aurelius’ open hand. As he took out his aggression on the sobbing first-year, his head began to clear. He didn’t stop, but his strikes grew less violent. More evenly distributed. Once on the left, once on the right. One closer to the hip, one deeper in toward the cleft. As his rage simmered away into cold focus, Hermione’s giant ass began to feel to Aurelius less like the squirming hide of a blubbery prey animal and more like a beautifully crafted percussive instrument that he was learning as he played. Eventually her sobs, too, died down into naught but the occasional whimper, filling the study with only the music their flesh made with each beat. When Aurelius finally decided that Hermione had enough, she didn’t run. She didn’t attack him, she didn’t even cry or say a single word. Hermione simply stood up, and to the best of her ability, calmly walked out of the room without a glance backward. She continued calmly walking, wiping away the tear stains on her face as she made her way to the great hall. There she wordlessly sat at her table with the other Slytherins to watch the rest of the sorting ceremony in silence.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75713861/chapters/198026566	{"authors": ["OgreThatJustDontCare"], "language": "English", "title": "The Anorak & The Eromancer"}
Tied together Night loomed over the Prescott family house on Elm Street. Once again another ghostface killer lurked the streets—but that has become something of a recurrent occurrence here in Woodsboro by now. Honestly, you don't understand the need to grab a mask and go hunting people over and over again. You're sure Woodsboro would be perfectly okay without a ghostface killer every year. It has been a while since the last time it happened though. Perhaps that's why another masked serial killer felt this intense need to make an appearance—Well, that and the arrival of your aunt, Sidney Prescott, seemed to be the perfect storm for its return. People talk, especially now with all of the recent murders. They call Sidney the angel of death or other equally horrid things. You understand the logic behind their ushered comments, but still... It seems kind of insensitive to call her such things for something she definitely didn't choose, to think she'd want anything of that to happen to her friends seems as plausible as a comet hitting earth right now. Actually... Yeah, you hope that doesn't happen. And it isn't like you're close to her. You have only seen the woman a few times, you're pretty sure you can count them with your fingers. But she's still family, isn't she? You think mom resents her a little to be honest. For all the attention Sidney took-it's complicated. The day is cold, ice seeping through the wool of your cardigan as you walk to school—even if it's Spring. It seems even the weather has aligned with these psychos choice of movie—it reminds you of the endless movies Kirby puts on and rambles about. She'd hate that you're walking alone to school now that you think about it. She'd say something about how it is stupid and it's basically setting yourself up to be taunted by the killer. She loves horror movies and you don't really mind listening. There's something endearing about the way she's so passionate about it—she claims there are rules to survive these movies and even so every character ignores them. She also showed you a trick to sometimes predict when the killer will appear on screen. Kirby is... Well, Kirby. BRR-BRR-brr... BRR-BRR-brr Your phone buzzes in your pocket. Unknown number. You shouldn't... This is exactly the kind of thing Kirby rants to you about. And! This killer basically bases their entire killing schedule in calls. But you answer anyways. Hey, it could be one of your idiots classmates—whatever. Or you have the safety awareness of a turkey. It could be any of them! "Hello?" Your voice drags through the line. "Hello, Y/n. What's your favorite scary movie?" The voice is filtered to sound like ghostface. You scoff a laugh. A car drives by your side slowly. "You pricks still doing that joke? People died, get over it." Seriously what's with these people? "Exactly. So, answer the question. What's your favorite scary movie?" Static floats around their voice. You gotta give it to them, the voice is giving you the creeps. The breeze whistles through the streets. I'm not doing this. Nope. I'm taking the smart choice. Maybe I think a little after all. "I'm not playing your game." You hang up. Arms wrap around you from behind. The weight heavy and warm threatens to bring you down to the floor—any sense of stability fades into dust as arms press around you. A warm breath grazes the back of your neck. "Y/n! What are you doing walking so slowly alone?" Kirby is hugging you. "Come, Jill and Olivia are over there." Her hand finds yours—firm and warm. It takes a second for your mind to catch up. Kirby, just Kirby. God, you need to chill. "Yeah—" a chuckle breaks past your lips. "Yeah, sure. I was just—nevermind." "Well, aren't you odd today." She looks back at you with a slight furrow of her brow. I know with the murders and your aunt being back in town. But still..." Her gaze trails you up and down. "Odd." The grass bends under your step. You sigh. "It's nothing. Some prick called me pretending to be." You make air quotes with your free hand. "Ghostface." "To you too?" She asks while trying to spot Jill and Olivia as a group of guys blocks your path. "What do you mean 'to you too?'?" Your voice raises its pitch a little bit. "I mean Jill got a call too when we were in the car. Hers was from Jenny Randall's phone though." She explains, while guiding you past the group. "Jenny Randall's phone what?" Jill joins in. Kirby waves a hand as she goes over it again. "I was just telling her you got a ghostface prank call from Jenny Randall's phone." "Oh, yes, I did. Why?" Jill's tone is casual as the four of you fall into a stride up the stairs to Woodsboro high school. "Everyone's doing those pranks. Charlie and Robbie were just ambushing us with their cameras and asking what's your favorite scary movie by the entrance." Kirby answers before you have a chance. "She got one too." Olivia's voice is warmer as she interjects. "You know it's probably some loser that couldn't find anything else to do. I wouldn't worry too much." A breath escapes past your lips. "Yeah, you are probably right." Kirby's hand—that until then had been holding yours in a grounding firm hold—moves to your shoulder and squeezes there once. "She is right. They do this every year. Come on, we're gonna be late."	Tied together Night loomed over the Prescott family house on Elm Street. Once again another ghostface killer lurked the streets—but that has become something of a recurrent occurrence here in Woodsboro by now. Honestly, you don't understand the need to grab a mask and go hunting people over and over again. You're sure Woodsboro would be perfectly okay without a ghostface killer every year. It has been a while since the last time it happened though. Perhaps that's why another masked serial killer felt this intense need to make an appearance—Well, that and the arrival of your aunt, Sidney Prescott, seemed to be the perfect storm for its return. People talk, especially now with all of the recent murders. They call Sidney the angel of death or other equally horrid things. You understand the logic behind their ushered comments, but still... It seems kind of insensitive to call her such things for something she definitely didn't choose, to think she'd want anything of that to happen to her friends seems as plausible as a comet hitting earth right now. Actually... Yeah, you hope that doesn't happen. And it isn't like you're close to her. You have only seen the woman a few times, you're pretty sure you can count them with your fingers. But she's still family, isn't she? You think mom resents her a little to be honest. For all the attention Sidney took-it's complicated. The day is cold, ice seeping through the wool of your cardigan as you walk to school—even if it's Spring. It seems even the weather has aligned with these psychos choice of movie—it reminds you of the endless movies Kirby puts on and rambles about. She'd hate that you're walking alone to school now that you think about it. She'd say something about how it is stupid and it's basically setting yourself up to be taunted by the killer. She loves horror movies and you don't really mind listening. There's something endearing about the way she's so passionate about it—she claims there are rules to survive these movies and even so every character ignores them. She also showed you a trick to sometimes predict when the killer will appear on screen. Kirby is... Well, Kirby. BRR-BRR-brr... BRR-BRR-brr Your phone buzzes in your pocket. Unknown number. You shouldn't... This is exactly the kind of thing Kirby rants to you about. And! This killer basically bases their entire killing schedule in calls. But you answer anyways. Hey, it could be one of your idiots classmates—whatever. Or you have the safety awareness of a turkey. It could be any of them! "Hello?" Your voice drags through the line. "Hello, Y/n. What's your favorite scary movie?" The voice is filtered to sound like ghostface. You scoff a laugh. A car drives by your side slowly. "You pricks still doing that joke? People died, get over it." Seriously what's with these people? "Exactly. So, answer the question. What's your favorite scary movie?" Static floats around their voice. You gotta give it to them, the voice is giving you the creeps. The breeze whistles through the streets. I'm not doing this. Nope. I'm taking the smart choice. Maybe I think a little after all. "I'm not playing your game." You hang up. Arms wrap around you from behind. The weight heavy and warm threatens to bring you down to the floor—any sense of stability fades into dust as arms press around you. A warm breath grazes the back of your neck. "Y/n! What are you doing walking so slowly alone?" Kirby is hugging you. "Come, Jill and Olivia are over there." Her hand finds yours—firm and warm. It takes a second for your mind to catch up. Kirby, just Kirby. God, you need to chill. "Yeah—" a chuckle breaks past your lips. "Yeah, sure. I was just—nevermind." "Well, aren't you odd today." She looks back at you with a slight furrow of her brow. I know with the murders and your aunt being back in town. But still..." Her gaze trails you up and down. "Odd." The grass bends under your step. You sigh. "It's nothing. Some prick called me pretending to be." You make air quotes with your free hand. "Ghostface." "To you too?" She asks while trying to spot Jill and Olivia as a group of guys blocks your path. "What do you mean 'to you too?'?" Your voice raises its pitch a little bit. "I mean Jill got a call too when we were in the car. Hers was from Jenny Randall's phone though." She explains, while guiding you past the group. "Jenny Randall's phone what?" Jill joins in. Kirby waves a hand as she goes over it again. "I was just telling her you got a ghostface prank call from Jenny Randall's phone." "Oh, yes, I did. Why?" Jill's tone is casual as the four of you fall into a stride up the stairs to Woodsboro high school. "Everyone's doing those pranks. Charlie and Robbie were just ambushing us with their cameras and asking what's your favorite scary movie by the entrance." Kirby answers before you have a chance. "She got one too." Olivia's voice is warmer as she interjects. "You know it's probably some loser that couldn't find anything else to do. I wouldn't worry too much." A breath escapes past your lips. "Yeah, you are probably right." Kirby's hand—that until then had been holding yours in a grounding firm hold—moves to your shoulder and squeezes there once. "She is right. They do this every year. Come on, we're gonna be late."	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75711196/chapters/198018281	{"authors": ["Mila_scully"], "language": "English", "title": "Tied together"}
You are so DEAD! “Okay that’s it! I’m tired of your fucking shit, Zuri!”Valentine roared out. But how was he going to take care of her? Well, he had a plan that’s for sure. All of a sudden, his stomach growled, signaling phase 1 of his plan. Zuri stepped back a bit, fearing for the worst to come. She trembled a little, knowing that he was about to gobble her up.He picked her up and opened his mouth wide, the only sharp teeth inside being his canine fangs.“Ahhhhh…”He muttered, placing her head into his mouth with a loud gulp. He wolfed down her body in about 2 or 3 gulps, his stomach growing 5 times its size as her body went inside of it with every swallow. He let out a large belch, patting his stomach as he then began to rub it in a circular pattern.“Mmmmmnnghh…So good….” Valentine muttered under his breath, letting out a soft moan as Zuri began to squirm inside his round distended gut. She made frantic attempts to escape, but they were fruitless and didn’t do anything to change his mind. He yawned, patting his stomach once again.“Good night darlin…”Valentine moaned. He closed his eyes and then dozed off into a deep slumber, leaving her to die inside his belly.	You are so DEAD! “Okay that’s it! I’m tired of your fucking shit, Zuri!”Valentine roared out. But how was he going to take care of her? Well, he had a plan that’s for sure. All of a sudden, his stomach growled, signaling phase 1 of his plan. Zuri stepped back a bit, fearing for the worst to come. She trembled a little, knowing that he was about to gobble her up.He picked her up and opened his mouth wide, the only sharp teeth inside being his canine fangs.“Ahhhhh…”He muttered, placing her head into his mouth with a loud gulp. He wolfed down her body in about 2 or 3 gulps, his stomach growing 5 times its size as her body went inside of it with every swallow. He let out a large belch, patting his stomach as he then began to rub it in a circular pattern.“Mmmmmnnghh…So good….” Valentine muttered under his breath, letting out a soft moan as Zuri began to squirm inside his round distended gut. She made frantic attempts to escape, but they were fruitless and didn’t do anything to change his mind. He yawned, patting his stomach once again.“Good night darlin…”Valentine moaned. He closed his eyes and then dozed off into a deep slumber, leaving her to die inside his belly.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75709556	{"authors": ["DOXXFOXX"], "language": "English", "title": "You are so DEAD!"}
Cherry-Flavoured Gelatine Veronica remembers what those nights with Dante were like. She couldn’t find it in her, even in the midst of it, to blame him. He wasn’t her first, after all. Everything her friends had said, all the love stories she had read, pointed to her as the fault in all of this. Was it her plumbing, or her wiring? She used to wonder. The darkness in the bedroom had seemed so full, when Dante was in her. In sympathy, perhaps. All of her possessions seemed alive and watching. From the wardrobe to all the little lipsticks on the vanity, all turned to fleshy, shapeless creatures. Looming precariously over Dante’s bobbing shoulder, affronted by his noise and energy. Filling up the dark. Veronica had tried to explain it to Caitlin. It’s wasn’t like she was numb inside. It wasn’t as though she didn’t work properly. But, she said, if someone were to reach inside you and close their fist around your bladder, you’d piss yourself, wouldn’t you? Dante’s spirited thrusting always paid off. A lurch, a scream, an end. There it was. When he pulled out, she felt like she was spitting him out. The rubber tip of the condom would give her a parting nip. Somehow, the afterglow was the worst. It was in those moments Veronica felt truly transformed. Her skin as thin as the bloated condom. Her innards, bones and all, broken down and digested into a thick, mealy paste. A warm, wet home for the parasite that had replaced her. A grey, muscled worm running cunt to mouth. Twisted and angry from Dante’s intrusion, it champed and drooled at each, toothless end. Beside her, Dante recovered. A long stretch of soft, pale gooseflesh, grunting and snuffling into the blanket. Veronica would always feel like she had just fed him, rather than fucked him. Raw, red meat and buttermilk. As much as she hurt, she would always reach over and stroke him. Call him a good boy. Tiredness was her excuse to bathe separately. She let him go first, so that she could take longer. Hot water brought her back to herself. Grew back her bones and her sinews, woke up her heart. She would look over herself, her fingers petting and parting. The ruddy spots where Dante had sucked her, the gentle hang of her fat, the happy curl of her body hair. She was solid, again. Known to herself. She could walk back out to the bedroom and smile at him like she meant it. The dark in Caitlin’s room was different. Perhaps it was the pink lightbulb. The shadows were flatter, as if they had been cut out of black paper. Nothing could look out of them. Caitlin, with her black mane and black pubic strip, might have looked similarly simple and cosy, like a mural. But the velvet flush of her lips, the plum glitter of her nails, the rosy shades of her body lifted her out from the blushing walls. Veronica could see her in the mirror, propped against the pillows, watching her. Veronica had taken off the harness, and sat with the freshly scrubbed dildo in her hands. It was doing a good job of distracting her from her reflection. It had looked cheap, quite comical out in the white light, as though it were made out of cherry-flavoured gelatine. In Caitlin’s room, with Caitlin knelt before her, it had looked almost pretty. A point of cloudy ruby, jutting from her leather bound hips. Now, used and washed up, it was back to looking silly again. Veronica almost chuckled. “I used to feel,” she muttered, matter-of-fact, “Like I could take myself apart, after sex.” She watched Caitlin blink at her in the mirror, that quirk of her mouth that was amused, but not mocking. “I felt like I could just pop everything off, like a barbie doll. Put my head in the sink, my legs in the bath. Then, I’d take something off and my soul would slip out. Just slide out, like an egg yolk.” She held up the nodding dildo. “But, now I feel that all I’ve got to take off is this.” She wagged it for emphasis, and heard Caitlin huff a giggle at it. “And it’s nothing at all, is it?” “Nope.” Caitlin said, as the tool was tossed onto the vanity. “You look like a nice, sturdy Veronica, to me.”	Cherry-Flavoured Gelatine Veronica remembers what those nights with Dante were like. She couldn’t find it in her, even in the midst of it, to blame him. He wasn’t her first, after all. Everything her friends had said, all the love stories she had read, pointed to her as the fault in all of this. Was it her plumbing, or her wiring? She used to wonder. The darkness in the bedroom had seemed so full, when Dante was in her. In sympathy, perhaps. All of her possessions seemed alive and watching. From the wardrobe to all the little lipsticks on the vanity, all turned to fleshy, shapeless creatures. Looming precariously over Dante’s bobbing shoulder, affronted by his noise and energy. Filling up the dark. Veronica had tried to explain it to Caitlin. It’s wasn’t like she was numb inside. It wasn’t as though she didn’t work properly. But, she said, if someone were to reach inside you and close their fist around your bladder, you’d piss yourself, wouldn’t you? Dante’s spirited thrusting always paid off. A lurch, a scream, an end. There it was. When he pulled out, she felt like she was spitting him out. The rubber tip of the condom would give her a parting nip. Somehow, the afterglow was the worst. It was in those moments Veronica felt truly transformed. Her skin as thin as the bloated condom. Her innards, bones and all, broken down and digested into a thick, mealy paste. A warm, wet home for the parasite that had replaced her. A grey, muscled worm running cunt to mouth. Twisted and angry from Dante’s intrusion, it champed and drooled at each, toothless end. Beside her, Dante recovered. A long stretch of soft, pale gooseflesh, grunting and snuffling into the blanket. Veronica would always feel like she had just fed him, rather than fucked him. Raw, red meat and buttermilk. As much as she hurt, she would always reach over and stroke him. Call him a good boy. Tiredness was her excuse to bathe separately. She let him go first, so that she could take longer. Hot water brought her back to herself. Grew back her bones and her sinews, woke up her heart. She would look over herself, her fingers petting and parting. The ruddy spots where Dante had sucked her, the gentle hang of her fat, the happy curl of her body hair. She was solid, again. Known to herself. She could walk back out to the bedroom and smile at him like she meant it. The dark in Caitlin’s room was different. Perhaps it was the pink lightbulb. The shadows were flatter, as if they had been cut out of black paper. Nothing could look out of them. Caitlin, with her black mane and black pubic strip, might have looked similarly simple and cosy, like a mural. But the velvet flush of her lips, the plum glitter of her nails, the rosy shades of her body lifted her out from the blushing walls. Veronica could see her in the mirror, propped against the pillows, watching her. Veronica had taken off the harness, and sat with the freshly scrubbed dildo in her hands. It was doing a good job of distracting her from her reflection. It had looked cheap, quite comical out in the white light, as though it were made out of cherry-flavoured gelatine. In Caitlin’s room, with Caitlin knelt before her, it had looked almost pretty. A point of cloudy ruby, jutting from her leather bound hips. Now, used and washed up, it was back to looking silly again. Veronica almost chuckled. “I used to feel,” she muttered, matter-of-fact, “Like I could take myself apart, after sex.” She watched Caitlin blink at her in the mirror, that quirk of her mouth that was amused, but not mocking. “I felt like I could just pop everything off, like a barbie doll. Put my head in the sink, my legs in the bath. Then, I’d take something off and my soul would slip out. Just slide out, like an egg yolk.” She held up the nodding dildo. “But, now I feel that all I’ve got to take off is this.” She wagged it for emphasis, and heard Caitlin huff a giggle at it. “And it’s nothing at all, is it?” “Nope.” Caitlin said, as the tool was tossed onto the vanity. “You look like a nice, sturdy Veronica, to me.”	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75706506	{"authors": ["WatTheCur"], "language": "English", "title": "Cherry-Flavoured Gelatine"}
had a few (i always do) Eddie steps through the door of his house with a smile on his face. His second date with Jack had gone well, even got a little kiss on the cheek as they separated outside the restaurant, and there were plans for a third date sitting in the texts on his phone. The house is mostly dark, just as he left it, save for what's probably the stove light he forgot in the kitchen. His shoes hit the floor with a clonk and a soft laugh escapes his mouth. He'd forgotten how good it could feel to date. Not that his dates had been great. Well, they had, but looking back at it, they could have gone more great. If they were men. And not women. But. He digresses. Shucking off his jacket, he hits the light switch by the door, and almost jumps out of his skin as he sees the back of somebody sitting on his couch. "Holy shit," he yelps before totally processing the broad-shouldered, curly-headed, slightly rocking figure on his couch. "Buck? You okay, man?" The room is quiet, save for Eddie's breathing, the shuffling of his slacks, the way his feet slide across the floor. It's like Buck's hardly there—he's not making any noise at all. "I hate this," Buck slurs from the couch. Eddie starts to move, but something holds him back. Like there's a part of him that knows Buck won't continue if Eddie makes himself known. Something's wrong. "Hate what?" Eddie whispers, just loud enough to reach him. "Everything." Buck's voice wavers and wobbles, sounds disjointed from each other but still forming words, despite. Eddie's quiet, standing in the middle of a mine field he cannot see, but can sense with every hair that stands up on the back of his neck. "I hate Jack. I hate him and his beautiful blonde hair and his big green eyes and those shoulders that are just begging to be bitten." Buck's shoulders are softly swaying back and forth, making him seem uneven on his feet, even as he sits on the couch. "I hate that I just wait for you—like, I'm sitting here like a dog, Eddie, waiting for his master to come home, waiting for you to run your fingers through my hair, and you won't. I know you won't. "And it's not your fault you won't, cause I didn't tell you. They said I should tell you, but no, I just watch you go out on dates with smart, funny, well-read teachers and sit here and knock back a bottle of Scotch that I'm sure Bobby would have loved." Eddie doesn't think he stepped on a mine—his feet haven't moved—but he feels the explosion anyway, knocking his feet off balance, ricocheting through his body, a dull buzzing in his ears. Buck continues. "Usually I can keep it contained, y'know? Keep inside. It doesn't spill out of me anywhere, I can be so fucking good. But you go out with this guy now and I don't know how to handle it and they just come flooding out of me and I can't hide it from you anymore. Shit, I can't hide anything from you. But I try! I’ve been trying. Cause it's gotta be me, right? I'm right here, right fucking in front of you, and if you're as into dick as I think you are, then it's just gotta be mine you don't want." Eddie watches as Buck pitches sideways, sort of spinning off the couch, and landing on his feet, gracefully not landing face first on the coffee table. He's still glued to the floor by the coat rack by the door, watching Buck and his disjointed giraffe legs saunter unsteadily towards him. "It's not even your fault," Buck slurs, the stench of smoked Scotch on his breath. "I never told you. But I do, you know." Buck's got his hand on that sacred spot on Eddie's shoulder, but Eddie can't look at him. He's not sure where Buck's eyes are. Eddie stands still as Buck lurches past him for the door, knob in his grasp, the cool night air briskly hitting the sweat on his skin. "Do what?" he mumbles, question falling out of his mouth and onto the floor, eyes transfixed on the couch in front of him. "Love you." The door clicks shut. Buck is gone.	had a few (i always do) Eddie steps through the door of his house with a smile on his face. His second date with Jack had gone well, even got a little kiss on the cheek as they separated outside the restaurant, and there were plans for a third date sitting in the texts on his phone. The house is mostly dark, just as he left it, save for what's probably the stove light he forgot in the kitchen. His shoes hit the floor with a clonk and a soft laugh escapes his mouth. He'd forgotten how good it could feel to date. Not that his dates had been great. Well, they had, but looking back at it, they could have gone more great. If they were men. And not women. But. He digresses. Shucking off his jacket, he hits the light switch by the door, and almost jumps out of his skin as he sees the back of somebody sitting on his couch. "Holy shit," he yelps before totally processing the broad-shouldered, curly-headed, slightly rocking figure on his couch. "Buck? You okay, man?" The room is quiet, save for Eddie's breathing, the shuffling of his slacks, the way his feet slide across the floor. It's like Buck's hardly there—he's not making any noise at all. "I hate this," Buck slurs from the couch. Eddie starts to move, but something holds him back. Like there's a part of him that knows Buck won't continue if Eddie makes himself known. Something's wrong. "Hate what?" Eddie whispers, just loud enough to reach him. "Everything." Buck's voice wavers and wobbles, sounds disjointed from each other but still forming words, despite. Eddie's quiet, standing in the middle of a mine field he cannot see, but can sense with every hair that stands up on the back of his neck. "I hate Jack. I hate him and his beautiful blonde hair and his big green eyes and those shoulders that are just begging to be bitten." Buck's shoulders are softly swaying back and forth, making him seem uneven on his feet, even as he sits on the couch. "I hate that I just wait for you—like, I'm sitting here like a dog, Eddie, waiting for his master to come home, waiting for you to run your fingers through my hair, and you won't. I know you won't. "And it's not your fault you won't, cause I didn't tell you. They said I should tell you, but no, I just watch you go out on dates with smart, funny, well-read teachers and sit here and knock back a bottle of Scotch that I'm sure Bobby would have loved." Eddie doesn't think he stepped on a mine—his feet haven't moved—but he feels the explosion anyway, knocking his feet off balance, ricocheting through his body, a dull buzzing in his ears. Buck continues. "Usually I can keep it contained, y'know? Keep inside. It doesn't spill out of me anywhere, I can be so fucking good. But you go out with this guy now and I don't know how to handle it and they just come flooding out of me and I can't hide it from you anymore. Shit, I can't hide anything from you. But I try! I’ve been trying. Cause it's gotta be me, right? I'm right here, right fucking in front of you, and if you're as into dick as I think you are, then it's just gotta be mine you don't want." Eddie watches as Buck pitches sideways, sort of spinning off the couch, and landing on his feet, gracefully not landing face first on the coffee table. He's still glued to the floor by the coat rack by the door, watching Buck and his disjointed giraffe legs saunter unsteadily towards him. "It's not even your fault," Buck slurs, the stench of smoked Scotch on his breath. "I never told you. But I do, you know." Buck's got his hand on that sacred spot on Eddie's shoulder, but Eddie can't look at him. He's not sure where Buck's eyes are. Eddie stands still as Buck lurches past him for the door, knob in his grasp, the cool night air briskly hitting the sweat on his skin. "Do what?" he mumbles, question falling out of his mouth and onto the floor, eyes transfixed on the couch in front of him. "Love you." The door clicks shut. Buck is gone.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75706531	{"authors": ["Minalover"], "language": "English", "title": "had a few (i always do)"}
The Last Acceptance There is no cure for it. That’s all there is to it. I ignored the look of pity from the doctor as he slowly walked out of the room. Leaving me to my thoughts. I knew something was off. It started out slow. Weaker. Slower. Not as hungry. The intense migraines. So I came to the doctor. Only to be given a diagnosis of this super rare disease with a complicated name, that has no cure. The time I have left is also uncertain. I was given pain meds for the migraine. The least that they could do. While I appreciate the fact I would be cured of the migraines with this med, I just wish the same could be said for my disease. No, a disease usually has a cure. I don’t have one. Then what is it? Who knows. I shuffle out of the hospital and head off towards my home. The walk isn’t that far. Plus this way I can continue to think. As I walked, I noticed the little things. The way the flowers bloom slowly. Bees go from flower to flower. Birds chirping. The sky is a pretty light blue hue. The sun is shining down and lighting up the world. Things are semi peaceful in nature. Of course there is the human side. Always busy. Always moving. Never slowing. Most would think that I would think that my world stopped spinning after my diagnosis. But I don’t see it that way. My world is continuing, just at a slower rate. I slowly walk up the driveway and towards the front door. I slowly unlock it and push open the door. I step inside and close it behind me. I glance around. Same old umbrella stand and coat rack by the door. Shoe rack a bit further down the entrance hall. I stand in the kitchen slash dining room. To the right is the living room and the stairs to the second floor. Up on the second floor, there is the master bedroom with its attached bathroom, a bedroom and a bathroom to the left and a single bedroom and bathroom to the right. I head for the stairs and up. I turn right and shuffle to my bedroom. I enter and look around. The same old twin bed pushed into the corner with a set of curtains hiding it from the rest of the room. Four bookcases filled with books. An easel by the window, the floor near it covered in art supplies and half finished canvases. The desk covered in the latest gaming pc setup and several games stacked on the side to the left and a pile of papers to the right. The walls are painted a navy blue, white ceiling and the ground is covered in a grey carpet. I snap out of my thoughts when I hear footsteps on the landing, then the hallway before there is a knock on my door. I turn slowly and open the door. Standing on the other side is my older brother, Sam Uley. I notice the look of concern on his face. “How did the appointment go?” He asks. I shuffle to my bed and sit down. I pat the spot beside me so he sits down too. Sam frowns but he obeys. He walks over and sits down beside me. I rest my head on his shoulder. He’s hot in terms of body temperature. Which is normal for a werewolf. “I’m dying. There is no cure. I asked.” My words are soft but they fill the room. I feel Sam tense beside me. “What?” “The doctor said this super rare, difficult to say disease. There is no known cure.” “Jamie,” Sam breathes. I reach out and pat his knee. Comforting him. I hear him take in a shaky breath. I was dying yet I was comforting him. How things are ass backwards. Sam wraps his arms around me and holds me close. I don’t protest. I lean into his arms. We hear a knock on the door and Emily walks in. She pauses seeing the sombre looks on our faces. Sam explains the diagnosis to Emily. She too walks over and hugs me on the other side. Ever since Sam explained what an Imprint is and how important it is to werewolves, I treated her nothing less than my sister in law. Though we acted more like siblings. Just like Sam and me. “I’m hungry,” I say after a few silent minutes. I actually was hungry. Not a lot but enough that my body needs it. We get up and head downstairs. We enter the kitchen area and Emily gets to work whipping up a decent lunch for us all. I sit down and Sam hands me a plate of food. I started to eat knowing that if I didn’t, it would worry Sam more. I actually ate all of my food, a first in a month. This pleases Sam and Sam being happy makes Emily happy. Same with anything that makes Emily happy, makes Sam happy. After lunch, I headed upstairs and into my room for a much needed nap. When I woke up, I noticed it was afternoon. Late afternoon. Almost evening. I get up and head downstairs for some dinner. I wasn’t hungry. Not in the slightest. But I know my body needs food. To keep me going until my time is up. I enter the kitchen in time to see Emily place three plates of food onto the table. I sit down and give her a small smile. I dig in as Sam enters from outside, probably just back from a routine boundary check. The three of us sit at the table and we eat. After dinner, I head back upstairs. I want to work on my paintings again. It's one of the few things that makes me happy outside of my small family. I lose myself into the rhythm of applying paint to my paintbrush and then applying the paint to the canvas. Rinsing off the paint brush before going after another color. By the time it was eleven o’clock at night, Sam entered my room. Telling me that it is time for bed. I nod and clean up my mess as he leaves the room. ~~~The Last Acceptance~~~ The first few days after learning about my looming death, I fell into a new rhythm. Wake up, eat breakfast, nap, lunch, nap, dinner, paint, bed. Sam was slowly growing worried with how often I slept but after another trip to the doctor, it was confirmed it was a normal side effect on what is going on. After that, Sam let me nap as much as I wanted. I watched as one by one, the other boys reached the age to turn. Sam helped them adjust. Probably so they don’t suffer the same fate he did. Where he learned everything on his own. Nobody should go through that. I was weaker by the time Jacob Black became a shifter. My hair went from my knees to my waist. Trying to stay ahead of the hair loss. Thankfully it wasn’t much. My skin went from a pretty golden tan to three shades lighter. Another side effect. I wonder when my time will come at this rate.	The Last Acceptance There is no cure for it. That’s all there is to it. I ignored the look of pity from the doctor as he slowly walked out of the room. Leaving me to my thoughts. I knew something was off. It started out slow. Weaker. Slower. Not as hungry. The intense migraines. So I came to the doctor. Only to be given a diagnosis of this super rare disease with a complicated name, that has no cure. The time I have left is also uncertain. I was given pain meds for the migraine. The least that they could do. While I appreciate the fact I would be cured of the migraines with this med, I just wish the same could be said for my disease. No, a disease usually has a cure. I don’t have one. Then what is it? Who knows. I shuffle out of the hospital and head off towards my home. The walk isn’t that far. Plus this way I can continue to think. As I walked, I noticed the little things. The way the flowers bloom slowly. Bees go from flower to flower. Birds chirping. The sky is a pretty light blue hue. The sun is shining down and lighting up the world. Things are semi peaceful in nature. Of course there is the human side. Always busy. Always moving. Never slowing. Most would think that I would think that my world stopped spinning after my diagnosis. But I don’t see it that way. My world is continuing, just at a slower rate. I slowly walk up the driveway and towards the front door. I slowly unlock it and push open the door. I step inside and close it behind me. I glance around. Same old umbrella stand and coat rack by the door. Shoe rack a bit further down the entrance hall. I stand in the kitchen slash dining room. To the right is the living room and the stairs to the second floor. Up on the second floor, there is the master bedroom with its attached bathroom, a bedroom and a bathroom to the left and a single bedroom and bathroom to the right. I head for the stairs and up. I turn right and shuffle to my bedroom. I enter and look around. The same old twin bed pushed into the corner with a set of curtains hiding it from the rest of the room. Four bookcases filled with books. An easel by the window, the floor near it covered in art supplies and half finished canvases. The desk covered in the latest gaming pc setup and several games stacked on the side to the left and a pile of papers to the right. The walls are painted a navy blue, white ceiling and the ground is covered in a grey carpet. I snap out of my thoughts when I hear footsteps on the landing, then the hallway before there is a knock on my door. I turn slowly and open the door. Standing on the other side is my older brother, Sam Uley. I notice the look of concern on his face. “How did the appointment go?” He asks. I shuffle to my bed and sit down. I pat the spot beside me so he sits down too. Sam frowns but he obeys. He walks over and sits down beside me. I rest my head on his shoulder. He’s hot in terms of body temperature. Which is normal for a werewolf. “I’m dying. There is no cure. I asked.” My words are soft but they fill the room. I feel Sam tense beside me. “What?” “The doctor said this super rare, difficult to say disease. There is no known cure.” “Jamie,” Sam breathes. I reach out and pat his knee. Comforting him. I hear him take in a shaky breath. I was dying yet I was comforting him. How things are ass backwards. Sam wraps his arms around me and holds me close. I don’t protest. I lean into his arms. We hear a knock on the door and Emily walks in. She pauses seeing the sombre looks on our faces. Sam explains the diagnosis to Emily. She too walks over and hugs me on the other side. Ever since Sam explained what an Imprint is and how important it is to werewolves, I treated her nothing less than my sister in law. Though we acted more like siblings. Just like Sam and me. “I’m hungry,” I say after a few silent minutes. I actually was hungry. Not a lot but enough that my body needs it. We get up and head downstairs. We enter the kitchen area and Emily gets to work whipping up a decent lunch for us all. I sit down and Sam hands me a plate of food. I started to eat knowing that if I didn’t, it would worry Sam more. I actually ate all of my food, a first in a month. This pleases Sam and Sam being happy makes Emily happy. Same with anything that makes Emily happy, makes Sam happy. After lunch, I headed upstairs and into my room for a much needed nap. When I woke up, I noticed it was afternoon. Late afternoon. Almost evening. I get up and head downstairs for some dinner. I wasn’t hungry. Not in the slightest. But I know my body needs food. To keep me going until my time is up. I enter the kitchen in time to see Emily place three plates of food onto the table. I sit down and give her a small smile. I dig in as Sam enters from outside, probably just back from a routine boundary check. The three of us sit at the table and we eat. After dinner, I head back upstairs. I want to work on my paintings again. It's one of the few things that makes me happy outside of my small family. I lose myself into the rhythm of applying paint to my paintbrush and then applying the paint to the canvas. Rinsing off the paint brush before going after another color. By the time it was eleven o’clock at night, Sam entered my room. Telling me that it is time for bed. I nod and clean up my mess as he leaves the room. ~~~The Last Acceptance~~~ The first few days after learning about my looming death, I fell into a new rhythm. Wake up, eat breakfast, nap, lunch, nap, dinner, paint, bed. Sam was slowly growing worried with how often I slept but after another trip to the doctor, it was confirmed it was a normal side effect on what is going on. After that, Sam let me nap as much as I wanted. I watched as one by one, the other boys reached the age to turn. Sam helped them adjust. Probably so they don’t suffer the same fate he did. Where he learned everything on his own. Nobody should go through that. I was weaker by the time Jacob Black became a shifter. My hair went from my knees to my waist. Trying to stay ahead of the hair loss. Thankfully it wasn’t much. My skin went from a pretty golden tan to three shades lighter. Another side effect. I wonder when my time will come at this rate.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75711256/chapters/198018511	{"authors": ["SlyKitsune21"], "language": "English", "title": "The Last Acceptance"}
Adopting A KID "Well, I guess it's time for me to adopt a phantom thief," is, technically, a sentence you could string together. Why anyone would do such a thing is a mystery to all except one Suzuki Jirokichi, who happened to have been the one to say the previously mentioned sentence on an early Tuesday morning over a cup of ambiguously sourced coffee and the finest muffins he could find. His maids stationed around the long room, patiently awaiting orders, barely twitch at his declaration. A bit of a shame, really, but he had trained them to not argue with his ingenious marketing decisions. Luckily, his darling niece -along with the equally wonderful KID Killer, and his guardians, who had all stayed the night after KID's heist the day prior- do have a reaction. Several of them, in fact. "Eh?" The KID Killer asks, a touch too dry to be genuinely childish. He places his cup of grape juice down, but kept both hands around it as if preparing to pick it back up and take a swing of it like it were a bottle of wine. His expression said as much, anyway. "But KID has a mother still. Won't you have to share custody?" "And how would you know about KID's mother, brat?" The Sleeping Kogoro drawls with a wave of his fork, a sausage still impaled at its prongs. At this, Conan's eyes fall from Jirokichi to his juice. Definitely debating on that swig then. "He likes to talk." Clearly paying no mind to her ward and father, Ran leans over to Sonoko with the hints of a frown. Though Sonoko is very clearly not paying attention, Ran still asks slowly, "Can… Can you adopt someone who's over twenty?" And then, continuing to be as distracted as mentioned, Sonoko, lit up like a Christmas tree in New York, claps her hands together. "KID as a member of the family! Oh, can you imagine the family dinners?" Her expression suddenly sours. "Ah. But then flirting with him would be weird. My own cousin trying to win my love… hm. Yuck." Jirokichi slams his hands into the table and erupts to his feet. One of the maids mutters carefully of his blood pressure. The fine china strewn across the table rattles. Jirokichi continued to reveal his brilliant plan to his engrossed audience, just like a certain kaitou atop a jewel's glass prison, "Yes, it's the perfect idea! KID, an internationally wanted thief, a member of the Suzuki Financial Group! It will be all over the tabloids!" He raised a hand, curled into a fist, to pump against his chest victoriously. "Iiin addition, bringing him into the family will do wonders for my reputation! I could buy all the gemstones in the world for him to swipe away, and as family, it'll be as if no thefts had ever occurred! I'll be harold a hero!" "Or an accomplice," adds Conan, finally giving in and taking a swig of his juice. Jirokichi flings his hand out to point at the boy. "And you! My little good luck charm! You said you know the KID's mother? Elaborate." Conan blinks, ever so slow. And then again, no quicker than last time. Finally: "Ah… She's apparently the Phantom Lady." "Even better!" Jirokichi shouts. Several people wince throughout the room. "The Showa Era's Lady of Twenty Faces! A prize in her own right! Yes, yes; this is a wonderful idea!" Sonoko props her cheek up on her palm, lips pursed thoughtfully, a quick shift from both her unbridled excitement and crushing despair. With an idle twirl of a strand of hair, she questions, "Hey, hey, Uncle… what even brought this whole thing up? Why change from catching KID to adopting him? Not that I'm complaining-" Jirokichi nods as he settles back down into his seat. He reaches for a muffin, smeared with butter and filled with blueberries, and regales the rooms with an answer in the form of a tale, "You see, last night, at the heist…" Jirokichi owned these walls, of course he knew how to sneak around them. Perhaps not as good as a phantom nor a thief, but well, it was enough to fool the police. Which isn't to say he didn't respect Inspector Nakamori! On the contrary, he had grown very fond of the man, for all Nakamori seemed to despise anyone who wasn't his daughter or his daughter's best friend. Though maybe that was just the Inspector's rough exterior. Whatever the case, Jirokichi technically had no reason to be sneaking around a heist like this, unless he wanted to be suspected of being KID, but he was going to do so anyway, because he could do whatever he wanted. And also… Jirokichi had been trying to figure out a pattern with KID regarding his mode of runaway when in the presence of Conan. The Black Pearl Heist he had used a disguise, and then when the real gem was displayed, the sea. The Kirin's Horn Heist was also through disguise, as was the returning of the goods the Phantom Lady stole. However, there was still the heist with the slippers to take into consideration, along with the Van Gogh paintings and the Russian Easter Eggs. In short, as suspected, KID had no discernible pattern. Even so! That didn't mean Jirokichi wasn't going to try! He had a reputation to maintain, after all. So he continued his sneak through the hotel, chosen for its barbed windows and dozens of floors of security. Unlike the incident with Chat Noir and Marie Antoinette's rings, the elevators to this hotel were completely shut off for the day leading up to the heist, and had no means of being turned back on until the morning after, 8 am sharp. Which meant, if KID used any metric of reason to come up with his plans, a disguise would be necessary, causing Jirokichi to keep a look out for any knocked out guards or unusual piles of clothes. Lo and behold, around a handful of corners, a young voice's grumbling reached Jirokichi's old but still as sharp as ever ears. "Why'd the old bat have to go and schedule this event over my birthday?" The voice asked to seemingly no one in particular. Slowly, Jirokichi peeked around another corner, scowering the area with a critical eye. "Sorry guys, I can't make it to the surprise birthday party I totally didn't hear you guys planning during class. Work, you know." Class? Was KID in college? For what; theatre? An exaggerated groan broke through that train of thought, "Happy 18th birthday, you backflipping menace to your best friend's home life. Would you like to carry on your father's legacy of getting yelled at under the moonlight about rocks?" …Eh? Eh??? Now, if Jirokichi was hearing right, which he knew he was, then it sounded like KID implied he was turning 18 today. But that wasn't possible. KID had been phantom thieving since the Phantom Lady's last appearance twenty years ago. Surely this was just a ploy to catch any eavesdroppers off guard, right? Well, when his eyes finally landed on the origins of the voice, Jirokichi's theory went straight out the window. The figure struggling to pull on an already buttoned shirt was definitely too lithe to be a grown man. Of course, Jirokichi had heard all about those people who changed their genders from his niece, but somehow that didn't seem to be the case here. And even if KID was thirty with the height and build of a teenager, his face should show hints of age, yet the face -partly hidden by what must've been a bright blond wig though it was- held no signs. No crows feet from all the smiling, no lines pulling at his mouth, no creases in his forehead. As smooth as a baby's, that was KID's face. Jirokichi pulled back around the corner to lean against the wall, blinking at the red paint opposite him. KID said he was turning 18. KID looked like he was no older than 18. There was a long gap between KID's disappearance and his reappearance. 8 years, in fact. Could it be- "There we go~" KID's voice -youthful, concerningly so, and dancing with mirth- rang out again. "Well, Great Detective, Inspector Nakamori, and Ol' Man Jirokichi, it's show time. Hope you're ready for glitter tonight, because something needs to be festive, and it certainly won't be Mr. Handlebar Mustache." …It definitely was. The son of the previous KID, with a legacy that was quite literally too big for his shoulders. Ah, but that would mean- The heists through finals season. Over school holidays. Over the holidays. Supposedly having a rough time with a friend, who almost definitely didn't know KID was KID, because that boy liked to genuinely talk about himself about as much as a fish liked to be on land- That boy. ...Lupin liked KID well enough, especially after the incident with the safe. And Sonoko was always gushing about the thief anyway. Jirokichi hummed with thought, wondering the legal requirements needed to adopt someone he didn't know the identity of. Because clearly KID needed a father figure in his life- why else would he be doing this adrenaline junkie extravagancy? Regardless, Jirokichi's home was more than large enough, and he had plenty of money, so food wouldn't be an issue if it currently was, which applied to the birds as well- Ah. Hm. Was this Jirokichi's paternal instincts finally flaring to life? He should get that checked up on. "So obviously the most logical and beneficial thing to do in this situation is to adopt him." Jirokichi nods again as his story draws to a close. "Any questions?" "I don't believe that for a second. KID can quick change like only an actress with a team behind her can." "Yeah… How would the legal paperwork go for that? And how will this mysterious Phantom Lady even react?" "I guess that explains why KID can disguise as Shinichi so well… at least in part." "Wait. KID's not a hot older dude? He's just some high schooler? Damn, I suppose I need to find videos from over eight years ago. Maybe his dad was a dilf." Jirokichi claps as if none of them had spoken. "None? Excellent! In that case-" He turns and snaps his fingers, his servants jumping to attention. "Call the press, I have an announcement to make. Get the lawyers while you're at it, too."	Adopting A KID "Well, I guess it's time for me to adopt a phantom thief," is, technically, a sentence you could string together. Why anyone would do such a thing is a mystery to all except one Suzuki Jirokichi, who happened to have been the one to say the previously mentioned sentence on an early Tuesday morning over a cup of ambiguously sourced coffee and the finest muffins he could find. His maids stationed around the long room, patiently awaiting orders, barely twitch at his declaration. A bit of a shame, really, but he had trained them to not argue with his ingenious marketing decisions. Luckily, his darling niece -along with the equally wonderful KID Killer, and his guardians, who had all stayed the night after KID's heist the day prior- do have a reaction. Several of them, in fact. "Eh?" The KID Killer asks, a touch too dry to be genuinely childish. He places his cup of grape juice down, but kept both hands around it as if preparing to pick it back up and take a swing of it like it were a bottle of wine. His expression said as much, anyway. "But KID has a mother still. Won't you have to share custody?" "And how would you know about KID's mother, brat?" The Sleeping Kogoro drawls with a wave of his fork, a sausage still impaled at its prongs. At this, Conan's eyes fall from Jirokichi to his juice. Definitely debating on that swig then. "He likes to talk." Clearly paying no mind to her ward and father, Ran leans over to Sonoko with the hints of a frown. Though Sonoko is very clearly not paying attention, Ran still asks slowly, "Can… Can you adopt someone who's over twenty?" And then, continuing to be as distracted as mentioned, Sonoko, lit up like a Christmas tree in New York, claps her hands together. "KID as a member of the family! Oh, can you imagine the family dinners?" Her expression suddenly sours. "Ah. But then flirting with him would be weird. My own cousin trying to win my love… hm. Yuck." Jirokichi slams his hands into the table and erupts to his feet. One of the maids mutters carefully of his blood pressure. The fine china strewn across the table rattles. Jirokichi continued to reveal his brilliant plan to his engrossed audience, just like a certain kaitou atop a jewel's glass prison, "Yes, it's the perfect idea! KID, an internationally wanted thief, a member of the Suzuki Financial Group! It will be all over the tabloids!" He raised a hand, curled into a fist, to pump against his chest victoriously. "Iiin addition, bringing him into the family will do wonders for my reputation! I could buy all the gemstones in the world for him to swipe away, and as family, it'll be as if no thefts had ever occurred! I'll be harold a hero!" "Or an accomplice," adds Conan, finally giving in and taking a swig of his juice. Jirokichi flings his hand out to point at the boy. "And you! My little good luck charm! You said you know the KID's mother? Elaborate." Conan blinks, ever so slow. And then again, no quicker than last time. Finally: "Ah… She's apparently the Phantom Lady." "Even better!" Jirokichi shouts. Several people wince throughout the room. "The Showa Era's Lady of Twenty Faces! A prize in her own right! Yes, yes; this is a wonderful idea!" Sonoko props her cheek up on her palm, lips pursed thoughtfully, a quick shift from both her unbridled excitement and crushing despair. With an idle twirl of a strand of hair, she questions, "Hey, hey, Uncle… what even brought this whole thing up? Why change from catching KID to adopting him? Not that I'm complaining-" Jirokichi nods as he settles back down into his seat. He reaches for a muffin, smeared with butter and filled with blueberries, and regales the rooms with an answer in the form of a tale, "You see, last night, at the heist…" Jirokichi owned these walls, of course he knew how to sneak around them. Perhaps not as good as a phantom nor a thief, but well, it was enough to fool the police. Which isn't to say he didn't respect Inspector Nakamori! On the contrary, he had grown very fond of the man, for all Nakamori seemed to despise anyone who wasn't his daughter or his daughter's best friend. Though maybe that was just the Inspector's rough exterior. Whatever the case, Jirokichi technically had no reason to be sneaking around a heist like this, unless he wanted to be suspected of being KID, but he was going to do so anyway, because he could do whatever he wanted. And also… Jirokichi had been trying to figure out a pattern with KID regarding his mode of runaway when in the presence of Conan. The Black Pearl Heist he had used a disguise, and then when the real gem was displayed, the sea. The Kirin's Horn Heist was also through disguise, as was the returning of the goods the Phantom Lady stole. However, there was still the heist with the slippers to take into consideration, along with the Van Gogh paintings and the Russian Easter Eggs. In short, as suspected, KID had no discernible pattern. Even so! That didn't mean Jirokichi wasn't going to try! He had a reputation to maintain, after all. So he continued his sneak through the hotel, chosen for its barbed windows and dozens of floors of security. Unlike the incident with Chat Noir and Marie Antoinette's rings, the elevators to this hotel were completely shut off for the day leading up to the heist, and had no means of being turned back on until the morning after, 8 am sharp. Which meant, if KID used any metric of reason to come up with his plans, a disguise would be necessary, causing Jirokichi to keep a look out for any knocked out guards or unusual piles of clothes. Lo and behold, around a handful of corners, a young voice's grumbling reached Jirokichi's old but still as sharp as ever ears. "Why'd the old bat have to go and schedule this event over my birthday?" The voice asked to seemingly no one in particular. Slowly, Jirokichi peeked around another corner, scowering the area with a critical eye. "Sorry guys, I can't make it to the surprise birthday party I totally didn't hear you guys planning during class. Work, you know." Class? Was KID in college? For what; theatre? An exaggerated groan broke through that train of thought, "Happy 18th birthday, you backflipping menace to your best friend's home life. Would you like to carry on your father's legacy of getting yelled at under the moonlight about rocks?" …Eh? Eh??? Now, if Jirokichi was hearing right, which he knew he was, then it sounded like KID implied he was turning 18 today. But that wasn't possible. KID had been phantom thieving since the Phantom Lady's last appearance twenty years ago. Surely this was just a ploy to catch any eavesdroppers off guard, right? Well, when his eyes finally landed on the origins of the voice, Jirokichi's theory went straight out the window. The figure struggling to pull on an already buttoned shirt was definitely too lithe to be a grown man. Of course, Jirokichi had heard all about those people who changed their genders from his niece, but somehow that didn't seem to be the case here. And even if KID was thirty with the height and build of a teenager, his face should show hints of age, yet the face -partly hidden by what must've been a bright blond wig though it was- held no signs. No crows feet from all the smiling, no lines pulling at his mouth, no creases in his forehead. As smooth as a baby's, that was KID's face. Jirokichi pulled back around the corner to lean against the wall, blinking at the red paint opposite him. KID said he was turning 18. KID looked like he was no older than 18. There was a long gap between KID's disappearance and his reappearance. 8 years, in fact. Could it be- "There we go~" KID's voice -youthful, concerningly so, and dancing with mirth- rang out again. "Well, Great Detective, Inspector Nakamori, and Ol' Man Jirokichi, it's show time. Hope you're ready for glitter tonight, because something needs to be festive, and it certainly won't be Mr. Handlebar Mustache." …It definitely was. The son of the previous KID, with a legacy that was quite literally too big for his shoulders. Ah, but that would mean- The heists through finals season. Over school holidays. Over the holidays. Supposedly having a rough time with a friend, who almost definitely didn't know KID was KID, because that boy liked to genuinely talk about himself about as much as a fish liked to be on land- That boy. ...Lupin liked KID well enough, especially after the incident with the safe. And Sonoko was always gushing about the thief anyway. Jirokichi hummed with thought, wondering the legal requirements needed to adopt someone he didn't know the identity of. Because clearly KID needed a father figure in his life- why else would he be doing this adrenaline junkie extravagancy? Regardless, Jirokichi's home was more than large enough, and he had plenty of money, so food wouldn't be an issue if it currently was, which applied to the birds as well- Ah. Hm. Was this Jirokichi's paternal instincts finally flaring to life? He should get that checked up on. "So obviously the most logical and beneficial thing to do in this situation is to adopt him." Jirokichi nods again as his story draws to a close. "Any questions?" "I don't believe that for a second. KID can quick change like only an actress with a team behind her can." "Yeah… How would the legal paperwork go for that? And how will this mysterious Phantom Lady even react?" "I guess that explains why KID can disguise as Shinichi so well… at least in part." "Wait. KID's not a hot older dude? He's just some high schooler? Damn, I suppose I need to find videos from over eight years ago. Maybe his dad was a dilf." Jirokichi claps as if none of them had spoken. "None? Excellent! In that case-" He turns and snaps his fingers, his servants jumping to attention. "Call the press, I have an announcement to make. Get the lawyers while you're at it, too."	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75709526/chapters/198012991	{"authors": ["VenusAndVibes"], "language": "English", "title": "Adopting A KID"}
Survival Instincts (The Last of Us) Tags: bestiality, underage, knotting, dubcon Characters: Ellie (TLoU) A/N: Another bestiality commission, this time. I didn't expect to get so many of them, but I'm enjoying them! Thanks to SolarIron for commissioning this. If you enjoyed reading, and would like to support me, feel free to visit my Ko-fi or commissioning me. Ellie's breath misted in the frozen air as she shouldered her backpack, glancing back at the shelter behind her one last time. Through the grimy window, she could barely make out Joel's form beneath the pile of blankets, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. The fever had broken yesterday morning, and the infection was subsiding weakness still ravaged his body from that rusty rebar that had impaled him when he fell. "I'll be back soon," she whispered, though he couldn't hear. "Just need to find antibiotics. Real ones." Her hand pressed against the cold glass. Joel looked small under those blankets, vulnerable in a way that terrified her. He'd carried her across the country, protected her, taught her to survive. Now he was the one who needed saving, and she was fourteen years old trying to play doctor with expired aspirin and prayers. The wilderness stretched before her, snow-dusted pines reaching toward a grey sky that promised more storms. Her rifle hung heavy across her back, familiar weight she'd grown accustomed to. Five days, she told herself. Just enough time to search the surrounding area, find medicine, and get back. She’d left enough food and water within reach of him, and his slowly recovering condition had finally given her enough confidence to leave him behind. He'd be pissed—that gruff anger that covered his worry—but he'd also be able to heal faster with proper medicine. Her boots crunched through frozen undergrowth as she moved deeper into the woods, following a deer trail that wound between towering trees. The map she'd found showed a small town maybe ten miles east. Abandoned for years according to the faded notes, probably picked clean by scavengers, but worth checking. Everything was worth checking now. Joel's life depended on her not giving up. The cold bit through her jacket as the hours passed. Her fingers had gone numb despite her gloves, nose running constantly. She rationed her water, chewed on jerky, kept moving. The sun barely penetrated the cloud cover, making it hard to track time. Could've been noon, could've been three. Didn't matter. Only the destination mattered. By what she guessed was midday, the town materialized through the trees like a rotted tooth—collapsed buildings, rusted cars overtaken by vines, nature reclaiming everything humanity had abandoned. She approached carefully, rifle up, listening for the telltale clicks of clickers or the shouting of raiders. Nothing. Just wind whistling through broken windows and the creak of structures slowly surrendering to gravity. The pharmacy stood on what used to be Main Street, its sign hanging by one bolt. Ellie's heart lifted stupidly. Pharmacies meant medicine. Never mind that this place had probably been gutted within the first year of the outbreak. Hope was a stubborn thing. The door hung open, hinges rusted through. Inside, destruction greeted her—shelves overturned, glass crunching underfoot, empty pill bottles scattered like confetti. She searched anyway, pulling apart cabinets with desperate hands. Expired aspirin. Antacids turned to powder. Laxatives. Useless shit that wouldn't save Joel. Her chest tightened. She'd promised herself she wouldn't cry, wouldn't waste energy on emotions. But fuck, she was just a kid trying to save the only person who gave a shit about her, and the world kept proving how futile that was. Movement flickered in her peripheral vision. Ellie spun, rifle up, and her heart stopped. Three infected stumbled from the back room, fungal growths splitting their faces into grotesque masks. Runners, recently turned based on their speed. Fast and hungry and already zeroing in on her. She fired. The first shot went wide, adrenaline fucking her aim. She worked the bolt action, fired again. This time the bullet caught one in the chest, dropping it. The other two charged, covering ground impossibly fast. "Fuck!" She backpedaled, boots sliding on debris. Fumbling with the bolt action, trying to chamber another round. Too slow. They'd be on her in seconds, teeth and infected blood and— Then something massive and dark exploded through the pharmacy's side entrance with a crash of splintering wood. The creature—a dog, a wolf, something between—slammed into the first infected with enough force to shatter bones. The sound was sickening, wet and crunching. Jaws closed around a fungal throat and ripped, tearing through corrupted flesh like paper. The second infected turned, reaching with grasping hands, but the animal was already moving, impossibly fast for its size. Claws raked across a chest cavity, opening ribs. Teeth found a skull and crushed. Ellie stood frozen, rifle half-raised, watching this beast tear through infected like they were nothing. It was huge—easily over a hundred and twenty pounds of pure muscle packed beneath thick grey-black fur. Wolf features dominated its face—pointed ears, elongated snout, predator's eyes. The kind of animal you'd expect to find in the wilderness, feral and fucking terrifying. The last infected hit the ground in pieces, fungal growths still twitching. The animal turned to her, blood dripping from its muzzle. Yellow eyes locked onto hers, intelligent and assessing. Ellie's finger tightened on the trigger, but the creature made no aggressive move. It just... watched. Head lowered slightly, non-threatening. Then its tail gave a single wag, slow and deliberate. "Holy shit," she breathed. "You're... what the fuck are you?" The animal approached slowly, each step careful and measured. Up close, its size became even more apparent. Standing, its shoulder would reach her chest easily. She was maybe five-two on a good day, ninety-five pounds soaking wet. This thing could crush her without effort. Thick winter coat made it look even more massive, and when it sat, she could see it was male, a slight bulge to indicate its canine sheath. Her hand extended tentatively, despite every survival instinct screaming caution. The animal sniffed her fingers, breath warm against her frozen skin. Then it pressed its huge head against her palm, leaning into the touch. Heat radiated through her glove, solid and alive and real. "You just saved my ass." Her voice cracked slightly. "Jesus, where did you come from?" The animal's tail wagged again, more enthusiastically this time. Something in its eyes spoke of intelligence beyond typical dogs. Maybe the wolf blood. Maybe just survival instinct honed to a razor edge like hers. Out here, you got smart or you got dead. Ellie pulled a piece of jerky from her pack with shaking hands. "Here. You earned it." He took it gently, despite the size of his jaws. She watched him eat, her mind racing. Traveling alone sucked—every sound made her jump, every shadow could hide infected or raiders. This creature clearly knew how to handle infected. And something about his presence made the crushing isolation of the past few days lift slightly. "Wanna stick around?" she asked. "I've got more food. And I could use the backup." The hybrid's ears perked up. He moved closer, pressing his flank against her leg. Even through her jeans, she felt his body heat, solid muscle shifting beneath that thick coat. Reassuring in a way she hadn't felt since Joel went down. "Alright then." She scratched behind his ears, fingers sinking into fur so thick it was like petting a living carpet. "Need to call you something. You're like a ghost, the way you just appeared out of nowhere. Ghost?" A soft chuff, almost approving. "Ghost it is. Come on, boy. Let's find some actual medicine." The next few days blurred together in a haze of searching and survival. Ghost proved invaluable in ways that made Ellie wonder how she'd managed alone before. His senses detected threats long before she could—ears swiveling toward danger, hackles rising in warning. His hunting skills kept them fed when her ammunition ran low. He'd disappear into the woods and return with rabbits, once even a small deer he dragged back to their camp. They fell into an easy rhythm, communication flowing through gestures and instinct rather than words. She'd point, he'd scout. He'd growl, she'd take cover. At night, he curled around her like a living furnace, his body heat keeping the freezing temperatures from killing her. She'd wake with her face buried in his fur, breathing in his scent; pine and musk and wildness. She found antibiotics on day two, in a veterinary clinic half-collapsed by a fallen tree. The back storage room had survived, bottles of amoxicillin and cephalexin lined up like treasure. Animal grade, but the chemistry was identical. Joel would bitch about taking dog meds, which almost made her smile thinking about it. But she had time to spare, and the early success spurred her to keep searching for more supplies. Ghost had started following her everywhere, pressed close against her side when they walked, his body a constant warm presence. At night he'd settle beside her, huge head resting on her stomach, and she'd stroke his fur until sleep took her. The bond forming between them felt deeper than just convenience, something familial and comforting. On the fourth day, she made a decision. Joel was stable—the fever had broken before she left. The antibiotics would keep another day or two. And the weather was turning nasty again, dark clouds promising a blizzard. Better to wait out the storm than travel through it and risk getting lost or frozen. They found the cabin as snow began falling in earnest, fat flakes that quickly obscured the trail behind them. Small and isolated, windows still intact, roof solid. The door hung on one hinge but still provided shelter	Survival Instincts (The Last of Us) Tags: bestiality, underage, knotting, dubcon Characters: Ellie (TLoU) A/N: Another bestiality commission, this time. I didn't expect to get so many of them, but I'm enjoying them! Thanks to SolarIron for commissioning this. If you enjoyed reading, and would like to support me, feel free to visit my Ko-fi or commissioning me. Ellie's breath misted in the frozen air as she shouldered her backpack, glancing back at the shelter behind her one last time. Through the grimy window, she could barely make out Joel's form beneath the pile of blankets, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. The fever had broken yesterday morning, and the infection was subsiding weakness still ravaged his body from that rusty rebar that had impaled him when he fell. "I'll be back soon," she whispered, though he couldn't hear. "Just need to find antibiotics. Real ones." Her hand pressed against the cold glass. Joel looked small under those blankets, vulnerable in a way that terrified her. He'd carried her across the country, protected her, taught her to survive. Now he was the one who needed saving, and she was fourteen years old trying to play doctor with expired aspirin and prayers. The wilderness stretched before her, snow-dusted pines reaching toward a grey sky that promised more storms. Her rifle hung heavy across her back, familiar weight she'd grown accustomed to. Five days, she told herself. Just enough time to search the surrounding area, find medicine, and get back. She’d left enough food and water within reach of him, and his slowly recovering condition had finally given her enough confidence to leave him behind. He'd be pissed—that gruff anger that covered his worry—but he'd also be able to heal faster with proper medicine. Her boots crunched through frozen undergrowth as she moved deeper into the woods, following a deer trail that wound between towering trees. The map she'd found showed a small town maybe ten miles east. Abandoned for years according to the faded notes, probably picked clean by scavengers, but worth checking. Everything was worth checking now. Joel's life depended on her not giving up. The cold bit through her jacket as the hours passed. Her fingers had gone numb despite her gloves, nose running constantly. She rationed her water, chewed on jerky, kept moving. The sun barely penetrated the cloud cover, making it hard to track time. Could've been noon, could've been three. Didn't matter. Only the destination mattered. By what she guessed was midday, the town materialized through the trees like a rotted tooth—collapsed buildings, rusted cars overtaken by vines, nature reclaiming everything humanity had abandoned. She approached carefully, rifle up, listening for the telltale clicks of clickers or the shouting of raiders. Nothing. Just wind whistling through broken windows and the creak of structures slowly surrendering to gravity. The pharmacy stood on what used to be Main Street, its sign hanging by one bolt. Ellie's heart lifted stupidly. Pharmacies meant medicine. Never mind that this place had probably been gutted within the first year of the outbreak. Hope was a stubborn thing. The door hung open, hinges rusted through. Inside, destruction greeted her—shelves overturned, glass crunching underfoot, empty pill bottles scattered like confetti. She searched anyway, pulling apart cabinets with desperate hands. Expired aspirin. Antacids turned to powder. Laxatives. Useless shit that wouldn't save Joel. Her chest tightened. She'd promised herself she wouldn't cry, wouldn't waste energy on emotions. But fuck, she was just a kid trying to save the only person who gave a shit about her, and the world kept proving how futile that was. Movement flickered in her peripheral vision. Ellie spun, rifle up, and her heart stopped. Three infected stumbled from the back room, fungal growths splitting their faces into grotesque masks. Runners, recently turned based on their speed. Fast and hungry and already zeroing in on her. She fired. The first shot went wide, adrenaline fucking her aim. She worked the bolt action, fired again. This time the bullet caught one in the chest, dropping it. The other two charged, covering ground impossibly fast. "Fuck!" She backpedaled, boots sliding on debris. Fumbling with the bolt action, trying to chamber another round. Too slow. They'd be on her in seconds, teeth and infected blood and— Then something massive and dark exploded through the pharmacy's side entrance with a crash of splintering wood. The creature—a dog, a wolf, something between—slammed into the first infected with enough force to shatter bones. The sound was sickening, wet and crunching. Jaws closed around a fungal throat and ripped, tearing through corrupted flesh like paper. The second infected turned, reaching with grasping hands, but the animal was already moving, impossibly fast for its size. Claws raked across a chest cavity, opening ribs. Teeth found a skull and crushed. Ellie stood frozen, rifle half-raised, watching this beast tear through infected like they were nothing. It was huge—easily over a hundred and twenty pounds of pure muscle packed beneath thick grey-black fur. Wolf features dominated its face—pointed ears, elongated snout, predator's eyes. The kind of animal you'd expect to find in the wilderness, feral and fucking terrifying. The last infected hit the ground in pieces, fungal growths still twitching. The animal turned to her, blood dripping from its muzzle. Yellow eyes locked onto hers, intelligent and assessing. Ellie's finger tightened on the trigger, but the creature made no aggressive move. It just... watched. Head lowered slightly, non-threatening. Then its tail gave a single wag, slow and deliberate. "Holy shit," she breathed. "You're... what the fuck are you?" The animal approached slowly, each step careful and measured. Up close, its size became even more apparent. Standing, its shoulder would reach her chest easily. She was maybe five-two on a good day, ninety-five pounds soaking wet. This thing could crush her without effort. Thick winter coat made it look even more massive, and when it sat, she could see it was male, a slight bulge to indicate its canine sheath. Her hand extended tentatively, despite every survival instinct screaming caution. The animal sniffed her fingers, breath warm against her frozen skin. Then it pressed its huge head against her palm, leaning into the touch. Heat radiated through her glove, solid and alive and real. "You just saved my ass." Her voice cracked slightly. "Jesus, where did you come from?" The animal's tail wagged again, more enthusiastically this time. Something in its eyes spoke of intelligence beyond typical dogs. Maybe the wolf blood. Maybe just survival instinct honed to a razor edge like hers. Out here, you got smart or you got dead. Ellie pulled a piece of jerky from her pack with shaking hands. "Here. You earned it." He took it gently, despite the size of his jaws. She watched him eat, her mind racing. Traveling alone sucked—every sound made her jump, every shadow could hide infected or raiders. This creature clearly knew how to handle infected. And something about his presence made the crushing isolation of the past few days lift slightly. "Wanna stick around?" she asked. "I've got more food. And I could use the backup." The hybrid's ears perked up. He moved closer, pressing his flank against her leg. Even through her jeans, she felt his body heat, solid muscle shifting beneath that thick coat. Reassuring in a way she hadn't felt since Joel went down. "Alright then." She scratched behind his ears, fingers sinking into fur so thick it was like petting a living carpet. "Need to call you something. You're like a ghost, the way you just appeared out of nowhere. Ghost?" A soft chuff, almost approving. "Ghost it is. Come on, boy. Let's find some actual medicine." The next few days blurred together in a haze of searching and survival. Ghost proved invaluable in ways that made Ellie wonder how she'd managed alone before. His senses detected threats long before she could—ears swiveling toward danger, hackles rising in warning. His hunting skills kept them fed when her ammunition ran low. He'd disappear into the woods and return with rabbits, once even a small deer he dragged back to their camp. They fell into an easy rhythm, communication flowing through gestures and instinct rather than words. She'd point, he'd scout. He'd growl, she'd take cover. At night, he curled around her like a living furnace, his body heat keeping the freezing temperatures from killing her. She'd wake with her face buried in his fur, breathing in his scent; pine and musk and wildness. She found antibiotics on day two, in a veterinary clinic half-collapsed by a fallen tree. The back storage room had survived, bottles of amoxicillin and cephalexin lined up like treasure. Animal grade, but the chemistry was identical. Joel would bitch about taking dog meds, which almost made her smile thinking about it. But she had time to spare, and the early success spurred her to keep searching for more supplies. Ghost had started following her everywhere, pressed close against her side when they walked, his body a constant warm presence. At night he'd settle beside her, huge head resting on her stomach, and she'd stroke his fur until sleep took her. The bond forming between them felt deeper than just convenience, something familial and comforting. On the fourth day, she made a decision. Joel was stable—the fever had broken before she left. The antibiotics would keep another day or two. And the weather was turning nasty again, dark clouds promising a blizzard. Better to wait out the storm than travel through it and risk getting lost or frozen. They found the cabin as snow began falling in earnest, fat flakes that quickly obscured the trail behind them. Small and isolated, windows still intact, roof solid. The door hung on one hinge but still provided shelter when she forced it closed. Inside, the space was cramped but dry, with a stone fireplace that looked functional. "Not bad," Ellie muttered, dropping her pack. Her shoulders ached from days of walking. Ghost padded around the perimeter, sniffing corners and marking territory with typical dog behavior. She smiled despite herself. "Yeah, make yourself at home." Within an hour, she had a fire crackling, orange flames casting dancing shadows across rough wooden walls. The temperature inside climbed from freezing to merely cold, then almost comfortable near the hearth. Ghost settled near the flames, his thick coat steaming slightly as snow melted from his fur. Ellie sat beside him, shoulders touching his massive flank. Her hands moved automatically, stroking through his coat, working out tangles and debris. He was so big. Her whole body would fit against his torso when they slept, like a child curling up with a giant stuffed animal. Except Ghost was real, all muscle and heat and protective instinct. The size difference should've been intimidating, but instead she felt... safe. Like nothing in this dead world could touch her with him there. "Good boy," she murmured, and his tail thumped against the wooden floor. Outside, wind howled like infected. Snow fell heavier, already piling against the window. They were stuck here tonight, maybe tomorrow too. The isolation pressed down, but differently than when she'd been alone. Not lonely. Just... intimate. Her and this massive creature, sealed away from the infected and raiders and everything else trying to kill them. Ghost shifted, rolling slightly to expose his belly. Ellie's hand drifted lower, scratching the softer fur there. Her fingers brushed something warm and firm and she froze—his sheath, pronounced against her palm. She jerked back, face heating. "Sorry," she muttered. Ghost just looked at her with those intelligent yellow eyes, head tilted slightly like he was confused by her reaction. Her heart hammered for reasons she didn't want to examine. She'd touched him accidentally, that's all. Nothing weird. Except the warmth lingered on her skin, and something low in her belly twisted strangely. Unfamiliar. Electric. Ellie stood abruptly, busying herself with organizing supplies that didn't need organizing. Ghost watched, patient and calm, tail still wagging slowly. Eventually exhaustion won and she curled up near the fire, her back pressed against his side. His steady breathing and heartbeat lulled her toward sleep. Tomorrow they'd head back to Joel. Tonight, she had Ghost. The cabin walls creaked against wind that shrieked like infected. Ellie woke to complete darkness beyond the firelight, snow piling halfway up the window. The storm had intensified while she slept, visibility reduced to nothing. Going anywhere today would be suicide. "Fuck," she whispered, then louder: "We're stuck." Ghost stirred beside her, lifting his massive head. His yellow eyes reflected firelight eerily, twin coins of gold. She scratched his ears, taking comfort in his solidity. At least she wasn't alone. At least Joel was safe back in that house, hopefully still recovering. The day stretched ahead with nothing to fill it. She fed the fire, rationed their food, cleaned her rifle for the third time. Boredom settled in, bringing with it thoughts she usually kept busy enough to avoid. Her body had been changing lately. She'd noticed it over the past months—her chest no longer the flat plane of childhood. Small breasts pushed against her shirt when she moved, enough to require a sports bra now. They felt tender sometimes, especially now, nipples sensitive against the fabric. Her hips had widened slightly, giving her a shape that hadn't existed a year ago. The beginnings of curves that signaled something inevitable. And her period had started six months ago, that first terrifying moment of blood in her underwear until she remembered Riley explaining what it meant. Being a woman now, Riley had said. Ready to have babies, though that seemed like the most ridiculous thing Ellie could imagine. She was fourteen. She could barely keep herself alive, let alone a baby. Riley. God, she missed her. They'd talked about everything in those stolen hours together, when the world narrowed to just the two of them exploring the mall. Sex had been one of those whispered topics, both of them fascinated and embarrassed. "So like, the guy just... puts it in?" Ellie had asked, nose wrinkling at the mechanics. "Yeah, but you have to be like, ready for it. Wet." Riley had grinned, always more confident about this stuff. "Your body makes it slippery so it doesn't hurt as much. Natural lube." "That's so fucking weird." "Right? But girls say it feels good once you get used to it. Like, really good. There's this spot inside that makes you—" They'd giggled, embarrassed but fascinated. Riley had been curious about kissing, touching, what it would feel like. Ellie had been more confused by the whole thing, sexuality a foreign concept when survival took precedence. But lately... Lately her body had decided things her mind hadn't caught up to. She'd wake up with her hand between her legs, fingers sticky with moisture she didn't remember producing. A strange ache would pulse there, demanding attention she didn't know how to give. The cramping of her period had passed about a week ago, but now she felt different. Restless. Hungry for something she couldn't name. Her underwear stayed damp constantly, and unfamiliar sensations made her squirm when she walked. Her small breasts felt heavy and tender, nipples hard at the slightest friction. Everything between her legs felt swollen and sensitive, like her body was preparing for something. She didn't know the word "ovulation," didn't understand the biological imperative flooding her fourteen-year-old system with hormones. All she knew was the constant awareness of her pussy, the sensitivity that made her jeans feel too tight, and thoughts that embarrassed her when they surfaced unbidden. Thoughts about being touched. Filled. Fucked. Ghost shifted closer, his nose pressing against her arm. She stroked his fur absently, enjoying the texture and warmth. He smelled like pine and musk, distinctly animal but not unpleasant. Comforting, even. Wild and alive. His attention changed suddenly. Where before he'd been calm and settled, now restlessness animated him. He stood, paced a tight circle, then settled again—except now his nose kept returning to her, sniffing with obvious intent. "What?" Ellie frowned as he pushed his snout against her thigh, inhaling deeply. "Dude, personal space." But he persisted, determined and increasingly agitated. His nose worked its way higher until he pressed directly between her legs, hot breath penetrating through her jeans. Heat flooded her face. "Ghost, stop!" She pushed at his head, but he was immovable, sniffing with what could only be called desperate interest. Something clicked in her mind, a memory of biology class before the outbreak. Dogs could smell things humans couldn't—fear, sickness, cancer, chemicals. Their noses detected the invisible. Her body was producing something, some scent, and it was driving him crazy. The realization made her stomach flip. He could smell... her. Whatever her pussy was doing, leaking wetness into her underwear, the hormones flooding her system, the readiness. To him, she probably reeked of it. Fertility. Availability. Ghost whined, a sound of pure need that sent shivers down her spine. His tail had dropped, body language shifting from protective companion to something else entirely. Something male and interested. He paced again, unable to settle, muscles tense beneath his coat. When he finally sat near the fire, Ellie saw it. The pink tip of his cock had emerged from his sheath. Her breath caught. She should look away. Should push him outside despite the storm and pretend this wasn't happening. Instead, she stared as more of it appeared, bright red flesh glistening and alien and impossibly vivid against the dark fur. Six inches. Seven. Still coming, sliding free. "Jesus Christ," she whispered. Ghost panted, tongue lolling, hips shifting in obvious discomfort. His arousal was blatant, impossible to ignore. And the worst part was the heat that sparked between her own legs at the sight. Her pussy clenched, wetness soaking through her underwear completely now. She was getting turned on. By a dog. A wolf. Whatever the fuck he was. Disgust warred with curiosity and a deeper, more primal pull. This was wrong on every conceivable level. Sick. Twisted. Illegal, probably, though laws didn't exist anymore. The world had ended and morality had become survival, but this crossed lines even the apocalypse shouldn't erase. But the rational voice in her head had competition now. Hormones screamed at her, teenage biology demanding satisfaction. Isolation made normal rules seem distant and meaningless. And the simple fact remained: Ghost was here, massive and virile and clearly interested in her as something more than just a companion. Riley's voice echoed from memory: "I heard some girls get so desperate in the QZ, they'll fuck anything. Dogs, even. There was this rumor about—" They'd laughed at the absurdity, the idea of desperation like that seeming impossible. Gross and pathetic. Except now Ellie understood. Survival changed everything. Broke down walls between should and shouldn't, normal and taboo. Out here, there was no law, no society, no one to judge. Just her and Ghost and the storm sealing them away from the entire dead world. What happened in this cabin would never be known. Never be spoken of. It could be a secret carried to the grave. Her hand moved before she could overthink it, reaching out tentatively. Ghost went completely still, watching her with those eerie intelligent eyes. Waiting. Her fingers trembled as they made contact with the exposed flesh. Hot. Searing hot and impossibly slick, throbbing with his pulse against her palm. Ghost's hips jerked forward instinctively, driving more of his length into her grip. Ellie gasped at the response, at the sheer size now fully revealed before her. Eight inches. Nine. Still coming. Thick and tapered to a pointed tip that wept clear fluid, designed by evolution for a very specific purpose. The base had begun to swell already, a bulge that would eventually form his knot. His sheath hung heavy behind it, and beneath that— His balls. Massive, fur-covered, heavy with obvious fullness. They hung low between his powerful legs, swaying slightly with his breathing. She could see them from here, larger than her fists, and something about their size made her pussy clench harder. "Holy shit," she breathed. Compared to her small hand, his cock looked enormous. Compared to her entire body—her slim hips, her tight virgin pussy—it seemed impossible. But her body clenched and leaked at the sight, wetness running down her thighs now. Her young fertile body knew what it wanted even if her mind reeled at the depravity. Ghost's perspective was simpler, driven by pure instinct without the complication of morality. The female before him was fertile—her scent screamed it, thick and intoxicating and impossible to resist. She was small, yes, but size didn't matter to breeding instinct. She was touching him, gripping his cock, accepting his advances. In his world, in the ancient language written into his DNA, this meant submission. She'd presented herself as available, a bitch in heat ready for breeding. His hips thrust again, fucking into her grip with mounting urgency. The pointed tip leaked more fluid, coating her fingers in slick pre-cum. Ellie's other hand joined the first, both wrapping around his thick shaft and stroking experimentally. The texture fascinated her—smoother than she'd imagined, blazing hot, the tapered shape clearly designed to penetrate and seed. "Fuck," she whispered, mostly to herself. "This is so fucked up." But she didn't stop. Her hands moved faster, exploring the alien anatomy with growing boldness. The way it pulsed. The heat. The sheer masculine presence of it. This was a male in his prime, built for breeding, and her young ovulating body responded to that on a level below conscious thought. Her mind supplied unwanted knowledge from old biology textbooks, barely remembered from the school she hated; the pointed tip would lodge against a cervix, the knot would seal everything inside, his cum would flood directly into a womb. Perfect biological machinery for ensuring pregnancy. For making sure his seed reached its target. And she was ovulating right now. Her body fertile and ready, egg waiting in her fallopian tube. If he were human... if she weren't fourteen... if this weren't completely insane... Ghost pulled back suddenly, cock sliding from her grip with a wet sound. For a moment she thought he was done, crisis averted, sanity restored. Then she saw his expression—pure male dominance, a predator assessing his bitch. His nose returned to her crotch, sniffing aggressively through her jeans, and understanding slammed into her with physical force. He didn't want her hands. He wanted inside her. The rational part of Ellie screamed to stop this now. She was fourteen years old, a virgin, alone with an animal, about to cross a line that couldn't be uncrossed. This was wrong. Sick. The kind of thing that would make her a pariah even in this dead world if anyone ever found out. But her body responded to baser instincts, the biological imperative written into every cell. The ache between her legs had become almost painful, pussy clenching around nothing and desperately wanting to be filled. Her small breasts felt heavy, nipples so hard they hurt against her shirt. Every hormone in her teenage body screamed that she was fertile, ready, needing to be bred. And Ghost... Ghost was here. Massive and powerful and very clearly interested in breeding her. In this moment, isolated from everything, he wasn't just a dog or wolf. He was male to her female. Alpha to her omega. The dominant partner her body craved even if her mind couldn't fully process the depravity. She could almost hear Riley's teasing voice: "Well fuck, Ellie. Desperate much?" Yeah. Maybe she was. Maybe survival had stripped away everything except raw need and the simple fact that Ghost made her feel wanted and safe and alive in ways nothing else did anymore. Her hands moved to the button of her jeans, fingers shaking. Ghost's ears perked up, tail lifting. He knew. Somehow, he understood that she'd made her choice. "Okay," Ellie whispered, undoing her fly with trembling fingers. "Okay. Fuck it. We're doing this." Her jeans hit the floor first, kicked aside with trembling legs. Then her underwear—plain cotton darkened with moisture, the evidence of her body's betrayal. The crotch was soaked through completely, clinging to her swollen lips before she peeled it away. The cold air hit her exposed skin and she shivered, but not entirely from temperature. Ellie stood there for a moment, shirt still on, suddenly paralyzed by the enormity of what she was about to do. Ghost watched her with those predatory yellow eyes, cock still jutting obscenely from his sheath. The red length glistened in the firelight, tapered tip weeping clear fluid that dripped to the floor. Waiting. Expecting her to finish what she'd started. "Fuck," she whispered, and pulled her shirt over her head. Her sports bra followed, leaving her completely naked in the flickering orange glow. Fourteen years old and stripped bare before an animal. Her body was that of a girl caught between childhood and womanhood—small breasts topped with puffy pink nipples that had hardened to painful points in the cool air. They sat high on her chest, barely more than handfuls, the flesh pale and soft. Her slim hips had only recently begun to flare outward, giving her the first hints of feminine curves. A flat stomach led down to prominent hipbones and the sparse hair of early puberty. Barely there, soft and fine, almost translucent in the firelight. Below that, her pussy glistened even in the dim light. Lips swollen and parted, flushed dark pink with arousal she couldn't deny. The pink flesh looked impossibly small, virgin-tight, untouched by anything except her own curious fingers. Wetness had gathered in the creases, running down her inner thighs in visible trails. Ghost's nostrils flared. A low rumble emanated from his chest—approval mixed with desperate need. His tail lifted, cock twitching as another bead of pre-cum formed at the tip. Ellie's hand drifted downward, drawn by instinct and the aching emptiness between her legs. Her fingers found wet heat, sliding easily through her folds. So slick already, her body preparing itself without permission. She circled her clit and gasped at the sensation, pleasure sparking up her spine like electricity. The small bundle of nerves was swollen and sensitive, responding to the lightest touch. But that wasn't what she needed to do. She needed to... prepare herself. Make it possible. One finger pushed inside her entrance and she whimpered at the intrusion. Tight. So fucking tight even around her slim finger. The resistance was immediate, her virgin walls unused to being penetrated. She worked it deeper, feeling her inner muscles clench and release, trying to adjust to the invasion. Her finger sank in to the second knuckle, then the third, until she was buried completely. A second finger joined the first and the stretch burned. Ellie bit her lip hard enough to taste copper, forcing them deeper together, scissoring slightly to loosen herself. Her body fought the invasion even as her pussy leaked more wetness to ease the way. The wet sounds were obscene in the quiet cabin—squelching, slurping noises as she pumped her fingers. Deep inside, she could feel something soft and slightly open—her cervix, though she didn't know the term. The texture was different from the ridged walls around it, smoother and yielding. Ovulation had changed it, preparing it for exactly this purpose. Her body was ready to be bred whether her mind accepted it or not. "Jesus," she panted, fingers pumping slowly. The burn faded into pressure, into fullness that made her crave more. She curled her fingers upward and found a spot that made her gasp, made her hips jerk forward. Her thumb found her clit and she moaned, hips rolling against her own hand. Biology had designed her young body for breeding, and right now every cell screamed its readiness. Her nipples ached. Her womb cramped with need. Her pussy clenched around her working fingers, desperate for something larger. Ghost paced closer, unable to contain himself any longer. His nose pushed against her working fingers, inhaling deeply where they disappeared into her body. The scent of her fertile cunt drove him to distraction. She smelled ready. Available. In heat. His to claim and breed. Ellie pulled her fingers free—they glistened obscenely, coated in her arousal—and positioned herself on the floor. Hands and knees, the most vulnerable position imaginable. Her small breasts hung beneath her, nipples brushing rough wood and sending jolts through her. Her back arched instinctively, ass lifting, presenting her dripping pussy to the massive animal behind her. The vulnerability crashed over her in waves. On all fours like an animal herself. Naked and exposed and offering herself to be mounted like a bitch in heat. The taboo of it made her pussy clench around nothing, desperate to be filled. She could feel her own wetness running down her thighs, could smell her arousal mixing with his musk. "Come on," she whispered, and wasn't sure if she was encouraging him or herself. "Do it." Ghost needed no further invitation. His weight hit her back like a collapsing wall. Ellie cried out, arms nearly buckling under the sudden pressure of a hundred and twenty pounds of muscle and fur. Her elbows locked just in time, keeping her from face-planting into the floor. His front paws wrapped around her slim hips, dewclaws pricking her skin—careful but firm, holding her in place with the strength of a wild predator. She couldn't escape now even if she wanted to. He'd positioned himself exactly as nature intended: alpha male mounting his submissive bitch. His thick winter coat pressed against her bare back and shoulders, overwhelming her senses. The texture was coarse and soft simultaneously, his body heat radiating through the fur and into her skin. The sheer masculine presence of him surrounding her completely made her feel small, fragile, utterly dominated. She was a fourteen-year-old girl being mounted by a creature that could kill her with one bite. His hips began to thrust immediately, seeking her entrance with blind animal instinct. The hot length of his cock jabbed against her ass cheek, smearing pre-cum across her skin. Then her thigh. Then between her legs but too high, sliding through her ass crack. The blazing heat shocked her every time it made contact. "Wait, I—" Ellie reached back with a shaking hand, wrapping her fingers around his thrusting length to guide him. The heat shocked her even expecting it, the slick texture alien against her palm. She angled the tapered tip downward, positioning it against her virgin opening. The pointed end pressed against her entrance, and they both froze. The tip rested there, pressure building but not yet penetrating. Ellie felt the shape of him intimately—pointed and slick, designed by evolution to breach and burrow deep into a female. Her pussy clenched reflexively, body understanding on a primal level what was about to happen even if her mind still reeled from the wrongness. Ghost pushed forward experimentally. "Oh god—" Her whimper cut off into a sharp cry as the tip speared into her. The stretch was immediate and intense, her virgin walls forced to accommodate the intrusion. It burned, a bright line of pain as her body yielded to his invasion. The tapered shape helped, the narrow tip spreading her gradually, but it still felt enormous. From his perspective, he felt tight heat enveloping his cock—incredible resistance that only fueled his instinct to thrust harder, to drive deeper, to claim this fertile bitch fully. The female beneath him was young and unused, her channel gripping him like a vice designed to milk his seed. Perfect for breeding. His hips jerked forward involuntarily. He pushed relentlessly forward, instinct overriding any hesitation. Ellie felt the moment her barrier tore. Sharp pain lanced through her core as Ghost's cock punched through her hymen, claiming her virginity with brutal efficiency. She screamed, tears springing to her eyes and running down her cheeks, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Instinct drove him to bury himself completely in the fertile bitch presenting herself beneath him. Inch by impossible inch, his length sank into her. Ellie felt every bit of progress—the stretch becoming agony, her inner walls forced apart by the thick intrusion that seemed endless. The shape of him became intimate knowledge burned into her nervous system: tapered tip leading the way like a spear, shaft widening as it drove deeper, spreading her open from the inside. Her pussy stretched around him, the pink flesh pulled taut and pale. Her cervix registered the invasion next, the soft slightly-dilated opening accepting the battering of his pointed tip. The depth made her gasp, made her aware of how thoroughly he was filling her small body. She could feel him in her belly, swore she could see the bulge of his cock distorting her flat stomach when she glanced down. "Too much," she gasped, voice breaking. "Too fucking big, I can't—" Ghost's hips pressed flush against her ass and she realized with shock that he was fully seated. Hilted. Every single inch of his animal cock buried in her fourteen-year-old pussy. His heavy balls pressed against her soaking lips, the fur damp with her arousal. She could feel them hanging there, warm and full, ready to pump her full of his seed. They stayed frozen in that position for a heartbeat, both processing. Ellie adjusted to the impossible fullness, to being stretched beyond what should be anatomically possible. Her pussy clenched around him involuntarily, inner walls rippling along his length. Pain began shifting into something else—pressure that bordered on pleasure, fullness that satisfied some deep primal need she hadn't known existed. Then Ghost pulled back halfway and thrust forward hard. "Fuck!" The word tore from her throat as he established his rhythm. No gentleness, no consideration for her inexperience—just brutal primal breeding. His powerful haunches drove his cock into her again and again, each thrust forcing a cry from her lips. The wet sound of their coupling filled the cabin, obscene and unmistakable. Skin slapping against skin, wet squelching as his cock plunged into her soaked pussy. Ellie's arms gave out and she collapsed to her elbows, face pressed against the wooden floor. The new angle drove him deeper somehow, his tip battering against her cervix with each powerful stroke. Her small breasts swung beneath her with the force of his thrusts, nipples dragging across rough wood and sending jolts of painful pleasure through her. His balls swung forward with each thrust, heavy and full, smacking against her clit and pussy lips with meaty impacts. The sensation was overwhelming—pain and pleasure mixed together until she couldn't distinguish between them. Her body responded without permission, cunt growing wetter, clenching around him rhythmically as if trying to pull him deeper. "Oh god, oh fuck, oh—" She couldn't form complete thoughts anymore. Her fourteen-year-old body was being used, dominated, bred by an animal, and some dark twisted part of her loved every fucking second. The wrongness made it hotter, the taboo sending electric thrills through her nervous system. Ghost's perspective had narrowed to pure instinct and biological imperative. The bitch beneath him was fertile—her scent confirmed it, thick and intoxicating. The way her cunt gripped him confirmed it, tight and wet and designed to milk seed. Young and perfect for breeding. His hips pistoned faster, balls aching with the need to release, to pump her full of his cum until her womb overflowed with his seed. The pressure built in Ellie's core, coiling tighter with each brutal thrust. Her clit throbbed from the repeated impact of his swinging balls. Her cervix sent mixed signals of pain and pleasure as his tapered tip hammered against it, testing the entrance to her womb. The fullness of his thick cock stretching her virgin pussy. Everything combined into overwhelming sensation that threatened to consume her completely. Her first orgasm hit without warning. Ellie screamed as her pussy clamped down on Ghost's driving cock, inner walls convulsing around him in rhythmic pulses. Pleasure exploded through her nervous system, whiting out thought and reason. Her virgin body had never experienced anything like this—the intensity, the wrongness, the sheer physical ecstasy of being thoroughly fucked. Her toes curled, her hands clawed at the floor, her spine arched impossibly as wave after wave crashed through her. Ghost felt her clench around him and increased his pace, pounding into her spasming cunt with renewed vigor. His own release approached, balls drawing up tight against his body. The urge to knot her, to lock them together and ensure every drop of his seed stayed inside her fertile young body, became overwhelming. "Please," Ellie gasped as her orgasm faded, leaving her oversensitive and trembling. Though she wasn't sure what she was begging for. More? Less? Stop? Don't stop? She was fourteen years old getting bred by an animal and her hormone-flooded body wanted more. Needed more. "Please, I—fuck, I need—" Her words dissolved into incoherent moans. Another orgasm built already, her sensitive young pussy responding to the relentless stimulation. The taboo nature made it hotter somehow—knowing how wrong this was, how depraved, how she'd never be able to tell anyone. This secret would go to her grave. She was being bred like a bitch in heat and her body celebrated it. Ghost's knot began to swell. Ellie felt it immediately—the base of his cock thickening with each thrust, catching at her entrance. Growing larger with every passing second. Her eyes widened as understanding hit through the pleasure-fog. "Wait, that won't—" Panic mixed with arousal, fighting for dominance in her brain. "Too big, it won't fit inside me—" But Ghost's instincts overrode any protest. This was the final step, the biological imperative written into his DNA. The knot would lock them together, ensure his seed stayed deep inside her womb where it belonged. With a powerful thrust fueled by breeding frenzy, he forced the swelling knot past her entrance and into her body. The stretch transcended pain into something else entirely. Ellie's scream echoed off the cabin walls as her pussy was forced to accommodate the massive intrusion. The knot expanded inside her, growing to the size of a baseball, plugging her completely. Her entrance stretched impossibly wide around it, the pink flesh pulled taut and white. Locked together now, no escape possible until biology decided otherwise. "Oh fuck, oh Jesus Christ, oh—" Tears streamed down her face. She felt split open, stretched impossibly wide, pinned in place by the enormous knot buried inside her tight pussy. Her slim hips couldn't possibly accommodate this, yet her body had yielded anyway. The fullness was indescribable—beyond anything she'd imagined possible. Ghost's behavior shifted immediately. His frantic thrusting stopped, replaced by small grinding motions that pushed his cock even deeper. His cock pulsed inside her, throbbing against her stretched walls, and then— Warmth flooded her passage. The first jets of his cum were thin and clear, coating her inner walls with slippery heat. Ellie gasped at the sensation, at the knowledge that she was being filled with animal seed. The warmth spread deeper, his tapered tip pressed directly against her dilated cervix and spraying inside her womb itself. She could feel it happening, feel the foreign fluid entering the most intimate part of her body. Then his ejaculation changed dramatically. The thin fluid gave way to something thicker, more viscous. The white sperm-rich portion of his release pumped into her in powerful spurts, hot and heavy and potent. Ellie could feel the difference, feel the texture change as his fertile seed flooded her fertile womb. Each pulse brought more, filling her beyond capacity. She looked underneath herself, past her small hanging breasts, and saw it clearly. The bulge. Her flat stomach distorted by the size of his cock and knot buried inside her, creating a visible protrusion just above her pubic bone. And below that, his huge balls hung against her pussy, his sack contracting rhythmically with each spurt. Pumping. Breeding her with mechanical efficiency. Her hand reached down, trembling, and touched his balls. They were heavy and warm, larger than her fists, pulsing with each spurt of cum. Full of seed meant to impregnate, to fertilize, to create life. She felt them contract again and understanding crystallized: she was being inseminated. Bred. This animal was trying to put puppies in her fourteen-year-old womb. "Fuck," she whispered, voice shaking. "You're... you're breeding me. Filling me with your cum." Ghost's perspective was pure satisfaction and continued instinct. The bitch was knotted, locked on his cock, receiving his seed exactly as nature intended. He could feel her womb accepting each spurt, her young body designed perfectly for this purpose despite the species difference. His balls continued their rhythmic pumping, ensuring thorough insemination. Every drop would stay inside her where it belonged. Inside Ellie's body, biology played out on a microscopic level invisible to the eye. Millions of canine sperm swam through the flood of cum, drawn toward her cervix by chemical signals her body produced. They passed through the slightly dilated opening and into her womb, swimming with desperate purpose toward her fallopian tubes. Her egg waited there, recently released, ready to be fertilized. The sperm swarmed it, attempting to penetrate the outer membrane. But the species barrier held firm. Dog couldn't breed human. The biological incompatibility prevented conception, chromosomes too different to combine. But Ellie's body didn't know that. Her womb contracted rhythmically, trying to pull the foreign seed deeper. Her young fertile system accepted the animal cum as if it belonged there, as if her biological purpose was to be a breeding vessel for the alpha mounting her. Hormones flooded her brain, creating a feedback loop of submission and satisfaction that overrode rational thought. Minutes passed in a haze. Five. Ten. Fifteen. Ghost's knot showed no signs of deflating, keeping them locked together in the most intimate way possible. His balls continued to pulse, squeezing out every last drop of seed his body could produce. The volume was staggering—so much more than her small body should hold. She felt it sloshing inside her womb, thick and warm and alive with swimming sperm. Another orgasm built despite the discomfort, or perhaps because of it. The fullness, the pressure of his knot stretching her entrance, the grinding of his cock against her cervix, the warmth of his cum filling her—it all combined into overwhelming sensation. "Oh god, I'm gonna—" Ellie's second orgasm ripped through her, more intense than the first. Her pussy convulsed around his knot, milking his cock for every remaining drop. The pleasure bordered on pain, too intense for her inexperienced body to process properly. She sobbed with the intensity, shaking and trembling beneath him. Ghost rumbled his approval deep in his chest, feeling her clench and spasm around him. The female was responsive, her body eager for breeding despite her youth. Good. Strong. His bitch now and forever. Time lost meaning. Ellie's mind drifted, consciousness suspended between pain and pleasure, shame and satisfaction. She was a fertile bitch, knotted by an animal, full of dog cum, and some primal part of her brain whispered that this was right. Natural. Her place in the world. To be bred and filled and used. Twenty minutes had passed when Ghost's knot finally began to deflate. The gradual reduction in stretch was almost as intense as the initial expansion. Ellie felt every millimeter of progress as he slowly pulled free, her entrance clinging to the shrinking knot. When his cock finally slipped out with a wet obscene pop, a flood of cum followed immediately. Thick white seed poured from her gaping pussy, running down her thighs in rivers, pooling on the floor beneath her in a growing puddle. She collapsed fully, cheek pressed against wood, legs spread, thoroughly bred and used. Her pussy gaped open, stretched and abused, still leaking his seed in steady streams. The pink flesh was swollen and dark, her entrance unable to close properly after being stretched so wide. Deep inside, her womb held more—a reservoir of animal cum that her young fertile body refused to expel. Her cervix remained slightly dilated from ovulation, keeping the path open for the sperm still swimming inside her, still attempting the impossible task of fertilization. Ghost moved away to clean himself, tongue working over his softening cock with practiced efficiency. Ellie lay there, breathing hard, processing what had just happened. What she'd done. What she'd let him do to her. What they'd done together. Her hand drifted down between her legs, fingers finding her stretched opening. She pushed inside tentatively and felt the slickness, the warmth, the sheer volume of cum coating everything. Her fingers came away covered in thick milky white seed, strands of it connecting her fingers when she spread them. "Jesus Christ," she whispered to the empty cabin. She'd just been bred. Fucked and knotted and inseminated by an animal like she was nothing more than a bitch in heat. Her pussy was full of dog cum, her womb flooded with millions of canine sperm still attempting to fertilize her waiting egg. The taboo nature made her stomach twist with shame. But her pussy clenched, leaking more of his seed, and a dark twisted satisfaction settled over her like a blanket. She'd been claimed. Dominated. Bred. And some primal part of her had loved every fucking second of it. Ghost returned to her side after cleaning himself, his massive form settling beside her collapsed body. Ellie still lay there, cheek pressed against rough wood, legs spread wide, pussy gaping and leaking his seed in steady rivulets. She felt hollow and full simultaneously—emptied of his physical presence but packed with his cum that continued to seep from her stretched entrance. His rough tongue dragged across her lower back, warm and wet. She shivered at the contact, skin hypersensitive after everything. He moved lower, licking her ass, her thighs, cleaning the trails of cum that had run down her legs and dried in sticky paths. The intimacy of it made her chest tighten. This wasn't just animal behavior—there was genuine care in his actions, attention focused specifically on her wellbeing. Then his tongue found her pussy. "Oh—" Ellie gasped as he licked her swollen entrance, his tongue pressing into her gaping hole. The sensation was overwhelming on her oversensitive flesh, sending sparks of pain-pleasure through her core. He was cleaning his seed from her, lapping up what had leaked out with dedicated attention. The wrongness of it sent another pulse of heat through her exhausted body. An animal was licking her thoroughly-fucked pussy, tasting their combined fluids, and her body responded despite everything. His tongue worked deeper, broad and textured, scooping out more of his cum with each stroke. Ellie whimpered, hips twitching despite herself. Her body responded even after being stretched and used so thoroughly, clit throbbing as his tongue occasionally brushed across the swollen nub. When he finally finished, pulling back with one last long lick from entrance to clit, she felt cleaner but somehow more claimed. Marked by his attention in ways that went beyond the physical. Ghost curled around her protectively, his body forming a warm wall against her back. Ellie didn't have the energy to move to the makeshift bedding across the cabin. Here was fine. The floor was hard but his presence made it bearable. The fire had died to embers, casting barely any light, but his body heat kept the creeping cold at bay. Her hand reached back, fingers sinking into his thick fur. "Good boy," she whispered, and meant it in ways that went far beyond normal praise. He'd bred her, claimed her, made her his completely. Sleep pulled at her consciousness but didn't quite take hold. Her mind refused to quiet, racing through everything that had happened. Every shift of her body reminded her—the deep soreness between her legs, the stretched feeling that wouldn't fade for days. The warmth still present deep inside her womb where his seed remained, her body holding onto it like precious treasure it refused to release. Later in the night, Ellie found herself awake, looking into the fireplace lazily. Ellie stared at the dying embers, watching orange light flicker and fade. Her mind raced despite her physical exhaustion. She'd just fucked a dog. Let him mount and breed her like she was a bitch in heat. She'd crossed a line most people couldn't even imagine existed. The shame should have crushed her, should have made her want to scrub her skin raw, but instead she felt... satisfaction. Contentment, even. Like something fundamental had clicked into place. Ghost's breathing was steady behind her, his presence solid and reassuring in the darkness. She'd survived this long because she adapted, because she did what was necessary when necessary. Was this necessary? No. But it filled something inside her that had been empty and aching since Joel fell, since Riley died, since the world ended and left her scrambling for any scrap of genuine connection. Her pussy clenched involuntarily and she felt more of his cum leak out, warm and slick against her inner thighs. Her womb still held the majority of it, refusing to expel what her body believed belonged there. The biological reality was crystal clear—she'd been bred. Inseminated. Claimed on the most primal level possible. And Ghost... Ghost had transformed from companion to something else entirely. Her alpha. Her mate in the most primal sense the word could have. The way he'd dominated her, used her body, knotted her so thoroughly—that wasn't just blind instinct. He'd claimed ownership, established hierarchy, and some twisted part of her had surrendered completely to it. "I'm yours now," she whispered to the darkness, testing the words. "Your bitch." The words should have horrified her, should have made her recoil in disgust. Instead they felt like acceptance, like finally understanding her place in this new dynamic they'd created. She'd given herself to him willingly, and he'd taken everything she offered and more. Ghost's head lifted slightly, nuzzling against her neck with surprising gentleness. His tongue licked her ear affectionately. She smiled despite everything, pressing back against his warm bulk. Safe. Protected. Claimed. Tomorrow would bring complications—the return journey to Joel, questions about where she'd been, the medicine she'd found. But tonight, curled up with her alpha, his seed still warm inside her claimed body, Ellie let herself simply exist in the aftermath. No judgment. No shame. Just the reality of what she'd become. Dawn crept through the grimy window, grey light filtering into the cabin. Ellie woke to Ghost's tongue on her face, rough and insistent. She groaned, opening her eyes to find him looming over her, tail wagging. "Morning to you too," she muttered, then winced as she tried to sit up. Her pussy screamed in protest, sore and swollen and thoroughly used. She could feel the dried cum crusting on her thighs, the stickiness still present between her legs. Her inner thighs were chapped raw from his fur rubbing against them during the breeding. Ghost's tail wagged enthusiastically, his yellow eyes bright with alertness. Then she noticed—the pink tip of his cock had emerged from his sheath again, already beginning to extend. Morning arousal, she realized. Her stomach flipped, heat pooling low despite the soreness. Before conscious thought could intervene, before rationality could stop her, her hand reached out. Ghost's tail wagged faster as her fingers wrapped around his emerging length. The heat shocked her even expecting it this time, that blazing temperature that seemed impossibly high. She stroked slowly, watching more of his red cock slide free until he was fully hard in her grip, all nine inches of tapered animal flesh. "Jesus, you're ready to go again already?" But her pussy clenched despite the soreness, her young body already responding to his renewed interest. Wanting it even after everything. Her hand worked his shaft with growing confidence, learning what made him thrust into her grip. The pointed tip wept pre-cum, coating her palm in slippery fluid. She stared at it, mesmerized by this animal cock she'd taken inside her body last night. Had let breed her virgin pussy until she was knotted and full. Something compelled her to lean down, drawn by curiosity and something darker. Her tongue touched the tip tentatively, tasting him for the first time. Salt and musk, distinctly animal—wrong in every conceivable way but somehow addictive. Ghost's hips jerked forward immediately, pushing more of his length toward her mouth in clear demand. Ellie's lips parted. She took him inside, just the tapered tip at first. The taste intensified, flooding her mouth with his flavor. Her tongue explored the smooth alien texture, so different from human skin. Then she took more, her jaw stretching to accommodate his girth, feeling it fill her mouth. This was even more depraved than last night, somehow. A young girl sucking an animal's cock, tasting his pre-cum, servicing him with her mouth like a good bitch should. If anyone ever found out... but no one would. This was her secret, her twisted bond with Ghost that no one else could understand. Her hand worked what wouldn't fit in her mouth, stroking in rhythm with her bobbing head. Ghost's panting increased above her, his hips beginning to thrust shallowly, fucking her face. She could feel his heavy balls drawing up tight, preparing to release their load. From his perspective, this was proper submission. His bitch was servicing him without being asked, showing her place in their established hierarchy. The warmth of her mouth, the eager attention—it confirmed what last night had established. She belonged to him completely. His orgasm hit suddenly. Cum flooded her mouth, thick and hot and far more abundant than she'd expected. Ellie's eyes widened as spurt after spurt filled her mouth. She swallowed reflexively, tasting his seed fully now, feeling the viscous fluid slide down her throat. Too much—some leaked from the corners of her mouth despite her efforts, running down her chin. When he finally finished, she pulled back gasping for air. More cum painted her lips and chin, marking her. She stared up at him, this massive creature she'd just pleasured with her mouth, and felt their connection deepen impossibly further. Bound by more than just one night. Her tongue cleaned his softening cock thoroughly, licking every inch until no trace of cum remained. The act felt like devotion, like accepting her role completely and willingly. When she finished, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, tasting his seed again on her skin. "Fuck," she whispered, voice rough. "What are we?" But she knew the answer. Alpha and bitch. Mates. Bound by something primal and permanent that the old world could never comprehend. The storm had passed during the night, leaving everything blanketed in fresh powder. Ellie stood at the cabin door, backpack shouldered, staring out at pristine white that covered their tracks completely. Ghost waited beside her, alert and ready to move. She needed to get back to Joel with the antibiotics. The events of the past seemed distant now, altered by everything that had happened in this cabin. Joel would want her safe above all else. Survival first. That's what he'd taught her. That's what mattered. "We're heading back," she told Ghost, decision made. "If Joel isn’t safe to travel soon…..Then we’ll go to Jackson. Wyoming. It's gonna take weeks to get there." His tail wagged, ready to follow wherever she led. Her alpha, but loyal. Ellie started walking, each step deliberate. Ghost fell into position at her side, massive and protective. Each movement reminded her of last night—the soreness between her legs, the way her pussy felt stretched and used and claimed. Deep inside her body, his seed still remained. Her womb held onto it stubbornly, her young fertile system refusing to let go of what it believed was meant to impregnate her. She was carrying his cum inside her right now. Claimed and bred and utterly his. The journey ahead would be long and brutal. Joel couldn’t be there for her forever. Cold nights camping in the wilderness, dangerous days avoiding infected and raiders. But she wouldn't face it alone. Ghost walked beside her, massive and protective, her alpha in every sense of the word. And the unspoken understanding hung between them like a promise—this would happen again. Her body would call to him during her next ovulation, and he would answer, mounting her and breeding her like the willing bitch she'd become. The secret was permanent now. Sealed by his knot and his seed and her complete submission. No one could ever know, but Ellie didn't need anyone else to understand. This was theirs—twisted and taboo and somehow right in this dead world where old rules had died along with civilization. Snow crunched under their feet as they walked into the wilderness. The forest stretched ahead, endless and dangerous and beautiful in its desolation. But Ellie smiled despite everything, feeling Ghost's warmth beside her and his seed still carried deep in her claimed womb. A secret only they would ever know. They'd survive together. Alpha and bitch. Mates bound by something the old world could never understand or accept. And that was fine. This was survival now, in all its twisted forms.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75706551	{"authors": ["HarderThanDefined"], "language": "English", "title": "Survival Instincts (The Last of Us)"}
The Councilor’s secret Jayce had never envisioned himself as a person of politics. When the council elected him after his latest invention, a rather profitable cargo blimp that tripled the city`s trade profit, it surprised him beyond his dreams of a scientist. Ximena was the proudest mother in all of Piltover. How could Jayce let his mother down and reject such a grand position with Piltover`s greatest minds? Or so he thought. His very first meeting as a Counsilor was, to say the least, went poorly. Salo and Hoskel made a circus of the delivery schedules - going back and forth for two hours. Mel and Cassandra had cut in now and then, but it didn't make the meeting any better. Nor was the meeting after that. Nor the third or fourth or any of the meetings to come the first year. Nor the second or third year. But Jayce endured; he could still make things on the side, mainly focusing on a rather delicate project he'd been losing sleep over for who-knows-how-many hours. If it hadn't been for the guidance of Mel Medarda, Heimerdinger and Cassandra Kiramman, Jayce surely would have made a mess of his new profession. They showed interest in his new projects for the city, encouraging him to make progress for the sake of Piltover. And Jayde did - nothing mind-breaking, projects just good enough to keep his seat in the council. He was saving the greatest for later, till it was safe to display for the council. It was supposed to be a secret. Then there was the matter of Heimerdinger`s assistant - a man of the same age as Jayce, but far more introverted. Not shy, by any means. He was clearly intelligent enough to earn Heimerdinger`s favour. And it didn`t go unnoticed how some of the council would size him up when he attended their meetings, taking notes for Heimerdinger. Viktor; Tall and lithe, objectively handsome, dressed in matching colours to Heimerdinger’s other employees. Brown, soft looking hair and fair skinned, as if the moon favoured him. Viktor with his elegant handwriting and slender fingers, always carrying a book or notepad with him. Viktor, whom seemed to get along with Elora and the other assistants, if not setting the best example to one. Viktor, whom gracefully handed Jayce’s assistant a pen after losing her own, making the women with glasses and curly hair blush ferociously. Jayce could barely remember him from his earliest academy days - both of them focused on their individual classes and projects. They`d courtly greeted each other when Jayce joined the Council, the usual: “Long time no see,” “Happy for your accomplishments,” and of course, “Did you hate Professor Blank`s lectures also?” But rather than jealousy, Viktor was affectionate in his own ways, praising Jayce for his accomplishments and strive for the betterment of inventions. And Jayce enjoyed his praise far more than from any other lips in all of Piltover. It almost felt like a treat when Viktor would drop by Jayce’s lab in favour of Heimerdinger, his eyes seemingly looking over Jayce’s bare arms. Of course he didn’t intend to show off, but Jayce simply worked better with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. And who was he to wear that coat unless absolutely necessary? And Jayce would personally drop by Heimerdinger’s office or lab to discuss the days plans or hand over documents or ask his opinion on an invention. And who was Jayce not to compliment Viktor’s hair those days, or pay attention to the way he moved around the chalkboard in the far back as the Dean blabbered his ears off? One particular night Jayce was working late when an unexpected knock came upon the lab doors. Jayce didn't expect anyone to be at the council's tower at the early hours of the morning. He brushed over his shirt and opened the door. And there he was; Viktor, looking somewhat disheveled. “Pardon my intrusion, Counsilor Talis,” he spoke softly, the beauty mark over his lips catching Jayce`s eyes. “but Heimerdinger requested the progress logs of this month early.” Jayce smiled effortlessly. “Surely, I have them ready. Just a moment.” Jayce turned, leaving the door open. Viktor remained still, leaning on his good leg. Jayce couldn't help but notice his bed-hair - clearly the man had been passed out somewhere, and was now working late. And who was he to judge? His hair was probably more of a nest as he’d been running his fingers through it for hours by now. “Late night?” Jayce questioned as he flipped through some documents on his organised desk. He'd made sure to separate the council paperwork from his projects - which reminded him to clean up the other two desks. Viktor hummed in response, glancing over the lab as he adjusted his tie. “Eh, yes.” Jayce followed his gaze to the chalkboards - he`d scribbled down some equation in the heat of the moment last night. Jayce chuckled as he picked up the remaining paper of the logs. “I haven't had the cleaning crew here in a month, please excuse the mess.” Viktor kept his gaze on the chalkboard as he replied. “You're excused,” Three seconds passed before he added, "Counsilor.” Jayce did a double-take. Viktor`s eyes met his - his piercing gaze sending a shiver down his back. It was only his imagination, but that gaze was unfairly seductive. Jayce made a mental note to stop thinking such thoughts. Again. Papers in hand, Jayce made his way back to the door. “Here you are, Viktor,” Jayce smiled, holding out the papers. “Would that be all?” Viktor didn't even look at the papers as he took them in his hand, his lips quivering in the corner. “Thank you, Councilor Talis.” He turned halfway before adding; “Your equation is wrong.” Then he simply started walking away, his cane echoing down the hallway. “Good night, Counsilor Talis.” Jayce stood frozen in the doorway for a solid minute. He turned his head to the chalkboard, scratching his beard as he looked it over. Then he looked down the halway. Viktor was long gone by now, presumably making his way to Heimerdinger`s office to drop off the progress logs. The next days passed in a blur - Jayce did go over the equation and he would never admit it out loud, but Viktor was right. Hextech was nowhere near finished - he felt like he was back to square one. The crystals he`d acquired years ago remained in the hidden spot, collecting dust with the other prototypes he`d kept for the sake of science. He worked, slept and attended meetings - nodded along and offered input when required. But he couldn't help noticing Viktor`s gaze the times Heimerdinger brought him along, the way his fingers would twitch by his cane. Jayce could be wrong, but it felt as if Viktor was waiting to tell or ask him something - but he always turned away, following Heimerdinger as he left for his next task of the day. Jayce was working late again, going over his inventions and equations when a knock on the doors caught his attention. “Counsilor Talis,” Viktor called out from the hallway, his voice nearly a whisper. Jayce brushed his hair back and put on his coat, puffing out his chest as he reached for the doorknob. “Viktor, what a surprise! Did Heimerdinger approve the progress log already-” A paper was pushed up to his face - one of his notes of Hextech. A lump in his throat cut off the oxygen, a cold shiver running down his back. His hand was shaking as he reached for the paper- Viktor`s hand pulled back, holding the paper by his face. His eyes felt like daggers to Jayce, eyes wide in hysterics. “Mr. Talis,” he hissed. “Surely this was a mistake amidst the log papers.” Jayce wanted to smile and say, Yes of course! Thank you for bringing back this useless paper to me - bye now! Viktor pushed on, invading Jayce’s personal space. He tried to ignore the scent of milky soap and the lavender shampoo. “You`re trying to create magic?” Viktor hissed in a whisper. Jayce did not think as he gently pulled Viktor inside by the vest, shutting the doors. “You don't have to announce it for all of Piltover!” he whispered back. Viktor brushed his hands away, clenching the paper in his hand still, responding in a hushed tone. “Are you aware of the consequences this could lead to? If Heimerdinger saw this with the other notes?” Jayce felt dizzy and wanted to vomit - he could feel the sweat on his forehead and in the palm of his hands. Could he bribe his way out of this? Seduce his way out? Do as Mel and speak circles around him and - no. Jayce knew he couldn`t do merely a good of a speech as Mel. His best bet could be a bribe … Surely not; Counselor Salo and Hoskel had done so with, eh, masseurs. But this was Viktor - he could already have ratted him out to the other Council members and was now just messing with him … But the look in his eyes - Viktor was waiting for an answer. He was looking at Jayce like a ticking bomb - waiting for the result. Jayce inhaled through his nose and breathed out, brushing his fingers over the wristband. “I am,” he started, “ trying to create magic. By scientific standards, at least. And yes, I have thought of the potential outcome, thus keeping my research and test-objects under wraps.” Viktor`s eyes widened, lips parted as he breathed. “Hextech,” he whispered. Jayce exhaled, scratching his neck. “A working title I`ve used since, well, the beginning.” Viktor glanced to the chalkboard, the same equation still there. “And your research?” “In progress,” Jayce sighed, leaning his back to the doors. “I can't seem to stabilize the crystals. I tested one outside of Piltover last month - it came to nothing.” Viktor hesitated. “Last month? When your hair was burnt at the tips?” Jayce snorted, scratching his beard. “Yes.” Viktor was silent for a moment, his eyes wandering to the chalkboard and the equipment on the tables and floor. “Will you tell me more?” Jayce must have looked surprised, as Viktor blinked and smiled softly, gesturing the paper to the working area. He hesitated - he`d kept Hextech a secret for years! “You know too much already,” Jayce groaned, turning to the chalkboard with defeat in his eyes.	The Councilor’s secret Jayce had never envisioned himself as a person of politics. When the council elected him after his latest invention, a rather profitable cargo blimp that tripled the city`s trade profit, it surprised him beyond his dreams of a scientist. Ximena was the proudest mother in all of Piltover. How could Jayce let his mother down and reject such a grand position with Piltover`s greatest minds? Or so he thought. His very first meeting as a Counsilor was, to say the least, went poorly. Salo and Hoskel made a circus of the delivery schedules - going back and forth for two hours. Mel and Cassandra had cut in now and then, but it didn't make the meeting any better. Nor was the meeting after that. Nor the third or fourth or any of the meetings to come the first year. Nor the second or third year. But Jayce endured; he could still make things on the side, mainly focusing on a rather delicate project he'd been losing sleep over for who-knows-how-many hours. If it hadn't been for the guidance of Mel Medarda, Heimerdinger and Cassandra Kiramman, Jayce surely would have made a mess of his new profession. They showed interest in his new projects for the city, encouraging him to make progress for the sake of Piltover. And Jayde did - nothing mind-breaking, projects just good enough to keep his seat in the council. He was saving the greatest for later, till it was safe to display for the council. It was supposed to be a secret. Then there was the matter of Heimerdinger`s assistant - a man of the same age as Jayce, but far more introverted. Not shy, by any means. He was clearly intelligent enough to earn Heimerdinger`s favour. And it didn`t go unnoticed how some of the council would size him up when he attended their meetings, taking notes for Heimerdinger. Viktor; Tall and lithe, objectively handsome, dressed in matching colours to Heimerdinger’s other employees. Brown, soft looking hair and fair skinned, as if the moon favoured him. Viktor with his elegant handwriting and slender fingers, always carrying a book or notepad with him. Viktor, whom seemed to get along with Elora and the other assistants, if not setting the best example to one. Viktor, whom gracefully handed Jayce’s assistant a pen after losing her own, making the women with glasses and curly hair blush ferociously. Jayce could barely remember him from his earliest academy days - both of them focused on their individual classes and projects. They`d courtly greeted each other when Jayce joined the Council, the usual: “Long time no see,” “Happy for your accomplishments,” and of course, “Did you hate Professor Blank`s lectures also?” But rather than jealousy, Viktor was affectionate in his own ways, praising Jayce for his accomplishments and strive for the betterment of inventions. And Jayce enjoyed his praise far more than from any other lips in all of Piltover. It almost felt like a treat when Viktor would drop by Jayce’s lab in favour of Heimerdinger, his eyes seemingly looking over Jayce’s bare arms. Of course he didn’t intend to show off, but Jayce simply worked better with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. And who was he to wear that coat unless absolutely necessary? And Jayce would personally drop by Heimerdinger’s office or lab to discuss the days plans or hand over documents or ask his opinion on an invention. And who was Jayce not to compliment Viktor’s hair those days, or pay attention to the way he moved around the chalkboard in the far back as the Dean blabbered his ears off? One particular night Jayce was working late when an unexpected knock came upon the lab doors. Jayce didn't expect anyone to be at the council's tower at the early hours of the morning. He brushed over his shirt and opened the door. And there he was; Viktor, looking somewhat disheveled. “Pardon my intrusion, Counsilor Talis,” he spoke softly, the beauty mark over his lips catching Jayce`s eyes. “but Heimerdinger requested the progress logs of this month early.” Jayce smiled effortlessly. “Surely, I have them ready. Just a moment.” Jayce turned, leaving the door open. Viktor remained still, leaning on his good leg. Jayce couldn't help but notice his bed-hair - clearly the man had been passed out somewhere, and was now working late. And who was he to judge? His hair was probably more of a nest as he’d been running his fingers through it for hours by now. “Late night?” Jayce questioned as he flipped through some documents on his organised desk. He'd made sure to separate the council paperwork from his projects - which reminded him to clean up the other two desks. Viktor hummed in response, glancing over the lab as he adjusted his tie. “Eh, yes.” Jayce followed his gaze to the chalkboards - he`d scribbled down some equation in the heat of the moment last night. Jayce chuckled as he picked up the remaining paper of the logs. “I haven't had the cleaning crew here in a month, please excuse the mess.” Viktor kept his gaze on the chalkboard as he replied. “You're excused,” Three seconds passed before he added, "Counsilor.” Jayce did a double-take. Viktor`s eyes met his - his piercing gaze sending a shiver down his back. It was only his imagination, but that gaze was unfairly seductive. Jayce made a mental note to stop thinking such thoughts. Again. Papers in hand, Jayce made his way back to the door. “Here you are, Viktor,” Jayce smiled, holding out the papers. “Would that be all?” Viktor didn't even look at the papers as he took them in his hand, his lips quivering in the corner. “Thank you, Councilor Talis.” He turned halfway before adding; “Your equation is wrong.” Then he simply started walking away, his cane echoing down the hallway. “Good night, Counsilor Talis.” Jayce stood frozen in the doorway for a solid minute. He turned his head to the chalkboard, scratching his beard as he looked it over. Then he looked down the halway. Viktor was long gone by now, presumably making his way to Heimerdinger`s office to drop off the progress logs. The next days passed in a blur - Jayce did go over the equation and he would never admit it out loud, but Viktor was right. Hextech was nowhere near finished - he felt like he was back to square one. The crystals he`d acquired years ago remained in the hidden spot, collecting dust with the other prototypes he`d kept for the sake of science. He worked, slept and attended meetings - nodded along and offered input when required. But he couldn't help noticing Viktor`s gaze the times Heimerdinger brought him along, the way his fingers would twitch by his cane. Jayce could be wrong, but it felt as if Viktor was waiting to tell or ask him something - but he always turned away, following Heimerdinger as he left for his next task of the day. Jayce was working late again, going over his inventions and equations when a knock on the doors caught his attention. “Counsilor Talis,” Viktor called out from the hallway, his voice nearly a whisper. Jayce brushed his hair back and put on his coat, puffing out his chest as he reached for the doorknob. “Viktor, what a surprise! Did Heimerdinger approve the progress log already-” A paper was pushed up to his face - one of his notes of Hextech. A lump in his throat cut off the oxygen, a cold shiver running down his back. His hand was shaking as he reached for the paper- Viktor`s hand pulled back, holding the paper by his face. His eyes felt like daggers to Jayce, eyes wide in hysterics. “Mr. Talis,” he hissed. “Surely this was a mistake amidst the log papers.” Jayce wanted to smile and say, Yes of course! Thank you for bringing back this useless paper to me - bye now! Viktor pushed on, invading Jayce’s personal space. He tried to ignore the scent of milky soap and the lavender shampoo. “You`re trying to create magic?” Viktor hissed in a whisper. Jayce did not think as he gently pulled Viktor inside by the vest, shutting the doors. “You don't have to announce it for all of Piltover!” he whispered back. Viktor brushed his hands away, clenching the paper in his hand still, responding in a hushed tone. “Are you aware of the consequences this could lead to? If Heimerdinger saw this with the other notes?” Jayce felt dizzy and wanted to vomit - he could feel the sweat on his forehead and in the palm of his hands. Could he bribe his way out of this? Seduce his way out? Do as Mel and speak circles around him and - no. Jayce knew he couldn`t do merely a good of a speech as Mel. His best bet could be a bribe … Surely not; Counselor Salo and Hoskel had done so with, eh, masseurs. But this was Viktor - he could already have ratted him out to the other Council members and was now just messing with him … But the look in his eyes - Viktor was waiting for an answer. He was looking at Jayce like a ticking bomb - waiting for the result. Jayce inhaled through his nose and breathed out, brushing his fingers over the wristband. “I am,” he started, “ trying to create magic. By scientific standards, at least. And yes, I have thought of the potential outcome, thus keeping my research and test-objects under wraps.” Viktor`s eyes widened, lips parted as he breathed. “Hextech,” he whispered. Jayce exhaled, scratching his neck. “A working title I`ve used since, well, the beginning.” Viktor glanced to the chalkboard, the same equation still there. “And your research?” “In progress,” Jayce sighed, leaning his back to the doors. “I can't seem to stabilize the crystals. I tested one outside of Piltover last month - it came to nothing.” Viktor hesitated. “Last month? When your hair was burnt at the tips?” Jayce snorted, scratching his beard. “Yes.” Viktor was silent for a moment, his eyes wandering to the chalkboard and the equipment on the tables and floor. “Will you tell me more?” Jayce must have looked surprised, as Viktor blinked and smiled softly, gesturing the paper to the working area. He hesitated - he`d kept Hextech a secret for years! “You know too much already,” Jayce groaned, turning to the chalkboard with defeat in his eyes. “There’s no more to tell. You should …” Jayce straightened his posture, adjusting his tone. “You may leave now, Viktor.” “Your theory,” Viktor leaned his back to the door, resting his cane to his side, ignoring the poor attempt at authority. “it has great potential, Jayce.” He looked, almost longingly, to the chalkboard. “If done correctly, Hextech could help many people.” Jayce turned to the Zaunite, puzzled by his laid-back reaction. “Are you going to tell Heimerdinger?” he said, nearly a whisper. Viktor met his gaze, eyes looking like molten gold in the lights from the room, and smirked. “Don`t you think I would have by now with this evidence? Lucky for you, I proofread all of Heimerdinger’s progress logs.” “You do that?” Jayce chuckled. “What for?” Viktor snorted, shaking his head. “Salo effortlessly misspells every fourth word. And Miss Medarda tends to write encrypted messages for Heimerdinger.”Jayce could feel the anxiety, and the urge to vomit, disappear as Viktor smiled at him. “And you would not believe the things Bolbok and Shoola gossip about Hoskel.” Viktor added in a whisper. “This could be wrong, Viktor.” Jayce bit his lower lip. “Better be right, then.” Viktor pushed the paper to Jayce`s chest. Jayce grasped the paper with his left hand, looking into Viktor`s eyes for any sign of feigning or fear. But the determination in the man’s eyes was clear as day. “Scientists seek discovery, no?” Viktor said, his accent alluring Jayce into a form of security. “Why?” The question slipped from Jayce`s lips, clenching the paper in his hands. Viktor rested his hands on his cane, standing as straight as he could muster. “Do you think it was my life's ambition to be an assistant, Mr. Talis?” “We could fail,” Jayce said as he inhaled. “Always a possibility with revolutionary discoveries,” Viktor quipped. “We might be banished,” Jayce countered, clicking his tongue. “We could be.” Viktor exhaled, as if they were discussing the weather. “If this fails, Viktor …” “Yes yes,” Viktor waves his hand in a dismissive manner. “We'd be banished from Piltover and Zaun alike - start over someplace else. Possibly find a cottage in Ionia - you'd do blacksmithing and I'd do lectures for whatever school is closest." The urge to kiss the hand being waved in front of him was strong, but Jayce simply huffed with a grin. “Very well then, Viktor. I’d appreciate your insights,” Viktor smirked, sizing Jayce up as he muttered something in a language Jayce did not recognize. “Pardon?” Jayce croaked, feeling awfully dressed down with the way Viktor’s hooded eyes looked at him. “Glad to be of service. Councilor.” To be continued …	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75709551/chapters/198013086	{"authors": ["TheGloriusPsyduck"], "language": "English", "title": "The Councilor’s secret"}
Ashes and Embers Ashes and Embers The night was too quiet. Minmay had grown used to silence over the years. The kind that came after screaming stopped, after cities fell, after hope died its slow, agonizing death. But tonight, the silence felt different. Heavier. Like the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for something that would never come. The soft breeze worked its through her pink and silver hair, grown long and almost wild. Her blue eyes, once filled with joy, now just stared blankly into the distance. She sat on the beach of what used to be Kame House, her back against a weathered rock that had somehow survived when everything else had crumbled. The old hermit's house was barely standing now - walls caved in, roof collapsed, windows shattered. A monument to a world that no longer existed. Just like her. The stars were beautiful tonight. She hated that they were still beautiful. Hated that the universe kept turning, kept shining, kept existing when everyone she'd ever cared about was gone. Goku. Bulma. Krillin. Gohan. Trunks. God, Trunks. The last one. The final thread connecting her to anything resembling hope. And she'd watched him die three months ago, torn apart by androids who'd laughed while doing it. She'd survived. Of course she had. Celestials couldn't die. Not unless another celestial killed them. So she was condemned to this, eternal existence in a dead world, carrying memories of everyone she'd lost like stones in her chest. Without thinking, she started to sing. The melody drifted across the empty beach, carried by wind that had nothing left to disturb. Her voice was rough from disuse, cracking on the higher notes, but she didn't stop. What did it matter? There was no one left to hear. Except there was. She felt him before she saw him, that familiar energy signature that had haunted her nightmares for years. Infinite. Unchanging. Wrong in a way that made her celestial blood recoil. Android 17. He descended from the sky like a falling star, landing in the sand directly in front of her. His boots were inches from her legs. Minmay's song died in her throat. She looked up at him, this monster who'd helped destroy everything, who'd killed her friends, who should have been her enemy until the end of time. He looked different than she remembered from their battles. Thinner. Tired in a way androids shouldn't be capable of being. His clothes were worn, his orange bandana faded from years of sun and dust. He looked as alone as she felt. They stared at each other in silence, and Minmay felt nothing. No fear. No anger. Not even hatred. Just... emptiness. "Well," 17 said finally, his voice rough. "Aren't you a surprise." She didn't respond. Didn't see the point. He crouched down, bringing himself to her level. His eyes scanned her face, searching for something. "I heard singing. Thought maybe..." He trailed off. "Doesn't matter what I thought." Still, she said nothing. His expression shifted, something like curiosity crossing his features. Then, without warning, his hand shot out and grabbed her ankle. He yanked. Minmay slid down the rock, her back hitting the sand. Before she could process what was happening, 17 had moved over her, his body caging hers, one hand planted in the sand beside her head. He was so close she could feel the artificial warmth of him, could see the gold flecks in his blue eyes, could count his eyelashes if she wanted to. He leaned in, his intention clear. Her hand moved on instinct. The slap cracked across his face, sharp and vicious. His head turned with the force of it, and for a moment, everything was still. Then he laughed. It was a quiet sound, almost broken, but genuine. He looked back at her, his cheek red from the blow, and his smile was sharp and sad and alive. "There you are," he murmured. "I was wondering if you still had any fight left." "Get off me," Minmay said, her voice flat. "No," he replied simply. His thumb came up, tracing across her lower lip with a gentleness that contradicted everything else about him. "Aren't you tired of being alone? You can't tell me you're not desperate to feel something again." His touch was wrong. Shouldn't feel like comfort. Shouldn't make her want to lean into it. She glared at him. "I'm not that desperate." He studied her face, really looked at her. Saw the emptiness in her eyes, the defeat in the set of her shoulders, the way she'd stopped caring about anything, including this. "Liar," he said softly. His hand moved from her lips to her cheek, cupping it with a tenderness that seemed impossible from him. "I can see it. You're drowning in it. The loneliness. The silence. The fact that you can't die even though you want to." She flinched. "You don't know anything about me." "Don't I?" His other hand came up, framing her face. "I know you're the last one left. I know everyone you loved is dead. I know you've been alone for months, maybe years, with nothing but ghosts and memories." His voice dropped. "I know exactly what that feels like." Something cracked in her chest at those words. Because he was right. He was the only other person left who understood what it meant to be alone in a dead world. The only one who knew the weight of surviving when everyone else was gone. "We're enemies," she whispered. "We were," he corrected. "But everyone we were enemies for is dead now. There's no war left to fight. No sides left to take. Just..." He looked out at the dark ocean, then back at her. "Just this. You and me. The last two pieces on an empty board." His thumb brushed away a tear she hadn't realized had fallen. "We have nothing left to lose," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "No one left to judge us. No one left to care what we do or don't do." He was still touching her face, still so close she could feel his breath, still looking at her like she was the only real thing left in the world. Maybe she was. "I don't want this," she said, but even she could hear the lie in it. "Yes, you do," he replied. "You want to feel something other than grief. Other than emptiness. You want to remember what it's like to be touched. To be wanted. To matter to someone." "And you want that too?" she asked, her voice cracking. He was quiet for a long moment. "Yes," he admitted finally. "I destroyed the world looking for purpose. For meaning. For something that would make me feel alive. But all I found was ashes." His forehead came to rest against hers. "And now you're here. Alive. Real. The only person left who can actually feel." "You're a monster," she whispered. "I know," he said. "Does it matter anymore?" And God help her, it didn't. What was the point of holding onto principles in a dead world? What was the point of being the bigger person when there was no one left to be better for? Trunks was gone. Her friends were gone. Her hope was gone. All that was left was this - 17 and her, two broken things in the ruins of everything. "I hate you," she said. "I know," he replied. "Hate me tomorrow. Tonight..." His lips hovered over hers. "Tonight, just let yourself feel something other than grief." She should push him away. Should maintain her dignity, her principles, her sense of self. Instead, she grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down. The kiss was desperate. Hungry. It tasted like ashes and loneliness and the end of the world. His hands slid into her hair, angling her head for deeper access. She made a sound against his mouth, half sob, half surrender, and he swallowed it, his grip tightening like he was afraid she'd disappear. When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, his eyes were dark and intense. "Tell me to stop," he said roughly. "If you don't want this, if this isn't what you need, tell me to stop and I will." She looked at him. This monster who'd destroyed everything. This broken android who was as alone as she was. This wrong, terrible, impossible thing that was offering her the only comfort left in the world. "Don't stop," she whispered. Something shifted in his expression - relief, maybe. Or understanding. Or just the same desperate need she felt clawing at her chest. He kissed her again, slower this time but no less intense. His hands moved from her hair to her waist, pulling her closer, eliminating the space between them. She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on like he was the only solid thing in a world that had crumbled to dust. And maybe he was. His lips moved to her jaw, her throat, the hollow of her collarbone. Each touch was deliberate, reverent almost, like he was memorizing her. Like she mattered. God, when was the last time anything had made her feel like she mattered? "17," she breathed, and his name on her lips made him pause. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his blue eyes searching. "I don't know how to do this," she admitted quietly. "I don't know how to let go. How to stop caring about what this means or what it makes me." "It doesn't make you anything," he said, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. "It just makes you human. Or celestial. Or whatever you are that isn't alone anymore." "For how long?" she asked. "How long until we're back to being enemies? Until you remember what you are and I remember what you've done?" "I don't know," he said honestly. "Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. Maybe we'll destroy each other eventually." His hand slid down to rest over her heart. "But right now, in this moment, we're just two people who are tired of being alone." She could feel her own heartbeat against his palm - too fast, too desperate, too alive for someone who'd spent months wishing she could die. "I'm scared," she whispered. "Of me?" "Of this. Of letting myself want something again. Of caring about anything, even for a night, because everything I've ever cared about has been destroyed." He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I can't promise I won't hurt you. Can't promise this will fix anything or mean anything tomorrow. But I can promise that tonight, you don't have to be alone."	Ashes and Embers Ashes and Embers The night was too quiet. Minmay had grown used to silence over the years. The kind that came after screaming stopped, after cities fell, after hope died its slow, agonizing death. But tonight, the silence felt different. Heavier. Like the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for something that would never come. The soft breeze worked its through her pink and silver hair, grown long and almost wild. Her blue eyes, once filled with joy, now just stared blankly into the distance. She sat on the beach of what used to be Kame House, her back against a weathered rock that had somehow survived when everything else had crumbled. The old hermit's house was barely standing now - walls caved in, roof collapsed, windows shattered. A monument to a world that no longer existed. Just like her. The stars were beautiful tonight. She hated that they were still beautiful. Hated that the universe kept turning, kept shining, kept existing when everyone she'd ever cared about was gone. Goku. Bulma. Krillin. Gohan. Trunks. God, Trunks. The last one. The final thread connecting her to anything resembling hope. And she'd watched him die three months ago, torn apart by androids who'd laughed while doing it. She'd survived. Of course she had. Celestials couldn't die. Not unless another celestial killed them. So she was condemned to this, eternal existence in a dead world, carrying memories of everyone she'd lost like stones in her chest. Without thinking, she started to sing. The melody drifted across the empty beach, carried by wind that had nothing left to disturb. Her voice was rough from disuse, cracking on the higher notes, but she didn't stop. What did it matter? There was no one left to hear. Except there was. She felt him before she saw him, that familiar energy signature that had haunted her nightmares for years. Infinite. Unchanging. Wrong in a way that made her celestial blood recoil. Android 17. He descended from the sky like a falling star, landing in the sand directly in front of her. His boots were inches from her legs. Minmay's song died in her throat. She looked up at him, this monster who'd helped destroy everything, who'd killed her friends, who should have been her enemy until the end of time. He looked different than she remembered from their battles. Thinner. Tired in a way androids shouldn't be capable of being. His clothes were worn, his orange bandana faded from years of sun and dust. He looked as alone as she felt. They stared at each other in silence, and Minmay felt nothing. No fear. No anger. Not even hatred. Just... emptiness. "Well," 17 said finally, his voice rough. "Aren't you a surprise." She didn't respond. Didn't see the point. He crouched down, bringing himself to her level. His eyes scanned her face, searching for something. "I heard singing. Thought maybe..." He trailed off. "Doesn't matter what I thought." Still, she said nothing. His expression shifted, something like curiosity crossing his features. Then, without warning, his hand shot out and grabbed her ankle. He yanked. Minmay slid down the rock, her back hitting the sand. Before she could process what was happening, 17 had moved over her, his body caging hers, one hand planted in the sand beside her head. He was so close she could feel the artificial warmth of him, could see the gold flecks in his blue eyes, could count his eyelashes if she wanted to. He leaned in, his intention clear. Her hand moved on instinct. The slap cracked across his face, sharp and vicious. His head turned with the force of it, and for a moment, everything was still. Then he laughed. It was a quiet sound, almost broken, but genuine. He looked back at her, his cheek red from the blow, and his smile was sharp and sad and alive. "There you are," he murmured. "I was wondering if you still had any fight left." "Get off me," Minmay said, her voice flat. "No," he replied simply. His thumb came up, tracing across her lower lip with a gentleness that contradicted everything else about him. "Aren't you tired of being alone? You can't tell me you're not desperate to feel something again." His touch was wrong. Shouldn't feel like comfort. Shouldn't make her want to lean into it. She glared at him. "I'm not that desperate." He studied her face, really looked at her. Saw the emptiness in her eyes, the defeat in the set of her shoulders, the way she'd stopped caring about anything, including this. "Liar," he said softly. His hand moved from her lips to her cheek, cupping it with a tenderness that seemed impossible from him. "I can see it. You're drowning in it. The loneliness. The silence. The fact that you can't die even though you want to." She flinched. "You don't know anything about me." "Don't I?" His other hand came up, framing her face. "I know you're the last one left. I know everyone you loved is dead. I know you've been alone for months, maybe years, with nothing but ghosts and memories." His voice dropped. "I know exactly what that feels like." Something cracked in her chest at those words. Because he was right. He was the only other person left who understood what it meant to be alone in a dead world. The only one who knew the weight of surviving when everyone else was gone. "We're enemies," she whispered. "We were," he corrected. "But everyone we were enemies for is dead now. There's no war left to fight. No sides left to take. Just..." He looked out at the dark ocean, then back at her. "Just this. You and me. The last two pieces on an empty board." His thumb brushed away a tear she hadn't realized had fallen. "We have nothing left to lose," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "No one left to judge us. No one left to care what we do or don't do." He was still touching her face, still so close she could feel his breath, still looking at her like she was the only real thing left in the world. Maybe she was. "I don't want this," she said, but even she could hear the lie in it. "Yes, you do," he replied. "You want to feel something other than grief. Other than emptiness. You want to remember what it's like to be touched. To be wanted. To matter to someone." "And you want that too?" she asked, her voice cracking. He was quiet for a long moment. "Yes," he admitted finally. "I destroyed the world looking for purpose. For meaning. For something that would make me feel alive. But all I found was ashes." His forehead came to rest against hers. "And now you're here. Alive. Real. The only person left who can actually feel." "You're a monster," she whispered. "I know," he said. "Does it matter anymore?" And God help her, it didn't. What was the point of holding onto principles in a dead world? What was the point of being the bigger person when there was no one left to be better for? Trunks was gone. Her friends were gone. Her hope was gone. All that was left was this - 17 and her, two broken things in the ruins of everything. "I hate you," she said. "I know," he replied. "Hate me tomorrow. Tonight..." His lips hovered over hers. "Tonight, just let yourself feel something other than grief." She should push him away. Should maintain her dignity, her principles, her sense of self. Instead, she grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down. The kiss was desperate. Hungry. It tasted like ashes and loneliness and the end of the world. His hands slid into her hair, angling her head for deeper access. She made a sound against his mouth, half sob, half surrender, and he swallowed it, his grip tightening like he was afraid she'd disappear. When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, his eyes were dark and intense. "Tell me to stop," he said roughly. "If you don't want this, if this isn't what you need, tell me to stop and I will." She looked at him. This monster who'd destroyed everything. This broken android who was as alone as she was. This wrong, terrible, impossible thing that was offering her the only comfort left in the world. "Don't stop," she whispered. Something shifted in his expression - relief, maybe. Or understanding. Or just the same desperate need she felt clawing at her chest. He kissed her again, slower this time but no less intense. His hands moved from her hair to her waist, pulling her closer, eliminating the space between them. She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on like he was the only solid thing in a world that had crumbled to dust. And maybe he was. His lips moved to her jaw, her throat, the hollow of her collarbone. Each touch was deliberate, reverent almost, like he was memorizing her. Like she mattered. God, when was the last time anything had made her feel like she mattered? "17," she breathed, and his name on her lips made him pause. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his blue eyes searching. "I don't know how to do this," she admitted quietly. "I don't know how to let go. How to stop caring about what this means or what it makes me." "It doesn't make you anything," he said, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. "It just makes you human. Or celestial. Or whatever you are that isn't alone anymore." "For how long?" she asked. "How long until we're back to being enemies? Until you remember what you are and I remember what you've done?" "I don't know," he said honestly. "Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. Maybe we'll destroy each other eventually." His hand slid down to rest over her heart. "But right now, in this moment, we're just two people who are tired of being alone." She could feel her own heartbeat against his palm - too fast, too desperate, too alive for someone who'd spent months wishing she could die. "I'm scared," she whispered. "Of me?" "Of this. Of letting myself want something again. Of caring about anything, even for a night, because everything I've ever cared about has been destroyed." He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I can't promise I won't hurt you. Can't promise this will fix anything or mean anything tomorrow. But I can promise that tonight, you don't have to be alone." It was the worst promise anyone had ever made her. It was also exactly what she needed. She pulled him back down. This time when they kissed, she let herself fall into it completely. Let herself stop thinking about what it meant or what would happen after. Let herself just feel - his hands on her skin, his weight pressing her into the sand, his mouth trailing fire across her throat. He was careful with her in a way that surprised her. Gentle, despite everything he was. His hands learned the shape of her like she was something precious rather than just another casualty of the world he'd destroyed. And when she gasped his name, arching into his touch, he responded like it mattered. Like she mattered. Clothes fell away piece by piece, scattered in the sand like the remnants of who they used to be. When he finally settled between her thighs, he paused, looking down at her with an expression she couldn't quite read. "Last chance," he said, his voice rough. "Tell me to stop." But she was past stopping. Past caring about right or wrong or what any of this meant. She pulled him down, and he went willingly, his body covering hers, his mouth finding hers again as they moved together. It wasn't gentle. Wasn't soft or romantic or anything close to what she'd once dreamed about in a different life. It was desperate and raw and real. It was two broken things trying to remember what it felt like to be whole. It was the end of the world and the only comfort left in it. His hands gripped her hips, holding her steady as he moved. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper, chasing the sensation of feeling anything other than empty. When she came apart beneath him, it felt like breaking and healing at the same time. Like shattering and being put back together wrong but somehow right. He followed moments later, his face buried in her neck, her name a broken sound on his lips. They lay there afterward, tangled together in the sand, breathing hard, neither willing to let go just yet. Above them, the stars still shone. The ocean still crashed against the shore. The world still spun on its axis, uncaring about the two broken things that had found solace in each other's arms. Minmay's fingers traced idle patterns on 17's back, and she felt something shift in her chest. Not hope, she wasn't ready for that yet. Not forgiveness either. But something. A crack in the emptiness. A reminder that she was still alive, still capable of feeling, still here. "What happens now?" she asked quietly. 17 was silent for a long moment, his hand still resting on her waist, his breath warm against her shoulder. "I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe we wake up tomorrow and hate each other again. Maybe we pretend this never happened." "Or?" she prompted. He lifted his head, looking at her with those blue eyes that had seen the end of the world and somehow still found her worth keeping close. "Or we don't," he said simply. "We stop pretending there's anything left worth fighting for and just... exist. Together. However that looks." "As what?" she asked. "Allies? Enemies who sleep together? The last two people alive in a dead world?" "Does it need a label?" he asked. "Does any of this need to make sense?" She thought about it. About Trunks and Bulma and everyone else who would have been horrified by this. About the girl she used to be, who believed in right and wrong, in heroes and villains, in hope. That girl was dead. All that was left was this - her and 17, broken pieces that somehow fit together in the ruins. "No," she said finally. "I guess it doesn't." He kissed her again, softer this time. Less desperate. Almost tender. "Stay," he said against her lips. "Tonight. Tomorrow. However long you can stand me." She should say no. Should hold onto her independence, her dignity, her sense of self. But she was so tired of being alone. "Okay," she whispered. They fell asleep there on the beach, wrapped around each other, two impossible things that should have destroyed each other but instead found something like peace. The world was still dead when they woke. But for the first time in years, Minmay didn't wake up wishing she could die too. She woke up to 17's arms around her, to the warmth of another person, to the reminder that even in ashes, embers could still burn. It wasn't hope. But it was something. And in a dead world, that was more than enough. --- The sun rose over Kame Island, painting the ruins in shades of gold and pink. And for the first time since the world ended, Minmay thought maybe, just maybe, she could survive a little longer. As long as she didn't have to do it alone.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75704461	{"authors": ["Yasumi"], "language": "English", "title": "Ashes and Embers"}
Cream Bun Collage Cream Bun Collage Another year, another December at Gardenview! A truly most festive time of year for all toons, desperately needed in the many depressing years after the buildings closure. Along with the snow that filters its way in through the vents and the festive lights strung across the hallways, there come the undeniable stars of the show, the Christmas Toons. Despite them only coming round once a year they know how to liven up the usually dull rooms and make the machines seem much less a chore than normal. Regardless, the other Toons, fittingly so, decide to host an annual welcoming party to celebrate their much appreciated arrival back, accompanied by the other endevours going on around this time. nov 29 "Thank you for the help" G "No worries G! me and sprout are HAPPY to help, right?" C "Yep very happy indeed." S "... well in that case ill be seeing tommorow then its awfylly late "G "Oh alr then! rest easy!" C "bye ginger.." S i forgot how nice their rooms were..." G thoughts hmm, mabye i should repay their kindness, the party is in 2 days after all... maybe ill ask them to bake, especially since ive been rusty as of late. hopefully they agree... G thoughts nov 30 waking up with only one day left till christmasses official start is quite the feeling indeed, though a tainted one at that with the constant greetings and usual boring chatter. after all the frivoulties however, comes the most anticipated time of day, the start of the preperations for the party, wherein much of the festive chaos takes place for our dearest toons to take part in. "hey cos?" G "huh... OH HI GINGER IS EVERYTHING ALRIGHT?!" C "ah yes, just wanted to know wether you and sprout would be fond of baking something small later and-" G "OH gladly ginger what were you thinking of?" Sprout but hella happy "oh uhm... maybe some cookies for everyones hard work today?" G "alright sounds good! well see you in the kitchen in 5 alr?" C "i see! thank you see you there" G 5 mins later... "hey ginger!" C "hello." S "hello hello i already have the ingredients so we can get started as soon as possible " G "well no point in standing around all day LETS GET BAKING!!!" After the many minutes spent pouring over the baking andthe cookies it began to be readily apparent that something was off between Her and sprout, and the exuse of their near years long seperation was starting to wear extremly thin, and so naturally with the other Toons all busy, she decided on the most simple plann she could conjure up. _"psst cosmo..?" G _" wha-huh oh yeah Ginger?" C _" i have a plan for something that i cant quite say yet but ill need you to just play along okay?" G _"anything for you gi-" The sound of the bowl hitting the ground WAS loud, though not quite as audible as the earthquake worthy grumbles sprout was making after the fact. _" ginger what was that about-" C "dont worry ill get it. you both get started on the next batch" S said looking away from her "actually sprout bobbette has just given us a call too help her out so we will get to it as soon as we're back" G "Isnt she aslee-" C Despite being one of the slower toons, the large range of her sight in spite of her impared vision was more than enough to seize the opportunity to pull Her and Cosmo away for their much needed conversation. "ginger what could have possibly needed all of THAT to happen???" C NOT COMPLETE YET WIP I REPEAT HEAVY W.I.P	Cream Bun Collage Cream Bun Collage Another year, another December at Gardenview! A truly most festive time of year for all toons, desperately needed in the many depressing years after the buildings closure. Along with the snow that filters its way in through the vents and the festive lights strung across the hallways, there come the undeniable stars of the show, the Christmas Toons. Despite them only coming round once a year they know how to liven up the usually dull rooms and make the machines seem much less a chore than normal. Regardless, the other Toons, fittingly so, decide to host an annual welcoming party to celebrate their much appreciated arrival back, accompanied by the other endevours going on around this time. nov 29 "Thank you for the help" G "No worries G! me and sprout are HAPPY to help, right?" C "Yep very happy indeed." S "... well in that case ill be seeing tommorow then its awfylly late "G "Oh alr then! rest easy!" C "bye ginger.." S i forgot how nice their rooms were..." G thoughts hmm, mabye i should repay their kindness, the party is in 2 days after all... maybe ill ask them to bake, especially since ive been rusty as of late. hopefully they agree... G thoughts nov 30 waking up with only one day left till christmasses official start is quite the feeling indeed, though a tainted one at that with the constant greetings and usual boring chatter. after all the frivoulties however, comes the most anticipated time of day, the start of the preperations for the party, wherein much of the festive chaos takes place for our dearest toons to take part in. "hey cos?" G "huh... OH HI GINGER IS EVERYTHING ALRIGHT?!" C "ah yes, just wanted to know wether you and sprout would be fond of baking something small later and-" G "OH gladly ginger what were you thinking of?" Sprout but hella happy "oh uhm... maybe some cookies for everyones hard work today?" G "alright sounds good! well see you in the kitchen in 5 alr?" C "i see! thank you see you there" G 5 mins later... "hey ginger!" C "hello." S "hello hello i already have the ingredients so we can get started as soon as possible " G "well no point in standing around all day LETS GET BAKING!!!" After the many minutes spent pouring over the baking andthe cookies it began to be readily apparent that something was off between Her and sprout, and the exuse of their near years long seperation was starting to wear extremly thin, and so naturally with the other Toons all busy, she decided on the most simple plann she could conjure up. _"psst cosmo..?" G _" wha-huh oh yeah Ginger?" C _" i have a plan for something that i cant quite say yet but ill need you to just play along okay?" G _"anything for you gi-" The sound of the bowl hitting the ground WAS loud, though not quite as audible as the earthquake worthy grumbles sprout was making after the fact. _" ginger what was that about-" C "dont worry ill get it. you both get started on the next batch" S said looking away from her "actually sprout bobbette has just given us a call too help her out so we will get to it as soon as we're back" G "Isnt she aslee-" C Despite being one of the slower toons, the large range of her sight in spite of her impared vision was more than enough to seize the opportunity to pull Her and Cosmo away for their much needed conversation. "ginger what could have possibly needed all of THAT to happen???" C NOT COMPLETE YET WIP I REPEAT HEAVY W.I.P	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75704471	{"authors": ["Tafdewq"], "language": "English", "title": "Cream Bun Collage"}
love has a quiet voice i. On the first week of Satinalia my true love gave to me, one lantern in a window sill Nothing Ophelia Trevelyan wore was built for the Ferelden winter. It hadn't mattered in the relative shelter of the wagon she'd paid to take her from Denerim to Redcliffe with the heated runes engraved into its seats, and she hoped it wouldn't matter in Redcliffe where she might shelter from the bitter cold in whatever abode her brother had allocated for himself. All of which required staying with the wagon or reaching Redcliffe which she'd done successfully for several days. But now? She saw not a speck of either in the distance no matter how she squinted. Not even the wagon's tracks, lost in however long she'd spent unconscious and then dazed in the snow. Long enough part of her dress dried slowly, an icy sludge against her skin. A flake landed on her cheek in a pinch of cold. The wind battered her from all sides, slicing through clothes like she wore none at all. She yanked her cloak tighter, fingers burrowed into the soft fabric. Her hood did little to protect her when the wind blew sideways in great gusts of ice. It was cold, and it was dark, and if she thought about it for too long, she might admit her sister was right when she said visiting Ferelden was a mistake. It was hard to argue when she was walking in the dark, yanking her boot free with each step. Then the wind struck again, howling like a beast, and her only thought was moving faster and hoping. And hoping. And hoping. And then barely thinking at all as her mana slowly depleted. Warm light blossomed in the darkness. Ophelia let out a misty breath and a weary, frightened laugh until her vision focused. It wasn't Andraste come to free her, but a small homestead at the crest of a hill. Ophelia's heart leapt, shuffling steps finding their stride as she adjusted her course for the light. She tackled the unfamiliar terrain, but it fought back, her boots sinking deep into the otherwise unblemished snow. Only the desire to escape the cold and the ever-growing fear of her numbing fingers kept her going. Her boot struck stone. A marker, and a trail winding its way up the small incline to the home. A farm, maybe, but she saw little more than shadows; vague buildings sat nestled among the trees and snow, but her eyes lingered only on one. From the front, not a single lantern was lit, but she saw the faint glow from the right-hand side and aimed for it. Her gloved fingers closed over the waist high fence with relief, then hesitation, then a shiver which prompted movement. Anything was better than freezing. The gate creaked as it opened, announcing her, but not a single creature stirred as she drew closer. Was anyone home? Her eyes focused on the light and chided herself for the panic still churning through her. Someone was awake. Or, if not awake, at least there. Present enough. Preferably not the type who shoved hapless travelers out of moving wagons in the height of winter. “Who is there?” a voice spoke, deep. She flinched, hands fumbling for her staff, then freezing. She didn't have it. She had nothing at all— A shadow unfolded itself from the wall, growing in height and stature, a monster—no, worse, a man. "Wait, please. I am not—" Her stuttered words halted, clumsy and cold, and she swallowed the fear building in her throat. He flicked open the latch on a door near the window, spilling light across the snow until the edges brushed her boots. It lit him from behind, and recognition struck. She stilled, waiting, but he didn't recognize her and she thought that a small blessing. And a ridiculous thought, because surely she didn't matter to anyone in the Inquisition save one. "Commander," she said, clenching the edges of her cloak until her knuckles hurt, teeth chattering together. His chin jerked, surprise softening the furrow of his brow so briefly she could have imagined it. Golden hair sat awry on his head, mussed from wind or ruined sleep, she couldn't tell. His hand strayed near the sword resting against the wall; it was sheathed, but she didn't doubt the haste he'd rip it free if she proved a threat. "Who are you?" "Ophelia." She waited a beat, but still no recognition. Excellent. If he didn't remember her, maybe nobody in the Inquisition did. Disheartening as it was, she thought it was for the best. "I was a researcher for the Inquisition. Um, for the breach and the rift, that is, before—Oh, well, that hardly matters, but I do recognize you," she said, fighting the urge to shuffle under his hard stare. "Noted," he said flatly. "Why are you here?" Certainly not for the joy of Ferelden hospitality. She didn't mention this. "I, er—" The wind gusted, and she tucked the cloak tighter around her with a wince. Her hood flopped off, and she didn't know waht she looked, but his stern expression lightened marginally. "I paid for passage to Redcliffe and—" He interjected, "This is South Reach." He scanned her from head to toe, head tilting, hand falling from his blade. His stance, however, didn’t grow anymore welcoming, distrust still stitched into every muscle. "Is it?" she said, dismayed. "They left me before the storm hit. I woke and—Well, they are gone and they have all my things." She sounded pathetic, and heat swept up her face at the pitying look he shot her. "I… It's cold, may we speak inside?" His lips parted, gaze shooting to the door, and then inclined his head. "Come in," he said, an edge still to his voice she didn't quite understand. Their paths had crossed so rarely in the Inquisition, but she'd spent a great deal of time watching him and his soldiers in Haven, and then later in Skyhold, and he'd always been… Perhaps not pleasant all the time, but not so grumpy. Though rumors, of course, told her He held his sword and gestured her ahead of him, brow arched as though expecting argument. She had none and hurried inside, nearly weeping as warmth hit her frozen cheeks. It was a little smaller than his office in Skyhold, around the same size as her room in the Ostwick Circle. It held a bed tucked against the far wall near an interior door and a dresser jammed into the space near it. Dominating most of the room was a desk topped with a chess board and copious amounts of parchment, several unassuming bookcases sat on either side near the door she entered and— A log popped in a simple fireplace. It sat behind the desk, small and beautiful. "Thank the Maker!" Ophelia hesitated on the threshold, kicking snow off her boots. It did little for the snow clinging to her cloak. "Toss it over the chair," he said from behind her. She moved aside for him to pass and settled her cloak over the chair wedged between the door and the desk. It was cold without it, but only briefly and a great deal less when he latched the door and the window. His movements around the bedroom and the crackling of the fire replaced the sounds of the wind outside. She moved to the fire, hunching down on the floor; it was unladylike, but warmth struck her face and seared through the cold that had, until this moment, left her numb. When she shivered next, it wasn't cold, but everything else. Her nose hurt, as it always did before tears formed, and she bit her lip hard, tucking her chin to her chest. "Do you have family waiting for you?" he asked. She sniffed, wiping a hand over her face. He inhaled sharply, and she refused to look still. Maker knew what the Commander of the Inquisition thought about a sniveling ex-noble woman hogging his fire. "Um," she breathed, wincing, "Yes. My brother. He's expecting me for the last bit of Satinalia." "There aren't many people heading to Redcliffe until after Satinalia," he said after a beat of silence. The wooden floors creaked as he walked, and another noise of something lifting. She took the moment to wipe her face, yanking her thoughts into order. "Here." A blanket settled around her shoulders, warm and heavy, a faint scent of… something familiar. She put the thought aside to lift her head, peering up at him, breath catching at his nearness. He smoothed the blanket over her shoulders with clinical efficiency, surprise crossing his face again when he caught her stare. His eyes were lighter than she thought; still brown, still warm, but lighter all the same. The firelight brought the golds to his hair and his face. He was unfairly attractive, one of those objective facts she'd come to accept, and she— He had a scar on his lip. She hadn't ever been close enough to notice it before. "Um," she said, thoughts frazzled, "Thank you." She scrambled for something else to say, and it was easier to think as he drew away a heartbeat later. Despite her best efforts, she studied him as he slipped away, tidying something inconsequential on his desk. He wore none of his typical armor. It was soft but plain looking linen, not quite loose enough to hide the strength in his arms and shoulders. His hair sat ruffled still, and her eyes flashed to the bed, noting the dislodged blankets. "Did I wake you?" she asked. His head turned to her, wary once more. Tired, too. "No, I was awake." The rumors about the Commanders sleep schedule were true. She wondered if any others were and swiftly banished the thought with a shake of her head. She drew the edges of the blanket closer, lips parted to ask another question. He let out a huff, shaking his head. "Its too late to set out again. Wait until morning and my brother can take you into town with him. Someone in town will still be traveling," he said, scratching a hand over his jaw. His frown betrayed how likely found it. "But you don't think so," she noted, squinting. The Commander dropped his hand, now grimacing fully. "With how much snow there already is and how much its snowed tonight, I don't see many people making the journey from here. South Reach isn't a large settlement." She didn't know her expression, but his brows rose and he hastened to add, "But we won't know until tomorrow. Branson will find answers."	love has a quiet voice i. On the first week of Satinalia my true love gave to me, one lantern in a window sill Nothing Ophelia Trevelyan wore was built for the Ferelden winter. It hadn't mattered in the relative shelter of the wagon she'd paid to take her from Denerim to Redcliffe with the heated runes engraved into its seats, and she hoped it wouldn't matter in Redcliffe where she might shelter from the bitter cold in whatever abode her brother had allocated for himself. All of which required staying with the wagon or reaching Redcliffe which she'd done successfully for several days. But now? She saw not a speck of either in the distance no matter how she squinted. Not even the wagon's tracks, lost in however long she'd spent unconscious and then dazed in the snow. Long enough part of her dress dried slowly, an icy sludge against her skin. A flake landed on her cheek in a pinch of cold. The wind battered her from all sides, slicing through clothes like she wore none at all. She yanked her cloak tighter, fingers burrowed into the soft fabric. Her hood did little to protect her when the wind blew sideways in great gusts of ice. It was cold, and it was dark, and if she thought about it for too long, she might admit her sister was right when she said visiting Ferelden was a mistake. It was hard to argue when she was walking in the dark, yanking her boot free with each step. Then the wind struck again, howling like a beast, and her only thought was moving faster and hoping. And hoping. And hoping. And then barely thinking at all as her mana slowly depleted. Warm light blossomed in the darkness. Ophelia let out a misty breath and a weary, frightened laugh until her vision focused. It wasn't Andraste come to free her, but a small homestead at the crest of a hill. Ophelia's heart leapt, shuffling steps finding their stride as she adjusted her course for the light. She tackled the unfamiliar terrain, but it fought back, her boots sinking deep into the otherwise unblemished snow. Only the desire to escape the cold and the ever-growing fear of her numbing fingers kept her going. Her boot struck stone. A marker, and a trail winding its way up the small incline to the home. A farm, maybe, but she saw little more than shadows; vague buildings sat nestled among the trees and snow, but her eyes lingered only on one. From the front, not a single lantern was lit, but she saw the faint glow from the right-hand side and aimed for it. Her gloved fingers closed over the waist high fence with relief, then hesitation, then a shiver which prompted movement. Anything was better than freezing. The gate creaked as it opened, announcing her, but not a single creature stirred as she drew closer. Was anyone home? Her eyes focused on the light and chided herself for the panic still churning through her. Someone was awake. Or, if not awake, at least there. Present enough. Preferably not the type who shoved hapless travelers out of moving wagons in the height of winter. “Who is there?” a voice spoke, deep. She flinched, hands fumbling for her staff, then freezing. She didn't have it. She had nothing at all— A shadow unfolded itself from the wall, growing in height and stature, a monster—no, worse, a man. "Wait, please. I am not—" Her stuttered words halted, clumsy and cold, and she swallowed the fear building in her throat. He flicked open the latch on a door near the window, spilling light across the snow until the edges brushed her boots. It lit him from behind, and recognition struck. She stilled, waiting, but he didn't recognize her and she thought that a small blessing. And a ridiculous thought, because surely she didn't matter to anyone in the Inquisition save one. "Commander," she said, clenching the edges of her cloak until her knuckles hurt, teeth chattering together. His chin jerked, surprise softening the furrow of his brow so briefly she could have imagined it. Golden hair sat awry on his head, mussed from wind or ruined sleep, she couldn't tell. His hand strayed near the sword resting against the wall; it was sheathed, but she didn't doubt the haste he'd rip it free if she proved a threat. "Who are you?" "Ophelia." She waited a beat, but still no recognition. Excellent. If he didn't remember her, maybe nobody in the Inquisition did. Disheartening as it was, she thought it was for the best. "I was a researcher for the Inquisition. Um, for the breach and the rift, that is, before—Oh, well, that hardly matters, but I do recognize you," she said, fighting the urge to shuffle under his hard stare. "Noted," he said flatly. "Why are you here?" Certainly not for the joy of Ferelden hospitality. She didn't mention this. "I, er—" The wind gusted, and she tucked the cloak tighter around her with a wince. Her hood flopped off, and she didn't know waht she looked, but his stern expression lightened marginally. "I paid for passage to Redcliffe and—" He interjected, "This is South Reach." He scanned her from head to toe, head tilting, hand falling from his blade. His stance, however, didn’t grow anymore welcoming, distrust still stitched into every muscle. "Is it?" she said, dismayed. "They left me before the storm hit. I woke and—Well, they are gone and they have all my things." She sounded pathetic, and heat swept up her face at the pitying look he shot her. "I… It's cold, may we speak inside?" His lips parted, gaze shooting to the door, and then inclined his head. "Come in," he said, an edge still to his voice she didn't quite understand. Their paths had crossed so rarely in the Inquisition, but she'd spent a great deal of time watching him and his soldiers in Haven, and then later in Skyhold, and he'd always been… Perhaps not pleasant all the time, but not so grumpy. Though rumors, of course, told her He held his sword and gestured her ahead of him, brow arched as though expecting argument. She had none and hurried inside, nearly weeping as warmth hit her frozen cheeks. It was a little smaller than his office in Skyhold, around the same size as her room in the Ostwick Circle. It held a bed tucked against the far wall near an interior door and a dresser jammed into the space near it. Dominating most of the room was a desk topped with a chess board and copious amounts of parchment, several unassuming bookcases sat on either side near the door she entered and— A log popped in a simple fireplace. It sat behind the desk, small and beautiful. "Thank the Maker!" Ophelia hesitated on the threshold, kicking snow off her boots. It did little for the snow clinging to her cloak. "Toss it over the chair," he said from behind her. She moved aside for him to pass and settled her cloak over the chair wedged between the door and the desk. It was cold without it, but only briefly and a great deal less when he latched the door and the window. His movements around the bedroom and the crackling of the fire replaced the sounds of the wind outside. She moved to the fire, hunching down on the floor; it was unladylike, but warmth struck her face and seared through the cold that had, until this moment, left her numb. When she shivered next, it wasn't cold, but everything else. Her nose hurt, as it always did before tears formed, and she bit her lip hard, tucking her chin to her chest. "Do you have family waiting for you?" he asked. She sniffed, wiping a hand over her face. He inhaled sharply, and she refused to look still. Maker knew what the Commander of the Inquisition thought about a sniveling ex-noble woman hogging his fire. "Um," she breathed, wincing, "Yes. My brother. He's expecting me for the last bit of Satinalia." "There aren't many people heading to Redcliffe until after Satinalia," he said after a beat of silence. The wooden floors creaked as he walked, and another noise of something lifting. She took the moment to wipe her face, yanking her thoughts into order. "Here." A blanket settled around her shoulders, warm and heavy, a faint scent of… something familiar. She put the thought aside to lift her head, peering up at him, breath catching at his nearness. He smoothed the blanket over her shoulders with clinical efficiency, surprise crossing his face again when he caught her stare. His eyes were lighter than she thought; still brown, still warm, but lighter all the same. The firelight brought the golds to his hair and his face. He was unfairly attractive, one of those objective facts she'd come to accept, and she— He had a scar on his lip. She hadn't ever been close enough to notice it before. "Um," she said, thoughts frazzled, "Thank you." She scrambled for something else to say, and it was easier to think as he drew away a heartbeat later. Despite her best efforts, she studied him as he slipped away, tidying something inconsequential on his desk. He wore none of his typical armor. It was soft but plain looking linen, not quite loose enough to hide the strength in his arms and shoulders. His hair sat ruffled still, and her eyes flashed to the bed, noting the dislodged blankets. "Did I wake you?" she asked. His head turned to her, wary once more. Tired, too. "No, I was awake." The rumors about the Commanders sleep schedule were true. She wondered if any others were and swiftly banished the thought with a shake of her head. She drew the edges of the blanket closer, lips parted to ask another question. He let out a huff, shaking his head. "Its too late to set out again. Wait until morning and my brother can take you into town with him. Someone in town will still be traveling," he said, scratching a hand over his jaw. His frown betrayed how likely found it. "But you don't think so," she noted, squinting. The Commander dropped his hand, now grimacing fully. "With how much snow there already is and how much its snowed tonight, I don't see many people making the journey from here. South Reach isn't a large settlement." She didn't know her expression, but his brows rose and he hastened to add, "But we won't know until tomorrow. Branson will find answers." "Branson?" "My brother." "Oh. Is this… you are visiting family? I didn't know you had any…" She stopped, spotting the stricken look on his face before he turned away. He straightened something on his desk again, placing chess pieces on his board until they stood in neat rows, though she was certain they had already been prepared for a game before he touched them. "I should hope my family isn't a common conversation among people," he said, curt. "I prefer people didn't know much about them." He didn't elaborate. She studied his tense back and swallowed any other questions. "I understand. I do not engage with many people from the Inquisition anymore, so I have no one to tell." "You said you used to… what stopped you?" "I wanted to be with family again," she said, shrugging, and shifted to settle more fully on the ground. She didn't want to talk about family anymore than he did. When she didn't continue, he inclined his head in understanding, brows scrunched again. She offered a half-smile, an apology without words, and twisted to face the fire again. It popped and crackled, an unhelpful distraction to the tense silence falling over them. She wondered what type of templar he once was. Was he content with half an answer? The floor creaked quietly as he shifted his weight. Then he sighed. "Rest. You can make use of my bed. Uh, that is, I will not be in here," he hastened to add, blowing out a puff of air that was all exasperated sigh. Ophelia laughed. "I am sorry to chase you from your room and your bed, but it isn't necessary. I can sleep here." "On the floor?" he said, dubious. "I have slept much worse. Particularly when we first reached Skyhold," she said, nose scrunching at the memory. "Though I suppose the tower near the stables was never particularly steady, clean, or warm." "The southern tower?" "Yes. It was supposed to be a guard post, wasn't it?" "Eventually. It was repurposed for the Inquisitor's sister," he said absently. "I didn't know his sister—er, that he had a sister," she amended with a internal curse and outward wince. He muttered something and she was almost certain it was unflattering, no matter how faint he tried to make it. She twisted to look at him, bemused, and he shuffled back a step with another sigh. She couldn't tell in the dim light whether the hint of red on his face was natural, the growing warmth of the too tiny room, or the response to her overhearing his retort. "I won't take your bed," she said. "I'm not sleeping." A pause, and his tone shifted, not quite sharp but something with an edge to it all the same. "I have no diseases you need fear." "What? No, that's not—Where will you sleep?" "I have no plans on sleeping." She squinted at him. He stared back, bewildered, brows furrowed so deeply together they seemed liable to stay that way. "What do you mean you won't sleep? It's late." "It's early, actually," he said, arms crossing, gaze darting to the dresser. A candle wick sat on its surface, still faintly burning, down to a mere pinprick of light. "It's still dark." "Not for long." "How long?" She wrapped the blanket around her more firmly, eyelids heavy. "It'll be daybreak in another hour or so, I imagine." "I couldn't have been walking that long…" Could she? She didn't know how long she'd stayed in the snow, unconscious, only waking when the cold and the pain harmonized into a chorus she couldn't ignore any longer. Magic alone had helped her stand and walk, burning enough to keep her warm. Her silence lasted long for him to fetch a cloak, a pile of parchment, and the lantern. "It's no matter. I have work to do and it will be easier to complete before the household wakes," he said, striding towards the interior door. He hesitated, tapping a boot against the floor, awkwardness overcoming him. "Rest then, I'll be out here if you… that is if you require anything." "Thank you," she mumbled. "Take the bed," he urged again. She didn't reply, mumbling something with only a vague idea of what. He heaved a sigh and left, but she didn't hear the door close before sleep claimed her. An uproar of laughter pierced the quiet. Ophelia mumbled, shifting on the hard floor, debating the merit of asking the driver to stay a little quieter if she offered them another silver. Then the night before flooded to life. She sat up, a myriad of aches springing to life. Some from her choice to stay on the floor, but most, she thought, from the fact that her traveling companions had shoved her from the wagon and sped off into the horizon with all of her things. They'd even taken her staff, though she hoped they got nothing for it; the foci was broken, cracked clean down the middle, and she'd yet to repair it. Now she probably never would. Her lips trembled. She pressed a hand against her face, wincing as her fingers struck a tender part of her cheek. Footsteps sounded from deeper within the home, and she recalled the other part of her night. It was the second time in the last three years that she'd flung herself onto the mercy of the Inquisition, she thought with some frustration. Though she hoped the Commander was a great deal more… understanding about it than the Inquisition's spymaster. She yanked the blanket around her shoulders and climbed to her aching feet, eyeing the space around her. None of it seemed like it was meant to be a bedroom, all of the bedroom items shoved halfheartedly into a space. Nor did she imagine the Commander would simply stay somewhere small, cramped, and mostly mismatched. Though, she guessed he was a templar. Her room—if one called it that—was nearly the same. Still, if she stood in the center, she could touch the bed and the desk without much effort. She thought someone of his status would have something… more. The door banged open. A woman entered with all the force of a storm. She had his curly hair and a similar cut to her face, but the youthful glow of someone several years younger. A sister, she assumed, because she was far too old to be his daughter. Or a cousin? Or a niece? Or—She didn't know. "Cullen! Where are—" The woman who entered stopped on the threshold with a squeak of surprise, blinking. "Maker's hat! What are—" She stared, scanning her, and then her voice rose to a volume so piercing it left an echo: "Cullen! Why do you have a woman in your room?" Squealing noises sounded from somewhere inside the dwelling. Behind the woman, Ophelia made out a hallway, empty, but only for a moment before a stampede of footsteps heralded the arrival of half a dozen other people, all chattering. A short, heavy-set woman nearly bowled the first over in her haste to peek into the room. Unlike the others, her hair was shorter and darker, but held the same distinctive curl. "A woman?" she asked, laughter in her tone. "Maker, he really does! Where is he?" "Um," said Ophelia, steadying herself on the table. "Who are you?" asked the first. "Ophelia. I… He didn't bring me—" "Did you break in then?" said the second, squinting, sweeping past the other to press deeper into the room. She was shorter by a great deal, but the others deferred to her sharp wave and eased back. Her arms crossed, stance solid, as if she might defend the people with her mere presence. "Ah, no? I am sorry, I arrived late last night. There was… That is…" She blew out a frustrated breath, settling the blanket on the chair to compose herself. The two women let out strangled noises of surprise, exchanging glances. Ophelia ignored them, hastening to speak, "My escort abandoned me and your—er, that is the com—Er." What was he to them? "He was gracious enough to let me rest before helping me reach town. I—" "Maker preserve me. Are you alright?" asked the second one, coming deeper into the room. "Rosalie, go find Cullen. Sit, you look awful." Ophelia followed the order without thinking, sinking into the chair adjacent to the desk, blinking. "I am alright," she said, peering down at herself, wincing. Her dress was torn and dirtied, dried blood and mud clinging to the fabric, changing it from its initial rich purple to something a great deal less. Worse than the blood was the tear—it had tore open along the side, exposing the chemise beneath, and its cut ripped through the embroidery her sister had carefully repaired all those months ago. She brushed a hand over the tears in the fabric, biting her lip, eyes prickling. "Oh, dear," said the second woman with a sigh. "I am fine," she repeated, voice wobbly. "Are you though? Ow, Mia, that hurt." The woman named Rosalie rubbed her side. "Go find—" "No need. The gallant hero approaches! You didn't tell us you brought a girl with you, Cullen," said Rosalie with a sly smile. Ophelia spotted him just behind the two women, standing only slightly taller than Rosalie. His wet hair curled around his ears, face pinching with exasperation at the teasing words. His gaze landed on hers, frowning all the deeper, and she wondered the sight she made to provoke such intensity. "Oh, look, he only has eyes for—" "Rosalie," he said, patience clinging to those words like the last leaf on a tree. "Maker's Breath, I was only gone a few minutes and you—" "I am just saying—" "Go on, Rosalie," said Mia with another nudge, slightly harder from Rosalie's little yelp in reply. "I'll get some water. And maybe a spare dress—" "No, no," said Ophelia. She mopped her face with a sleeve, containing another pained wince. "I can go now, its light. It's not a big deal, I have already imposed enough. Just… tell me which way to find town. South Reach, you said?" Mia arched a dark brow. "Will you now? Dressed like that? Nonsense, you'd catch your death out there. Its only Andraste's Grace that you didn't freeze last night on the walk here. The nearest road is… Well, it was lucky you found us. The nearest farm otherwise is a few miles beyond," she said, settling her gaze on Ophelia briefly and lifting to the Commander. He rubbed a hand over his face. "Mia is right. The snow worsened while you slept. I spoke with Branson and snow is blocking the path to South Reach for now. It'll be a wonder a tree hasn't fallen." Ophelia shook her head. "I can't leave?" she said, disbelief coating each word until it was soft as a murmur. Mia nudged the Commander. "I will be back in a moment with something for your wounds. And perhaps a new dress? I have something I think will do." "Mia—" "Be polite." He let out a noise like a scoff. "I am not a dog." Mia's brow arched again and then she pat him on the shoulder, nudging the lingering people in the hallway away with another jerk of her hand. The door closed behind her, silencing their malcontent and curiosity, until it was only the two of them again. "Maker preserve me," he muttered, head shaking. The floor creaked as she shifted, and his gaze shot to hers, lingering on her cheek. His lips curve down. "I didn't realize you were hurt." He flicked a look to the bed, a pinch in his expression at the undisturbed sheets. "And you slept on the floor." "The snow is that bad?" she pressed, ignoring the rest. Hurt and sores didn't matter. "Yes." At her expression, he crossed the distance between them. Ophelia slid away, and his head tilted at the motion. Instead of asking, as she thought he might, he bypassed her to the window. Grimly, he flicked the latch and swung it open. "See for yourself." She hesitated, then stepped beside him. Heat radiated from him, and the scent from his blanket was stronger now that he stood so near. She remembered finally the smells she couldn't figure out last night: oakmoss and elderflower and something like polish. Then the world outside caught her attention and even someone who smelled nice as him was, for the moment, lost. It was so bright, blinding sunlight reflecting off newly fallen snow. It piled high along the ground, obscuring the trail she'd made from the distant fence to the small farmhouse in which she currently stood. It was hard to tell how much fell until she spotted the fence which held several inches more of snow piled against it than it had the night before. Though the sky was blue above them, she saw a dark and ominous cloud over the white-capped fir trees. "Is that heading towards us, or away?" she murmured, chest tight, pointing to the sky. If it was heading towards them, then she didn't see how she would leave today, tomorrow, or even the day after. His head ducked lower, peering through the window to the blanket of clouds. "Towards," he said after a moment. Her heart sank. Her first Satinalia with her family in over a decade, now spent… decidedly not with family. "Oh," she murmured, chewing on her lip and then releasing it. "Then, ah, I am sorry." "Sorry?" He sounded distracted. Her gaze lifted to his, surprised to find him watching her, eyes locking, brown and green colliding. She'd never noticed all the colors of his eyes in Skyhold, a hint of yellow like honey in their depths. "I—" A hint of red touched his face and burned along his cheek, his head tilting slightly as he regarded her. "Sorry for what?" "For the fact that I will be an unfortunate tag along for your Satinalia celebrations this year," she said with a sigh, tearing her gaze away to look at the snow. "Oh," he said, and she couldn't tell what it meant. "It is unfortunate." She winced. "Not in that sense!" he hastened to add, hand shooting to his neck. "My family will have no qualms with another addition, and I have no complaints about a barrier." "Barrier?" "They are a lot, I should warn you," he said as explanation. "What you have seen is only a small taste. And I have spent a long while away doing—Well, you were there for a time. There was little time for festivities." "You never participated in them? I had heard the parties were exuberant." "I had… other obligations," he said, hesitant. "But, no, I only meant it is unfortunate you will not spend it with your family. You said your brother was waiting for you in Redcliffe?" "Worrying himself now that I will be late, I am sure." She didn't want to think about what he would do. Weary now, she moved to the desk and stole his chair, deciding it was the least of her nuisances to him this holiday season. Her fingers toyed with a chess piece. "The others. Mia and Rosalie. Those are your family? Sisters?" "What gave it away?" he asked, a hint of humor in his voice as he latched the inner window. The outer stayed open, so that the sun illuminated the tiny room. "The teasing and the hair gave me some thought. When you mentioned family, I, ah, didn't know if you meant something more. But I imagine this would be a great deal more awkward if you had a wife." It slipped free, and she blamed it on the stress and the long night and the slow building ache spreading through her. To her surprise, he snorted. "This is my only family. Though I suppose I can count some in the Inquisition as part of that," he added, a tiny frown gracing his face as he thought and then slipping away as he shrugged. "But not someone special?" His face reddened again, looking to her and then focusing on the chess board. "No, there was, ah, never time for that." "Mm, I always got the impression you were busy working, I suppose that would make things difficult for a lover." Work won over holidays, she knew, but now she also knew duty won over family and lovers, too. Then a heat lit her face as the words and his stunned silence registered and she blew out a breath. "Apologies. I left all my things in the wagon, my sense included I suppose." "It, uh, its fine." As if her words had reminded him, he crossed to his dresser once more, sliding open a drawer to draw out a small box. From there, he dug out a small, sealed jar and returned to her, nudging the other chair free with his boot so they sat face to face. "Is your face the worst of it?" "I haven't checked. I can admit, I don't know how much sleeping on the floor sorted out what wound is from being pushed out a wagon—" "Pushed from a wagon?" he repeated, setting the jar on the desk with a clank that made her jump. His apology was a brief wave of his hand as he leaned closer, head tilting down to peer closely at her face with an intensity that made her blush. He didn't notice, staring at her bruise for a heartbeat longer, lips pursing. "I thought you said they left you." "They did. In the snow." He didn't laugh. "Maker's breath, are you alright?" "It wasn't pleasant, no, but neither was the floor." "I offered you the bed." "I could hardly take your bed from you." "I wasn't using it." "Still, it… It doesn't matter, I hardly remember falling asleep. I fear you closed the door and I was gone to the world. I was very tired." "Because you were pushed from a wagon," he said, incredulous still. "Who was it?" "Does it matter?" she countered with a sigh. "They will be halfway to Redcliffe by now. Unless the storm caught them, too." "Perhaps," he said without much optimism, bracing an elbow on his knee, fingers settled over his lips in thought. Concentration changed his face, bringing the man she recognized from the Inquisition to the forefront. Though it was hard to connect the two in her head. She'd always seen the Commander as stern and well-put together and steady, perhaps more warrior than man. This man looked uncomfortably human, hair growing fluffy as it dried and scruff on his cheeks and clothes slightly too small for his frame. Her eyes lingered on his arms, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing a forearm covered in a fine layer of hair and a dozen small, story riddled scars. He broke through her thoughts with a harsh exhale. "I am afraid I have no other options that can assist you, either. If the snow thaws, it might be possible to find someone, but Satinalia celebrations begin early in these parts. You traveled at a very unfortunate time." Ophelia slumped into the chair, fingers knocking over the chess piece with her movement. The fall of it drew his attention from her to the chess board and back again. He blinked slowly, sighing again, "Apologies, its not my place to scold you." "You aren't wrong. I should have left sooner." "Why didn't you?" he asked, head tilting. "You are a noble, are you not?" She didn't want to answer the first, so she answered the latter, curious, "What gave that away?" "Your clothes are too fine for anything around here and too thin for Ferelden. You don't sound Orlesian, I am assuming Marcher." Her lips quirked. "Marcher, yes. I am from Ostwick. Nobility…" Here she hesitated. "Not anymore." She was saved from explaining further at a knock on the door. He reared back, hand resting on his neck, and she realized they had unconsciously leaned closer to each other as they spoke. "Come in," he called, shifting to his feet as Mia opened the door, holding a bundle of cloth in her hands. A boy who looked like her miniature came in behind her with a bucket of steaming water. "I brought some water. Afraid the tub is out of the question with the snow, but this will do for the moment," said Mia. "And the clothes should fit. I can let it out a little more if you need, but we aren't too far off in size." "I appreciate it. I will return it to you." Mia snorted. "Please. All my daughters are tall as him, none of them will ever wear it again. I had a mind to cut it into strips and I can do that all the same with something else." Her chiding but gentle words remained Ophelia unbearably of her own mother. "I can repay you. For this and your food and the hospitality, I can—Oh—I—" she stopped reaching for her cloak, hands settling in her lap once more and fingers tapping together anxiously. Weakly, she said, "When I reach Redcliffe. I fear my coin purse isn't… with me." "You don't need to repay anyone," he said, dropping his hand from his neck. "But—" Mia laughed, patting the boy on the head as he stood at her side. "Maker take me, you are stubborn as one of my lot," she said, amused. Her head tilted to her brother, and she knew at once that Mia was the elder sibling as he waited for her words with an arched brow. "Cullen, will you help Branson? Struggling with the cows, I think." "Right," he said, slow, looking bemused. He turned to Ophelia, nudging the jar towards her. "If you put this on your bruises after you wash, it should help." Ophelia regarded it. "What is it?" It wasn't something to do with elfroot; it looked a great deal darker. "Ah, something of mine. It helps with healing. And pain." He looked uncomfortable. Mia scrutinized him. His voice grew gruff, discomfort bringing out an edge once more, "A little will do a lot, but you, ah, are welcome to however much you need." She touched the jar with the tips of her fingers. It was cold, and the shock of it brought a tightening to her chest, puncturing through the last few hours. "Thank you," she murmured, swallowing away a thickness building in her throat. She caught his eye again, spotting the flecks of honey-yellow once more; some of the hardness slipping away as he watched her. "I appreciate all you are doing for me." "We're not ones to send someone out on their backsides after a disaster," said Mia with a click of her tongue, sliding a look between the two of them once more with a growing, amused grin as both startled. "We'll leave you to settle, but don't dawdle now, you hear? We have breakfast and something warm would do you right." Ophelia nodded mutely. Mia flicked a finger to her brother, frowning thoughtfully, nudging them towards the door. "Cullen, the cows, go on. I'll go find a cot. Maker, where will we find a place for her?" They closed the door behind them, leaving Ophelia alone, fighting back inexplicable tears. The Rutherford siblings were true to their word. Her first day with them passed with welcoming smiles and polite commentary as they prepared their house for the Satinalia feast they planned in a few more nights. In the flurry of preparations, no one spared more than a few cursory, sympathetic glances to the newest addition. She didn't see the Commander again that day, not until dinner where he spoke in a low voice to a man who looked eerily like him if he'd been a touch more lanky. Both regarded her only briefly, the other man flashing her a friendly smile and the Commander sparing her a brief, scrutinizing glance before returning his attention to his latest task. When bedtime came, the problem of what to do with her became more pressing. Every room in the house was filled to the brim with relatives.Rosalie and her wife slept in one room with their two sons. Mia and her husband slept in the largest room with three of their youngest while their eldest four slept in a cluster in the main living space. Branson and his wife slept in the further room from everybody with their newborn. It left the Commander to the office of Mia's husband, Ben. And it left exactly zero space for an unexpected addition. They'd contemplated shoving the four eldest into a bunch of rooms and offering her the couch before, ultimately, deciding the best place was shoving a cot into the office, too. Which meant the longest night of cohabiting with someone she barely knew. A person she was certain hated her more with each passing second, though she found it hard to balance that thought when he gallantly offered her the bed and refused to relent. When she finally drifted off and woke on her second day with them, he was already gone. She bathed with a new bucket of water, lightly heated with a touch of magic, and dabbed some ointment on her bruise before following the sounds of mayhem and noise to the main living space. The Rutherfords didn't converse as quietly as her own family. No whispers or hushed conversation, only chatter and laughter and playful bickering, all of which wrapped around her like an embrace as she ventured into their kitchen. They welcomed her with distant smiles—welcoming, yes, but seeming unsure what to do with her. No one accepted help with anything. Not the chores, not the washing, not the cleaning, not the cooking. "You're our guest," Mia had said with a frown. Her own reply of "And an extra mouth to feed" earned her an impressed scowl. Mia had, after much prodding, forced Ophelia to let her help when she noticed a rattle in Ophelia's breath. She wasn't a healer, she'd said, but she had kids enough to know her way around injuries. So, in the end, guests need not help, particularly ones whose bruised ribs left her breathless. It left her with little to do but sit and wonder. And so she did for the first week of her stay, assisting in half-measures until someone caught on enough to shoo her away. In all that time, she had barely seen the Commander, as much through his efforts as her own. She didn't see why he sought to ignore her, but she didn't much want to spend time with anyone who might bring her location to someone else. Someone a lot harder to ignore. With luck, it worked well until the first week settled on her shoulders like an anchor and kept her stuck to a stool in the kitchen, tracing over a crack in the wood absently. How long would her family worry? They'd already thought her decision to visit Alfonso was both risky and unnecessary, and she imagined if she told them all the ways this trip had gone wrong would take her from one gilded cage to another. Her finger reached the end of the crack, and she returned to the beginning. The edges didn't prick against her, so worn it had lost any sharpness. It held a collection of scuffs and marks suggesting age, as many other things appeared in the household. Her own home told a story, and she wondered at the one this one told. As if in answer, the back door swung open on creaking hinges. Commander Cullen kicked snow off his boots, cheeks pink from cold, his hair a wild mess from the wind outside. His scowl made her still, wary, apprhension coiling its way around her. He stopped in the threshold at the sight of her, brows lifting at the sight of her, as if he had forgotten she was there in the hours since he left. Being forgotten was worse than being hated, and she waited for the judgment no doubt lurking in his thoughts. "Move, Cullen." His brother, whom she knew now was Branson, shoved him deeper into the kitchen. Like his eldest sister, Branson held a head of curly brown hair. Though she suspected he was the youngest of them, he was easily the tallest, slender and long and a great deal more cheerful than his elder brother. He pat said brother on the shoulder, inclined his head in greeting, and barreled his way through the kitchen to the adjacent room, hollering all the while. It reminded her a great deal of her brother when he was younger, too. Though she didn't much know about how loud he was now. They'd hardly spoke in the few weeks she resides with her family at their estate before duty called him away. The still open door let in a sharp gust of wind, and she shivered. A heartbeat later, the door closed with a quiet click, and Commander Cullen's voice broke her reverie fully. "Are you thirsty?" Ophelia looked from where Branson left to where Commander Cullen stood, an awkward statue in an otherwise messy kitchen. His gaze slid around the room, thoughtful, lingering on things with no rhyme or reason for his scrutiny, as if he hadn't ever seen a kitchen in his life. "Sorry?" she asked, head tilting. "Do you want something to drink?" he repeated. Bewildered, she inclined her head in acceptance. He went through the cupboards, silent now with a quest in his sight, searching. She watched with curiosity as he started working the low-burning fire in the hearth until it was a blaze. As he set something like water to boil, he collected bread from a tray hidden beneath a towel. Next to it was a bowl covered in a thin towel which he tugged closer and peered inside. "What is it?" she asked. Watching Mia study and then abandon the bowl that morning hadn't brought any answers, but she wasn't brazen enough to poke her way through someone's kitchen. "Bread." He tested the dough with a finger then sighed and set it aside. "Or it will be in a few more hours, its not quite ready for baking." "Is it… yours?" "Not exactly. I admit, the last time I made bread, I was only a boy. But I did start it." "Oh. I didn't realize you knew how to cook." As she finished speaking, she sighed. "I keep assuming things about you, but I don't know you. I know of you. That's not the same thing." "No, it's not," he agreed, pained. He focused on the hearth once more, his back to her. He didn't stay silent, speaking his words as though they were meant for the fire alone. "My parents taught me a long time ago." "Were you close?" They'd made no mention of parents in her day here. She knew what the silence following her words meant, and she added, softer now, "You don't have to answer, of course. I was only curious." "No, its…" He turned from the hearth to regard her, looking somber. His arms crossed, settled back against the counters. "We were close, yes, but I was a boy when I left. I cannot say I remember all the things they taught me. Cooking included, I am afraid." The smile he offered was real, but forced. Humor to cover something deeper, something that curiosity demanded prodding even as everything else in her knew otherwise. "I imagine few children remembered all their parents taught them," she offered. He inclined his head without replying, and she ventured into an adjacent topic with some relief. "You never picked up more cooking later?" "I was a templar for a long while and then the Inquisition soon after. It left little room for cooking beyond some bare bones meals," he said, curious. "Ah, I suppose I don't recall hearing stories of templar or commanders in the kitchen." "Some did. But I was not one of them, I was always more inclined to other pursuits." "Like swords," she mused. He sent her a look that she couldn't read. "Yes," he said, wryly. "Like swords. Though I studied anything I could get my hands on. When I was young, there was little in the ways of reading." "The room has tons of books." "And it took a lifetime for my family to get them. Books are rare commodities sometimes." She pondered him a moment. "I suppose I hadn't considered that," she murmured, face heating at the thought of her own ignorance. Her home boasted a library, hundreds of books lining the shelves of a grand room; after their horses, their library was perhaps the most well-known thing about her family. Then, of course, the circle was no stranger to books. She hadn't considered the world beyond it much. She hastened to speak, face still hot, "So you are reteaching yourself how to cook?" "I prefer to know than leave it to others. My cooking is passable for now, or so Mia tells me. The memory of it comes back a little more each time." "You should share some of that muscle memory. I remember very little about cooking," she admitted with a low laugh. "I spent so much time in the kitchens, and I couldn't tell you one pan from the other, let alone anything else." "My parents wanted us to fend for ourselves and our family. Did yours not teach you?" "Mm, not my parents, I don't actually know if either of them can cook. No, there was a woman in the kitchens, Moira, she tried teaching me for a while. I never had much luck for it unless someone wrote down the step-by-step. One disaster was enough to ban me from anything more challenging than cracking eggs." "Disaster?" He returned his attention to the hearth again, and she couldn't see from where she sat what he was doing, only watch him as he rummaged through shelves. "I tried to make an apple pie and it didn't go well," she explained. "A shame, I was really hopeful." "Never thought to try again? You must have been young." "I was sixteen and no, I didn't really get the chance. What are you making?" If he noticed her abrupt subject change, he didn't question it. If anything, his movements slowed. "Ah, I should have asked first," he said slowly. "It's a tea of sorts." "Of sorts?" "Nothing unusual. Ferelden tradition for Satinalia—a spiced tea. I can make you something else, if you'd prefer." "No, please, I haven't tried it before." "I imagine not if you aren't from Ferelden," he noted, continuing his work and bringing it back to the table. One he settled in front of her and the other he held between both of his hands as he settled into the seat across from her. With his drink in hand and his calmness, he fit more in the kitchen now, like he meant to sit there. "No. Before the Inquisition, I spent little time here. But you lived in Ferelden?" "Not South Reach exactly. There was a village some ways from here where I grew up. Though I suppose I spent nearly a decade of my life elsewhere and then nearly half that in Skyhold." "Hm, fair. Skyhold was a political mess last I heard." "Mm, I suppose you heard about the Exalted Council," he said, nose wrinkling. "I imagine most of the world did." Ophelia traced the crack in the table, hesitant. "Ah, is it true the Inquisitor disbanded things then? I had heard it was only growing and then… " He didn't smile. "He did." Her hesitation continued. His brow furrowed, and he didn't speak. She forced the words. "And the Inquisitor, he is… That is, he didn't die?" "Maker, is that what people are saying?" he said, incredulous. "No, he's not dead." "Oh. That's—Yes, that's good, I had heard so many stories that I was—Well, that's great," she finished lamely, taking a sip of her drink to stop her babbling. It was warm, the taste stronger than she anticipated, though she couldn't describe the flavors beyond warm and faintly spiced and comforting. A drink was enough to soothe the restlessness. She didn't miss the Inquisitor anymore, that was a wound long healed, but she didn't wish him ill or dead. It did, however, make her feel odd to know he was alive when she had spent some months grieving him. "You're from the Free Marches, aren't you?" he asked, unexpectedly. "Ah, yes. Is it that obvious?" "I spent years in Kirkwall." "Ah, right." He sounded calm when he spoke, but his stiffness sitting across from her betrayed unease at his own words. From what she knew about Kirkwall, she imagined it was hardly a comforting topic. Nobody held good memories before the Mage-Templar War. Few held good memories during the war, either. She hummed non-commitally and replied to his initial comment, "I am from Ostwick. I've spent my entire life there." "Why so far from home?" He still looked uncomfortable, but his shoulders lowered a fraction. "My brother. I couldn't very well leave him to spend Satinalia on his own, could I?" she said with a shrug. Then she offered a pained smile, lifting the drink to her lips to hide behind it. The second, longer drink burned its way down her throat. "Though I imagine spending Satinalia on his own and worried is probably worse." He hesitated a heartbeat and then said, slow, as if he wasn't quite sure if he wanted to say anything at all, "You could write to your brother." Her brow arched, puzzled. "I imagine if a messenger could leave, I'd simply go with them." He shot her an amused look. "Its a great deal more work to travel as a messenger than you might imagine. But, no, I, ah, still have responsibilities for the Inquisition so I have a bird." "A bird." "A raven. It might take a little while if the storm worsens, but I imagine it will reach him before you do. If you know where he is in Redcliffe, I can send it to an acquaintance," he explained. "I have missives to send tonight." If she sent it tonight, perhaps it would reach Alfonso before Satinalia. Perhaps he wouldn't be upset with her for leaving him to his worries among all his other problems. A relieved smile crossed her lips. "That would be wonderful. Thank you." "Ah, you're welcome," he said, lip rising in a lopsided smile, scar tugging on his lip. He ducked his head to look at his drink, long finger tracing over the rim in thought. She added this moment to her slow-building understanding of him: he was less prickly than she thought and probably didn't hate her.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75706501/chapters/198004431	{"authors": ["briannasroger"], "language": "English", "title": "love has a quiet voice"}
The First Thorn The sky above Loc Iucha was the wrong color. It had been fifteen years since the Conjunction, since the spheres collided and tore the fabric of reality, yet Ael still couldn't get used to the twilight. It wasn't the soft, violet dusk of the Elder days. It was a bruised, sickly yellow that hung over the horizon like a stain, smelling faintly of sulfur and wet ash. Ael stood on the western battlements of the White Spire, her hands resting on the cold marble of the crenellations. The wind up here was biting, cutting through the layers of her wool tunic and the hardened leather of her cuirass. She didn't shiver. A Ranger learned early that shivering was a waste of energy, and energy was the only currency that mattered in the wilds. "They're cutting again," she said, her voice barely rising above the whistle of the wind. Torin, leaning against the stonework a few feet away, didn't look up from the arrow he was fletching. "Where?" "The Western Ridge. Near the old shrines." Ael gestured with her chin toward the coastline, miles below their vantage point. From this height, the elven city of Loc Iucha was a breathtaking masterpiece of white stone and living wood, spiraling down the cliffs to the azure waters of the bay. But Ael wasn't looking at the spires or the hanging gardens. She was looking past the city, to the dark scar of the forest edge, and beyond that, to the crude, sprawling shantytown that had erupted along the docks. Thick, oily smoke curled up from the human settlement, blotting out the clean line of the ocean. "They need timber for the pallisades," Torin said, his voice mild. He scraped the spine of a goose feather with his knife, the sound rasping and rhythmic. "The winter is coming, Ael. And the humans feel the cold more than we do." "They don't take fallen wood," Ael muttered, her eyes tracing the movement of the tiny, ant-like figures in the distance. "They fell living oaks. They strip the bark and burn the rest. They treat the forest like an enemy to be conquered." "To them, it is an enemy," Torin replied. He finally looked up, his eyes pale and tired. He was older than Ael by a century, a veteran of the border wars before the Conjunction changed everything. He had seen the world when it was quiet, and the noise of the new era seemed to wear on him physically. "Last week, a patrol found a family of settlers near the delta. A foglet had gotten into their cabin. It wasn't... clean." Ael tightened her grip on the stone railing until her leather gloves creaked. "If they stayed on their ships, the foglets wouldn't find them." "The ships are rotting, Ael. You know that. They can't go back. There is no 'back' to go to." Ael looked down at the harbor. The famous White Ships—the vessels that had carried the first waves of humans across the void during the Cataclysm—were still there, moored in the deep water. But Torin was right. Their hulls were grey with barnacles, their sails tattered. The humans were stranded here, just as the ghouls and gryphons were. The difference was that the gryphons didn't pretend to be friends while they ate you. "I don't mind that they are here, Torin," Ael lied. "I mind that the Sages invite them inside the walls." She turned away from the view, the sight of the smoke leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. She adjusted the heavy strap of her quiver across her chest. Her armor was distinct among the pristine silver and white of the city guard. It was dyed a deep, mottled green, scuffed from crawling through underbrush and reinforced with boiled hide at the joints. She wore the forest on her skin. Here, amidst the polished marble, she looked like a stain. "You're going to the Academy?" Torin asked, sheathing his knife. "Eleri has a lesson," Ael said shortly. "With the boy? The... what is his name? Vakor?" "The Subject," Ael corrected. "I don't name things I might have to kill." Torin sighed, shaking his head. "You tread a dangerous line, Ael. The Aen Saevherne—the Sages—they believe this is the path to peace. Sharing knowledge. If the humans can control the Power, they won't be a threat." "If you give a monkey a torch," Ael said, stepping toward the spiral stairs, "it doesn't become a master of fire. It just burns down the forest to see the pretty lights." ~ ❖ ~ The descent into the city was a journey through a dying memory. Loc Iucha was designed for silence and contemplation. The streets were paved with smooth slate that absorbed the sound of footsteps. The buildings were grown from the rock itself, shaped by the magic of the deep earth into flowing, organic curves. There were no sharp angles here, no harsh lines. But the silence was gone. As Ael reached the Lower District, the noise hit her. It was a cacophony of shouting, the clang of iron on iron, and the heavy, terrified lowing of oxen—beasts the humans had brought with them, stinking creatures that fouled the streets. Human merchants had set up stalls in the Plaza of Whispers, a sacred space meant for meditation. Now, it smelled of roasting meat and unwashed bodies. Ael moved through the crowd like a shark parting a school of fish. She didn't shove, but she didn't yield, either. Her stride was predatory, her hand resting casually on the hilt of her dagger. "Iron! Cold iron! Good for the beasts!" a human monger shouted, waving a rusted sword in the air. He was red-faced and sweating, his tunic stained with grease. Ael paused. She looked at the sword. It was crude, mass-produced, the metal pitted and uneven. But it was iron. And to the Fae, to the elves, iron was poison. The sheer amount of it the humans brought into the city made her skin itch. "You shouldn't hawk that here," she said, her voice cutting through the din. The merchant blinked, looking down at her. He saw the pointed ears, the sharp, angular features, the dangerous stillness of her posture. He swallowed. "Just... just trade, m'lady. Good steel against the monsters, eh?" "The monsters don't come inside the walls," Ael said softly. "Only the guests do." She held his gaze until he looked away, muttering and lowering the sword. Ael pushed on, her heart hammering a slow, angry rhythm against her ribs. It wasn't just the iron. It was the disrespect. The humans looked at the elves with a mixture of awe and resentment. They coveted the immortality, the beauty, the magic. They didn't understand that the elves were a dying race even before the ships arrived. The elves reproduced slowly; their time was fading. The humans bred like rabbits and died like flies, frantic to make their mark on the world before they rotted. It was that desperation that scared her. ~ ❖ ~ She reached the gates of the Academy of the Knowers. Here, at least, the noise of the market faded. The Academy was a sanctuary, a complex of soaring towers and walled gardens where the Sages studied the mysteries of the cosmos. Or, Ael thought bitterly, where they sold those mysteries for the promise of a truce. Two Palace Guards stood at the gate, their silver armor gleaming. They nodded to her as she approached. "Guardian Ael," one said formally. "Your sister is in the Sunken Garden." "Is she alone?" Ael asked, though she knew the answer. "The human student is with her," the guard replied. He hesitated, then lowered his voice. "The air feels... heavy in there today, Guardian. The boy is attempting a Drawing." Ael felt a spike of cold dread. A Drawing. The act of pulling raw Chaos from the elements. It took elven adepts decades to prepare their minds for the strain. The Sages were letting a human try it after a few months? "Step aside," Ael said. She didn't wait for them to open the gate. She slipped through the side postern, moving quickly now. The peaceful crunch of gravel under her boots felt too loud. The Sunken Garden was a bowl of greenery carved into the heart of the Academy grounds. Weeping willows draped their branches over pools of crystal-clear water, and ancient ferns curled in the shade of the high walls. It was a place where the magic of the earth was thick, a natural nexus of power. Ael stopped at the top of the stairs leading down into the garden. The air tasted metallic. Static electricity danced across her skin, raising the fine hairs on her arms. It wasn't the harmonious hum of elven magic, which felt like sunlight or flowing water. This felt like pressure. It felt like a dam about to burst. Down in the center of the garden, sitting on a flat stone, was Eleri. Ael's breath caught. Her sister looked ethereal, dressed in robes of pale blue silk that seemed to float around her. Her golden hair was loose, catching the dappled light filtering through the leaves. She was smiling, her hands raised, guiding the invisible flows of energy. And sitting opposite her, cross-legged in the grass, was the boy. Vakor. He looked nothing like a mage. He looked like a beggar who had stolen a scholar's robes. He was thin, his face gaunt and pale, his dark hair matted with sweat. He was trembling violently. His hands were clawed into the knees of his trousers, his knuckles white. "Breathe, Vakor," Eleri's voice drifted up to Ael, soft and commanding. "Do not pull. Open. Let the fire come to you. If you pull, you will break the vessel." "It burns," Vakor gasped. His voice was a wet, ragged sound. "Lady... it burns." "That is the impurities leaving your spirit," Eleri soothed. "Focus on the heat. Not the pain." Ael descended the stairs, her hand gripping the hilt of her dagger so hard her fingers went numb. She could see the air shimmering around Vakor's head. He wasn't just drawing heat; he was boiling the air. The grass around him was turning brown, curling and dying in real-time. He wasn't a vessel. He was a leak. "Eleri," Ael said. She didn't shout, but her voice carried the sharp snap of a command. The concentration broke. Vakor gasped, his eyes snapping open. They were black, the pupils blown wide, swallowing the iris. For a second, Ael didn't see a boy. She saw a void. The	The First Thorn The sky above Loc Iucha was the wrong color. It had been fifteen years since the Conjunction, since the spheres collided and tore the fabric of reality, yet Ael still couldn't get used to the twilight. It wasn't the soft, violet dusk of the Elder days. It was a bruised, sickly yellow that hung over the horizon like a stain, smelling faintly of sulfur and wet ash. Ael stood on the western battlements of the White Spire, her hands resting on the cold marble of the crenellations. The wind up here was biting, cutting through the layers of her wool tunic and the hardened leather of her cuirass. She didn't shiver. A Ranger learned early that shivering was a waste of energy, and energy was the only currency that mattered in the wilds. "They're cutting again," she said, her voice barely rising above the whistle of the wind. Torin, leaning against the stonework a few feet away, didn't look up from the arrow he was fletching. "Where?" "The Western Ridge. Near the old shrines." Ael gestured with her chin toward the coastline, miles below their vantage point. From this height, the elven city of Loc Iucha was a breathtaking masterpiece of white stone and living wood, spiraling down the cliffs to the azure waters of the bay. But Ael wasn't looking at the spires or the hanging gardens. She was looking past the city, to the dark scar of the forest edge, and beyond that, to the crude, sprawling shantytown that had erupted along the docks. Thick, oily smoke curled up from the human settlement, blotting out the clean line of the ocean. "They need timber for the pallisades," Torin said, his voice mild. He scraped the spine of a goose feather with his knife, the sound rasping and rhythmic. "The winter is coming, Ael. And the humans feel the cold more than we do." "They don't take fallen wood," Ael muttered, her eyes tracing the movement of the tiny, ant-like figures in the distance. "They fell living oaks. They strip the bark and burn the rest. They treat the forest like an enemy to be conquered." "To them, it is an enemy," Torin replied. He finally looked up, his eyes pale and tired. He was older than Ael by a century, a veteran of the border wars before the Conjunction changed everything. He had seen the world when it was quiet, and the noise of the new era seemed to wear on him physically. "Last week, a patrol found a family of settlers near the delta. A foglet had gotten into their cabin. It wasn't... clean." Ael tightened her grip on the stone railing until her leather gloves creaked. "If they stayed on their ships, the foglets wouldn't find them." "The ships are rotting, Ael. You know that. They can't go back. There is no 'back' to go to." Ael looked down at the harbor. The famous White Ships—the vessels that had carried the first waves of humans across the void during the Cataclysm—were still there, moored in the deep water. But Torin was right. Their hulls were grey with barnacles, their sails tattered. The humans were stranded here, just as the ghouls and gryphons were. The difference was that the gryphons didn't pretend to be friends while they ate you. "I don't mind that they are here, Torin," Ael lied. "I mind that the Sages invite them inside the walls." She turned away from the view, the sight of the smoke leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. She adjusted the heavy strap of her quiver across her chest. Her armor was distinct among the pristine silver and white of the city guard. It was dyed a deep, mottled green, scuffed from crawling through underbrush and reinforced with boiled hide at the joints. She wore the forest on her skin. Here, amidst the polished marble, she looked like a stain. "You're going to the Academy?" Torin asked, sheathing his knife. "Eleri has a lesson," Ael said shortly. "With the boy? The... what is his name? Vakor?" "The Subject," Ael corrected. "I don't name things I might have to kill." Torin sighed, shaking his head. "You tread a dangerous line, Ael. The Aen Saevherne—the Sages—they believe this is the path to peace. Sharing knowledge. If the humans can control the Power, they won't be a threat." "If you give a monkey a torch," Ael said, stepping toward the spiral stairs, "it doesn't become a master of fire. It just burns down the forest to see the pretty lights." ~ ❖ ~ The descent into the city was a journey through a dying memory. Loc Iucha was designed for silence and contemplation. The streets were paved with smooth slate that absorbed the sound of footsteps. The buildings were grown from the rock itself, shaped by the magic of the deep earth into flowing, organic curves. There were no sharp angles here, no harsh lines. But the silence was gone. As Ael reached the Lower District, the noise hit her. It was a cacophony of shouting, the clang of iron on iron, and the heavy, terrified lowing of oxen—beasts the humans had brought with them, stinking creatures that fouled the streets. Human merchants had set up stalls in the Plaza of Whispers, a sacred space meant for meditation. Now, it smelled of roasting meat and unwashed bodies. Ael moved through the crowd like a shark parting a school of fish. She didn't shove, but she didn't yield, either. Her stride was predatory, her hand resting casually on the hilt of her dagger. "Iron! Cold iron! Good for the beasts!" a human monger shouted, waving a rusted sword in the air. He was red-faced and sweating, his tunic stained with grease. Ael paused. She looked at the sword. It was crude, mass-produced, the metal pitted and uneven. But it was iron. And to the Fae, to the elves, iron was poison. The sheer amount of it the humans brought into the city made her skin itch. "You shouldn't hawk that here," she said, her voice cutting through the din. The merchant blinked, looking down at her. He saw the pointed ears, the sharp, angular features, the dangerous stillness of her posture. He swallowed. "Just... just trade, m'lady. Good steel against the monsters, eh?" "The monsters don't come inside the walls," Ael said softly. "Only the guests do." She held his gaze until he looked away, muttering and lowering the sword. Ael pushed on, her heart hammering a slow, angry rhythm against her ribs. It wasn't just the iron. It was the disrespect. The humans looked at the elves with a mixture of awe and resentment. They coveted the immortality, the beauty, the magic. They didn't understand that the elves were a dying race even before the ships arrived. The elves reproduced slowly; their time was fading. The humans bred like rabbits and died like flies, frantic to make their mark on the world before they rotted. It was that desperation that scared her. ~ ❖ ~ She reached the gates of the Academy of the Knowers. Here, at least, the noise of the market faded. The Academy was a sanctuary, a complex of soaring towers and walled gardens where the Sages studied the mysteries of the cosmos. Or, Ael thought bitterly, where they sold those mysteries for the promise of a truce. Two Palace Guards stood at the gate, their silver armor gleaming. They nodded to her as she approached. "Guardian Ael," one said formally. "Your sister is in the Sunken Garden." "Is she alone?" Ael asked, though she knew the answer. "The human student is with her," the guard replied. He hesitated, then lowered his voice. "The air feels... heavy in there today, Guardian. The boy is attempting a Drawing." Ael felt a spike of cold dread. A Drawing. The act of pulling raw Chaos from the elements. It took elven adepts decades to prepare their minds for the strain. The Sages were letting a human try it after a few months? "Step aside," Ael said. She didn't wait for them to open the gate. She slipped through the side postern, moving quickly now. The peaceful crunch of gravel under her boots felt too loud. The Sunken Garden was a bowl of greenery carved into the heart of the Academy grounds. Weeping willows draped their branches over pools of crystal-clear water, and ancient ferns curled in the shade of the high walls. It was a place where the magic of the earth was thick, a natural nexus of power. Ael stopped at the top of the stairs leading down into the garden. The air tasted metallic. Static electricity danced across her skin, raising the fine hairs on her arms. It wasn't the harmonious hum of elven magic, which felt like sunlight or flowing water. This felt like pressure. It felt like a dam about to burst. Down in the center of the garden, sitting on a flat stone, was Eleri. Ael's breath caught. Her sister looked ethereal, dressed in robes of pale blue silk that seemed to float around her. Her golden hair was loose, catching the dappled light filtering through the leaves. She was smiling, her hands raised, guiding the invisible flows of energy. And sitting opposite her, cross-legged in the grass, was the boy. Vakor. He looked nothing like a mage. He looked like a beggar who had stolen a scholar's robes. He was thin, his face gaunt and pale, his dark hair matted with sweat. He was trembling violently. His hands were clawed into the knees of his trousers, his knuckles white. "Breathe, Vakor," Eleri's voice drifted up to Ael, soft and commanding. "Do not pull. Open. Let the fire come to you. If you pull, you will break the vessel." "It burns," Vakor gasped. His voice was a wet, ragged sound. "Lady... it burns." "That is the impurities leaving your spirit," Eleri soothed. "Focus on the heat. Not the pain." Ael descended the stairs, her hand gripping the hilt of her dagger so hard her fingers went numb. She could see the air shimmering around Vakor's head. He wasn't just drawing heat; he was boiling the air. The grass around him was turning brown, curling and dying in real-time. He wasn't a vessel. He was a leak. "Eleri," Ael said. She didn't shout, but her voice carried the sharp snap of a command. The concentration broke. Vakor gasped, his eyes snapping open. They were black, the pupils blown wide, swallowing the iris. For a second, Ael didn't see a boy. She saw a void. The shimmering heat collapsed. Vakor slumped forward, retching into the grass. Eleri stood up gracefully, though Ael noticed the slight tremor in her hands. She turned, her expression a mix of relief and annoyance. "Ael," she sighed. "You have terrible timing. We were just stabilizing the flow." "You were cooking him," Ael said, reaching the bottom of the stairs. She ignored the heaving boy and walked straight to her sister. "Look at the grass, Eleri. He's leaching life, not channeling elements. He's a parasite." "He is learning!" Eleri argued, stepping between Ael and the student. "He has more raw potential than any novice I have ever seen. The Sages say—" "The Sages sit in their towers and look at stars," Ael snapped. "They don't stand on the walls and watch the smoke. This boy is dangerous." She looked over Eleri's shoulder at Vakor. He was wiping bile from his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked up at her, and Ael was struck by the raw, naked terror in his face. He wasn't arrogant. Not yet. He was terrified of the power inside him, and that made him infinitely more dangerous. "I... I am sorry, Guardian," Vakor whispered, his voice trembling. "I tried to hold it." "That is the problem," Ael said coldly. "You are trying to hold a storm in a paper cup." Eleri dismissed the boy with a wave of her hand. Vakor scrambled to his feet, bowing too many times—a frantic, jerky motion that made him look like a puppet on tangled strings—before hurrying up the stone steps toward the library. He didn't look back. ~ ❖ ~ When the heavy oak door Clanged shut behind him, the silence rushed back into the Sunken Garden, heavy and humid. Ael let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She unbuckled her sword belt, letting the heavy leather slide from her hip, and sat heavily on the rim of the stone fountain. The adrenaline of the confrontation was fading, leaving behind a dull ache in her shoulders. "You frightened him," Eleri said softly. She didn't sound angry, just tired. She moved to the fountain and dipped her hands into the water, washing the sweat and static charge from her skin. The water rippled, glowing faintly as it neutralized the residual magic clinging to her fingers. "Good," Ael said, leaning back and closing her eyes. "Fear makes you cautious. Caution keeps you alive. He needs more fear, El, and less ambition." "He is a child, Ael." "He is nineteen. In human years, that is a man grown. He is old enough to kill." Eleri dried her hands on her silk skirts—a gesture that would have horrified the High Matrons of the court—and sat beside her sister. She smelled of ozone and crushed lilies. "He is an orphan," Eleri said, her voice dropping to a murmur. "His parents died on the crossing. The void-sickness took them. He watched them turn inside out, Ael. He is terrified of the dark. That is why he reaches so desperately for the fire." Ael opened one eye. "Everyone has a sad story. The nekkers in the swamp probably have sad stories, too. I still put arrows in them when they try to eat me." Eleri laughed. It was a bright, shocking sound in the gloom of the garden, like a silver coin dropping onto pavement. She reached out and tugged gently on the long, thick braid that hung over Ael's shoulder. "You are so hard," Eleri teased. "Like an old root. When was the last time you unbraided this? It's starting to mat." Ael swatted her hand away, but without heat. "It keeps it out of my eyes. If I look like a court lady, I catch my hair in the bowstring." "Turn around," Eleri commanded, shifting on the stone bench. "If you go to the precipice looking like a wild thing, the Sages will think I am neglecting my duties." Ael hesitated, then sighed and turned her back. It was an old ritual, one of the few things that hadn't changed since the ships arrived. She felt Eleri's deft, cool fingers working the leather thong loose, then unpicking the tight, warrior's plait. As her hair fell loose, cascading down her back in a dark, heavy curtain, Ael felt the tension in her neck begin to dissolve. For a moment, she wasn't Guardian Ael, the killer of monsters. She was just the older sister. "Why do you do it, El?" Ael asked quietly, staring at the reflection of the willow trees in the water. "Why do you teach them? The other Sages... they do it for politics. They think if they give the humans magic, the humans will respect us. But you... you actually care." Eleri's fingers paused, resting on Ael's scalp. "Do you remember the deer we found last winter?" Eleri asked. "The one trapped in the ice?" "The buck," Ael nodded. "I wanted to shoot it. Put it out of its misery." "And I made you pull it out," Eleri said. "It kicked you. Broke two of your ribs." "I remember," Ael grunted. "Ungrateful beast." "But it lived," Eleri whispered. She resumed combing her fingers through Ael's hair, starting to re-weave it, but looser this time. A softer style. "The humans are trapped in the ice, Ael. They are flailing. They are hurting themselves and everything around them because they are cold and frightened. If we leave them, they will freeze, or they will break the world trying to get free. I have to believe that if I show them the warm path... they will stop kicking." Ael closed her eyes. It was a beautiful thought. It was the kind of thought that only Eleri could have—pure, untainted by the blood and mud of the borderlands. "You think they can be saved," Ael said. "I think they must be saved," Eleri corrected. "Because if they aren't, they will take us down with them." She tied off the braid with a strip of blue silk from her own sleeve. "There. Now you look less like a goblin." Ael reached up, touching the silk. It was soft. "I prefer goblin." Eleri rested her chin on Ael's shoulder, wrapping her arms around her from behind. It was a rare moment of physical closeness. Elves were not a touchy people, but Eleri had never cared for propriety. "Promise me you'll come tomorrow," Eleri whispered into her ear. Ael stiffened. "Tomorrow?" "The Binding Ceremony. Vakor is ready. The Sages have authorized the full transfer. He's going to light the Eternal Brazier using only his own conduit. No crystals." Ael felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. "That is... ambitious. Even for a Sage." "He can do it," Eleri said, squeezing Ael tight. "I've trained him. He's ready. But I need you there. The Sages are cold. Vakor needs to see that... that we aren't all stone statues. He respects you, you know. He's terrified of you, but he respects you." Ael turned in her sister's arms, looking into Eleri's wide, blue eyes. They were so bright. So full of a future that Ael couldn't see. "I will come," Ael promised. It felt like sealing a contract. "But I will bring my bow." Eleri rolled her eyes, standing up and smoothing her skirts. "Bring your bow, you savage. Just don't shoot my student." "Only if he starts smoking," Ael muttered. Eleri laughed again, turning toward the stairs. "I have to prepare the oils for the ritual. Go eat, Ael. You look thin. And wash your face. You have mud on your cheek." Ael watched her sister ascend the stairs, light and airy as a dandelion seed. Eleri paused at the top, framed by the white stone archway. "Ael?" she called down. "Yes?" "The world is changing," Eleri said, her smile fading slightly, replaced by a look of fierce, quiet determination. "We have to change with it. Or we really will be nothing but thorns." She turned and vanished into the Academy. Ael sat by the fountain for a long time as the sun set, turning the white stone of the city to blood-red and gold. She reached up and touched the blue silk in her hair. "I am a thorn," she whispered to the empty garden. "And thorns are the only thing that survive the winter." She stood up, grabbed her sword belt, and marched toward the barracks. She would go to the ceremony. She would watch. And she would pray to whatever gods were listening that her sister was right, and that she was wrong. But in her gut, the cold iron weight of dread remained.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75704481	{"authors": ["Morrigan5"], "language": "English", "title": "The First Thorn"}
And you might be? Agnes Tachyon opens the infirmary door with the idea that Jungle Pocket got sick with one of her new concoctions she took earlier that day. Pocket ran away gagging and her not returning to the makeshift laboratory to complain about it, actually made Tachyon worry if she killed her by accident. Pocket not blasting her ears off felt..odd, she needed to know about the side effects and if her dear Bucket was ok after all~ “ My dear guinea pig, are you here?~ I must've miscalculated the portions. With this NEW serum it'll get you right back on your feet! With the added bonus of boosting your energy for a full 24hrs~” Tachyon swirled around the flask making the liquid begin emanating unnatural green lights. She scanned the room that was “empty”, be it for one particular bed being occupied having its curtains drawn, Tachyon smiled knowing “Pocket” was there, she could already hear the cat fight in her head, how predictable it really was~ She skipped her way to the occupied bed, grabbing the curtain until something hit her, the shadow looked different, it was a bit taller than usual, did the experiment somehow make her grow? Surely she will write this down at the speed of light! This was an insane development! Her tail wagged at the thought and her smile grew bigger. “Oh my~ seems you've changed?-” “ ugh can you shut up?” A voice growled from inside, the shadow stood up opening the curtain with such anger “ You talk too much, has anyone told you that??” The uma winced in pain grabbing her head. Red eyes met red eyes and a massive wave of confusion hit Tachyon, who is this? She has seen her before, maybe some races she researched ? but she's seen so many, how dare she forget every uma she has observed ! Tachyon backed away, shrugging “ Oh my~ you aren't who I'm looking for but by the looks of it” she paused and looked closely, "you seemed to be going through a migraine?” her eyes dart at the flask, with her quick thinking,she could probably get some good use out of this, see if it actually works. “ Care to partake in an experiment ?” The uma in question being Sirius Symboli looked at her and didn't react at all with the flask being pushed to her face. “ Who are you exactly?” Sirius looked at her confused. “ Same goes to you” Tachyon tried matching her energy but looked like an idiot in doing so, Sirius scoffs “ I travel way too much to know everyone here and I ain't drinking whatever that is” she closes the curtain and goes back to bed “ if you are gonna keep monologuing can you turn it down a bit? Thanks” Tachyon stood there with an idiotic smile, her heart skipped a beat, her tail wagging like a dog and her hand held to that flask as if she could break it at any given moment. She knew her type oh too well…she could walk away and ignore her but damn it, did she like the challenge to obtain a new guinea pig. Walking slowly “ name's Agnes Tachyon, I dedicate my time to researching the highest abilities an uma can achieve. Even putting my own body at risk to just feel what we're capable of. If you are ever oh so curious in my experiments, you're more than welcome to come by at my lab~ Truly it won't disappoint you” With that she finally leaves the room making sure she heard every single word of the “monologue” Sirius lets out a laugh once the door closes. —---------------- A few days passed since that encounter at the infirmary. Tachyon for some odd reason couldn't stop thinking about her. For the first time she seemed to have gained an interest outside of research( blasphemous I know). Manhattan notices the odd behavior, how Tachyon would start researching for very specific old uma races. She thought nothing of it at first until she caught Tachyon's eyes lighting up the moment she spotted someone in specific. At that moment Jungle Pocket enters the lab yawning her head off, throwing herself on the couch making Manhattan almost spill her coffee. “Soooo what y’all up to?” Manhattan side eyes her “ Nothing much, Tachyon is researching as usual” ”hmm seems normal” Pocket slouches scratching her head, she felt a bit annoyed that Tachyon hasn’t really acknowledged her arrival. ”Yo Tachyon!” She shouts but no response. Maybe she didn’t hear her because of how loud the speakers were with all the commentary and the reporter shouting “Sirius Symboli is in the lead!!” The lab felt foreign nowadays as if something got added where it didn’t belong, Pocket thought. Tachyon wasn’t one to not have a motive behind her research, there was always a catch, yeah this time around it felt intimate, it felt as if Tachyon came across someone special and it not being Pocket irked her. Sighing she stood up and went straight to her “Helloooo is anyone hereeee?” She grabs the back of the office chair and shakes it a bit, only then did Tachyon finally react, throwing her head back staring at Pocket’s annoyed face. “Bucket-kun~ my apologies! Clearly you caught me at a bad time here. I was about to rewind the video and analyze it once more, see what we can use from this” “What are you even looking at anyways?” Pocket leans forward noticing it’s the- “Ah you see I stumbled across this uma a few days ago, quite an interesting person, I wonder what type of results she'll give~” Pocket slowly lost track of what Tachyon was saying once she noticed the race that was on display. “The Japanese Derby” “Precisely! Isn't she amazing?? Bucket-kun I must meet her again! And know all her secrets~” Tachyon laughs away sliding her chair to the other side of the room that allowed it from all the mess. Pocket felt her heart tightening, she forced a smile " yeah I agree, she is pretty amazing" she looked at Sirius who was front and center on the screen reaching the finish line,muttering under heat breath "pretty amazing indeed" —---------------- 3 weeks passed and that uma never showed up one bit. Tachyon figured if she wanted that guinea pig she had to get it herself. Seeing her racing wasn't enough and seeing her pictures wasn't enough either. Breaking out of character she went in search of Sirius Symboli. This situation was quite peculiar, knowing she won't have that same luck again in the infirmary. Wondering where else could Sirius be? Thankfully she overheard some students witnessing some bickering between Rudolf and her close to the student council's office. Maybe a little trip wouldn’t hurt her if it meant seeing her again. Once there her eyes locked straight at the wooden door, her mind had a billion scenarios if she truly was here.Though it didn't take long for someone to walk up behind her. Having had planned to burst inside the office just like in the infirmary, that idea got shut down real quick. “ you won't find Rudolf there today she's…wait it's you” Perfect timing Tachyon would try to say her greetings but Sirius was fast on her feet, from the corner of her eye she saw her hand press firmly on the wooden door. Turning around she flinched at how close Sirius’ face was, any wrong movement would cause this situation to take a whole unexpected turn. She wanted to compose herself but there was no use, her tail gave her out, she was way too excited and Sirius didn't help either looking straight at her, as if she was reading all of her thoughts. “My~ you're gonna burn holes into my skull if you keep at it” Tachyon breaks the tension laughing like an idiot. ”Agnes Tachyon right?” ”Yes that is me, how proper of you to remember~” Sirius chuckles, “How could I ever forget the nonsense you spewed that day?” She leaned further to take a closer look at her, making Tachyon press her back on the office’s door, her eyebrows twitching, she felt tiny for once, she couldn’t even breathe. She didn't hate it. “Say what brings you here?” “ I came here as you owe me a visit” Tachyon stood there with her head held high, grinning “ You've kept me waiting Siri-kun” She managed to make her back away, finally giving her room to breathe. Sirius, confused , tries to speak but nothing comes out, wondering when she ever agreed to anything. She wasn't one to break promises but she'd remember right away if there was one. Then her ears perked, whatever crossed her mind surely was a marvelous idea. Her eyes becoming fierce, stepping forward, she quickly grabbed Tachyon's chin forcing her eyes to finally meet instead of dancing all around. “I never agreed to visit you BUT If you really want me to go there,how about we settle this with a race?” There's nothing wrong with a little teasing, Sirius thought. Tachyon didn’t say anything, just looked at her stunned, her mind going completely blank. Before Sirius could continue ”Sirius, what are you doing?” Sirius' face turned sour the moment she heard the Emperor's voice. With a deep sigh she let go of Tachyon, tracing her chin discreetly as to not just let go abruptly. “ We were having a simple conversation nothing much” ”I see” Rudolf clearly playing along, looks at Tachyon who seems to be traveling through space and time. “ Tachyon do you need anything? If you came here to talk we can rearrange a proper meeting for another date” Tachyon snaps back to reality looking first at Sirius and then at Rudolf. Not being able to contain herself she bursts out cackling as she walks away from the awkward situation, waving her sleeves in the air “ No! not at all~ I already got what I came here for, see you then Siri-kun you owe me a race now” Sirius not expecting that reaction at all accidentally becomes flustered, her ears falling flat and a hand to cover her burning face. Rudolf's eyes landed strictly on Sirius, seeing a blush that wasn't caused by her was interesting to say the least. Both Rudolf and Sirius stayed there looking at Tachyon until she disappeared in the distance, for a brief moment there was silence, just not the kind you want to be when you get caught doing something you shouldn't. “The office's door is off limits” “My bad I'll use your desk next time” Sirius rolls her eyes and steps inside.	And you might be? Agnes Tachyon opens the infirmary door with the idea that Jungle Pocket got sick with one of her new concoctions she took earlier that day. Pocket ran away gagging and her not returning to the makeshift laboratory to complain about it, actually made Tachyon worry if she killed her by accident. Pocket not blasting her ears off felt..odd, she needed to know about the side effects and if her dear Bucket was ok after all~ “ My dear guinea pig, are you here?~ I must've miscalculated the portions. With this NEW serum it'll get you right back on your feet! With the added bonus of boosting your energy for a full 24hrs~” Tachyon swirled around the flask making the liquid begin emanating unnatural green lights. She scanned the room that was “empty”, be it for one particular bed being occupied having its curtains drawn, Tachyon smiled knowing “Pocket” was there, she could already hear the cat fight in her head, how predictable it really was~ She skipped her way to the occupied bed, grabbing the curtain until something hit her, the shadow looked different, it was a bit taller than usual, did the experiment somehow make her grow? Surely she will write this down at the speed of light! This was an insane development! Her tail wagged at the thought and her smile grew bigger. “Oh my~ seems you've changed?-” “ ugh can you shut up?” A voice growled from inside, the shadow stood up opening the curtain with such anger “ You talk too much, has anyone told you that??” The uma winced in pain grabbing her head. Red eyes met red eyes and a massive wave of confusion hit Tachyon, who is this? She has seen her before, maybe some races she researched ? but she's seen so many, how dare she forget every uma she has observed ! Tachyon backed away, shrugging “ Oh my~ you aren't who I'm looking for but by the looks of it” she paused and looked closely, "you seemed to be going through a migraine?” her eyes dart at the flask, with her quick thinking,she could probably get some good use out of this, see if it actually works. “ Care to partake in an experiment ?” The uma in question being Sirius Symboli looked at her and didn't react at all with the flask being pushed to her face. “ Who are you exactly?” Sirius looked at her confused. “ Same goes to you” Tachyon tried matching her energy but looked like an idiot in doing so, Sirius scoffs “ I travel way too much to know everyone here and I ain't drinking whatever that is” she closes the curtain and goes back to bed “ if you are gonna keep monologuing can you turn it down a bit? Thanks” Tachyon stood there with an idiotic smile, her heart skipped a beat, her tail wagging like a dog and her hand held to that flask as if she could break it at any given moment. She knew her type oh too well…she could walk away and ignore her but damn it, did she like the challenge to obtain a new guinea pig. Walking slowly “ name's Agnes Tachyon, I dedicate my time to researching the highest abilities an uma can achieve. Even putting my own body at risk to just feel what we're capable of. If you are ever oh so curious in my experiments, you're more than welcome to come by at my lab~ Truly it won't disappoint you” With that she finally leaves the room making sure she heard every single word of the “monologue” Sirius lets out a laugh once the door closes. —---------------- A few days passed since that encounter at the infirmary. Tachyon for some odd reason couldn't stop thinking about her. For the first time she seemed to have gained an interest outside of research( blasphemous I know). Manhattan notices the odd behavior, how Tachyon would start researching for very specific old uma races. She thought nothing of it at first until she caught Tachyon's eyes lighting up the moment she spotted someone in specific. At that moment Jungle Pocket enters the lab yawning her head off, throwing herself on the couch making Manhattan almost spill her coffee. “Soooo what y’all up to?” Manhattan side eyes her “ Nothing much, Tachyon is researching as usual” ”hmm seems normal” Pocket slouches scratching her head, she felt a bit annoyed that Tachyon hasn’t really acknowledged her arrival. ”Yo Tachyon!” She shouts but no response. Maybe she didn’t hear her because of how loud the speakers were with all the commentary and the reporter shouting “Sirius Symboli is in the lead!!” The lab felt foreign nowadays as if something got added where it didn’t belong, Pocket thought. Tachyon wasn’t one to not have a motive behind her research, there was always a catch, yeah this time around it felt intimate, it felt as if Tachyon came across someone special and it not being Pocket irked her. Sighing she stood up and went straight to her “Helloooo is anyone hereeee?” She grabs the back of the office chair and shakes it a bit, only then did Tachyon finally react, throwing her head back staring at Pocket’s annoyed face. “Bucket-kun~ my apologies! Clearly you caught me at a bad time here. I was about to rewind the video and analyze it once more, see what we can use from this” “What are you even looking at anyways?” Pocket leans forward noticing it’s the- “Ah you see I stumbled across this uma a few days ago, quite an interesting person, I wonder what type of results she'll give~” Pocket slowly lost track of what Tachyon was saying once she noticed the race that was on display. “The Japanese Derby” “Precisely! Isn't she amazing?? Bucket-kun I must meet her again! And know all her secrets~” Tachyon laughs away sliding her chair to the other side of the room that allowed it from all the mess. Pocket felt her heart tightening, she forced a smile " yeah I agree, she is pretty amazing" she looked at Sirius who was front and center on the screen reaching the finish line,muttering under heat breath "pretty amazing indeed" —---------------- 3 weeks passed and that uma never showed up one bit. Tachyon figured if she wanted that guinea pig she had to get it herself. Seeing her racing wasn't enough and seeing her pictures wasn't enough either. Breaking out of character she went in search of Sirius Symboli. This situation was quite peculiar, knowing she won't have that same luck again in the infirmary. Wondering where else could Sirius be? Thankfully she overheard some students witnessing some bickering between Rudolf and her close to the student council's office. Maybe a little trip wouldn’t hurt her if it meant seeing her again. Once there her eyes locked straight at the wooden door, her mind had a billion scenarios if she truly was here.Though it didn't take long for someone to walk up behind her. Having had planned to burst inside the office just like in the infirmary, that idea got shut down real quick. “ you won't find Rudolf there today she's…wait it's you” Perfect timing Tachyon would try to say her greetings but Sirius was fast on her feet, from the corner of her eye she saw her hand press firmly on the wooden door. Turning around she flinched at how close Sirius’ face was, any wrong movement would cause this situation to take a whole unexpected turn. She wanted to compose herself but there was no use, her tail gave her out, she was way too excited and Sirius didn't help either looking straight at her, as if she was reading all of her thoughts. “My~ you're gonna burn holes into my skull if you keep at it” Tachyon breaks the tension laughing like an idiot. ”Agnes Tachyon right?” ”Yes that is me, how proper of you to remember~” Sirius chuckles, “How could I ever forget the nonsense you spewed that day?” She leaned further to take a closer look at her, making Tachyon press her back on the office’s door, her eyebrows twitching, she felt tiny for once, she couldn’t even breathe. She didn't hate it. “Say what brings you here?” “ I came here as you owe me a visit” Tachyon stood there with her head held high, grinning “ You've kept me waiting Siri-kun” She managed to make her back away, finally giving her room to breathe. Sirius, confused , tries to speak but nothing comes out, wondering when she ever agreed to anything. She wasn't one to break promises but she'd remember right away if there was one. Then her ears perked, whatever crossed her mind surely was a marvelous idea. Her eyes becoming fierce, stepping forward, she quickly grabbed Tachyon's chin forcing her eyes to finally meet instead of dancing all around. “I never agreed to visit you BUT If you really want me to go there,how about we settle this with a race?” There's nothing wrong with a little teasing, Sirius thought. Tachyon didn’t say anything, just looked at her stunned, her mind going completely blank. Before Sirius could continue ”Sirius, what are you doing?” Sirius' face turned sour the moment she heard the Emperor's voice. With a deep sigh she let go of Tachyon, tracing her chin discreetly as to not just let go abruptly. “ We were having a simple conversation nothing much” ”I see” Rudolf clearly playing along, looks at Tachyon who seems to be traveling through space and time. “ Tachyon do you need anything? If you came here to talk we can rearrange a proper meeting for another date” Tachyon snaps back to reality looking first at Sirius and then at Rudolf. Not being able to contain herself she bursts out cackling as she walks away from the awkward situation, waving her sleeves in the air “ No! not at all~ I already got what I came here for, see you then Siri-kun you owe me a race now” Sirius not expecting that reaction at all accidentally becomes flustered, her ears falling flat and a hand to cover her burning face. Rudolf's eyes landed strictly on Sirius, seeing a blush that wasn't caused by her was interesting to say the least. Both Rudolf and Sirius stayed there looking at Tachyon until she disappeared in the distance, for a brief moment there was silence, just not the kind you want to be when you get caught doing something you shouldn't. “The office's door is off limits” “My bad I'll use your desk next time” Sirius rolls her eyes and steps inside. —------------------------- Later that day The makeshift laboratory was in utter chaos, there were papers flying all around, loud cackling resonated from the mad scientist as she couldn't really process what just happened. She had to write everything down asap! Luckily Manhattan and the rest were out eating at a local restaurant, they did try to invite her but Tachyon kept on saying she wasn't hungry and pouring a mountain of sugar cubes to her tea. All while trying to hide the massive blush invading her face. She kept on tracing her chin, trying to reenact over and over her warmth, which resulted in nothing as her fingers were sooo cold. Feeling annoyed by her body's temperature, thinking maybe she should create a body heat regulator serum for such occasions. She never knew she was capable of feeling this way. She just had to see Sirius again, forget the guinea pig mission, now her new objective was to get as close as possible to the burning star.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75704506	{"authors": ["Rabbitsbeingrabbits"], "language": "English", "title": "And you might be?"}
Always Surprised By What I Do For Love Nick was a little more than nervous when his mum pulled up to the Daffodil Clinic and put the car in park. Nick was staring at the building, trying to squash down the sudden influx of nervous energy he was feeling. The building looked far more scary then it had any right to be, he’d been in there before, he knew what was waiting on the other side this time. It was just Charlie, his Charlie, everything would be fine. But everything wasn’t fine and this was the first time Nick would be seeing Charlie alone and he still wasn’t better better yet. Things were still so up in the air and unsure and what if him being there didn’t help - “It’s alright, Nicky,” his mum said, reaching out to touch his arm and breaking through the panic. “Do you want me to come in with you?” A part of him really wanted to say yes, partly because she hadn’t seen Charlie in weeks but at the same time, he was so worried about overwhelming Charlie with a surprise person. He felt lucky when Charlie had finally agreed to let him visit along with his family, he didn’t want to put any of that at risk. “It’s okay,” he said, his voice feeling rather small and childish. “Thank you for dropping me off.” “Of course darling,” she said softly, he turned to look at her, the simple smile on her face providing so much comfort. “Tell Charlie I said hello and I’ll text you when I’ve come back.” Nodding Nick tried to give her the best reassuring smile he could, but knew from the look on her face, he failed at it. But she didn’t stop him from getting out of the car and readying himself to walk into the building. Walking in, he kept his head up and tried to act like he wasn’t about to burst into tears. Charlie wasn’t waiting for him at the reception desk like he sometimes was when Nick came with his family. He was hoping he’d be there, but instead Nick went to the desk, smiling at the receptionist. It was one he didn’t recognize, which made his stomach lurch even more uncomfortably. Had he really been here so much that he expected to see a receptionist he knew? Would Charlie be here long enough that Nick would know all of the staff? “Hi,” he said, swallowing down his anxiety, taking up the pen and scribbling his name on the sign in sheet, as he’d done before. “I’m here to visit Charlie Spring, room 67.” “Oh, you must be the famous Nick Nelson,” she said, Nick was partly startled by the recognition, looking up in surprise. “Charlie talks about you all the time,” she added with a chuckle. “I think we all know about his amazing, wonderful boyfriend.” Nick didn’t know what to do with that bit of information. He knew Charlie talked about him, his consoler knew him as well, greeting him at every visit. Nick hadn’t met any of Charlie’s fellow patiences, but he’d seen a few waves at them too. But he’d never been… confronted with it like this before. He certainly didn’t feel like an amazing, wonderful boyfriend very much either. Not with Charlie so unwell he had to go to a clinic to get better and Nick just sort of let it happen. No one acted like they blamed him but he really didn’t do enough to help Charlie, not really. Getting him to tell his parents about his eating disorder was one thing, but he didn’t get Charlie to admit to the self harm and that’s what was really the more dangerous thing. “Oh, uh,” he said, unsure but thankfully Charlie walked over just in time to avoid any nervous rambling. “Hey,” Nick said, directing his attention to Charlie. He looked… okay? He was beautiful, of course, but his face was still a little gaunt, his eyes not nearly as bright as they usually were. His whole body was slumped, shoulders down, the jumper he wore hung off him. It wasn’t even one of Nick’s, but Charlie’s own and even that was way too large for him. Any other time he saw Charlie he was usually wearing Nick’s jumpers, so the change felt a little disheartening. Did he not want to wear Nick’s clothing anymore? Nick had left a jumper for him a few days ago, so it wasn’t like he didn’t have one that smelled like him anymore. “Hey,” he said back, his voice soft and lost. Nick held his arms out and Charlie came to him, closing the distance and allowing Nick to smoother him in a tight hug. It wasn’t lost on him that Charlie didn’t quite hug him back. He had been, the last few times he visited, but everything was always so hit or miss. He’d told them to expect that, the doctors said it took time with new medication and therapy. But seeing the ups and downs again, were really hard for Nick to handle. Just a few days ago Charlie greeted him with a smile and a hug, excited to show him the art he’d made in therapy. It almost felt like he had the old Charlie back and maybe things were working out and he’d be ready to go home sooner than expected. It was during the last visit, did Nick suggest coming by on Halloween. There'd been a few decorations up, but Charlie said they didn’t do anything special for it. Nick had been invited to Sahar’s halloween party but the thought of spending one on one time with Charlie was the better option. But now, feeling the small boy in his arms, he wondered if he made the wrong choice. Did Nick’s need to be here upset him? Did Charlie want to spend the holiday alone? Was he only putting on a brave face in front of his family? Nick couldn’t stop the rush of thoughts, he had to take a deep breath and just will himself to be normal before he could find it in him to speak again. “It’s Halloween,” Nick said, his voice coming out a little unsure. “So I thought um, maybe we could sit in the rec room and watch Hocus Pocus or something?” He pulled out of the hug to gauge Charlie’s response. They weren’t allowed in his private room, so the rec room or outside were the only options. “Or something, I dunno,” Nick offered when Charlie didn’t respond. He didn’t do much of anything, not even a smile or comment about Nick’s crush on Doug Jones, as he usually did. “Char?” he asked, watching as Charlie didn’t actually look at him, but instead turned towards the rec room. “Sounds good,” Charlie mumbled, walking away without waiting for Nick or reaching for his hand. Charlie always reached for his hand when they walked, even stupid ridiculously short distances. Nick followed behind him, relieved to see the room was mostly empty. There were two people sitting at a small table playing a board game, but the sofa and telly were unoccupied. Nick didn’t have a plan B if they couldn’t watch something and he was pretty sure Charlie didn’t have any plans at all. Charlie sat on the sofa, curling onto himself, making himself impossibly small. He hadn’t gained much weight yet, another thing they were told was normal. Aside from the psychological aspect, they couldn’t just make him over eat, they had to let him gain naturally. It did nothing to make Nick feel better, seeing how rail thin his arms looked as the sleeve of his jumper fell down. He knew he shouldn’t comment or really focus on it, but that didn’t mean the sight of it didn’t make his heart ache even more. Nick sat beside him, grabbing the remote and turning the telly on, going to the Disney+ account the center had for free use. “Maybe we should watch Marvel instead,” Nick joked. “Agatha All Along is spooky.” Charlie didn’t respond, just hummed and Nick’s voice quaked a little. “Or if you want to watch something scarier, we can too. You’ll just have to promise to hold my hand and not make fun of me when I scream like a little girl.” Charlie shrugged, his eyes flicking to Nick for a moment before going to look at his hands. The lack of banter was breaking Nick’s heart, filling his eyes with unshed tears, but he couldn’t have a breakdown right now. Clearly Charlie wasn’t doing well and Nick having his only little meltdown wouldn’t help anything. Charlie needed him to be strong, it was the only thing Nick could really give him right now. “If you’re not up for this, I can go,” Nick said quickly, reaching out and touching Charlie’s arm. He was hoping Charlie would deny him, but if Charlie really wanted to leave, Nick would do it. He’d do anything for him, no matter how much it broke Nick’s own heart. His boyfriend looked up at him, the hollowness of his cheeks so much more pronounced, the bags under his eyes so much darker. “No, it’s fine.” “Really,” Nick said quickly. “I just want you to be happy-” “It’s fine,” Charlie said, his voice stronger but still so very weak. Nick had gotten used to the snappy version of Charlie, the one who could be pretty vicious. He knew it was a symptom of his disorder, knew that he was lashing out because he was so scared. But this version, still angry but completely muted, worried him. This was the Charlie that tried to… Nick paused, shaking the thought out of his head. If Charlie was in any danger, this place would know and help him. Nick had to put his trust in these people but seeing Charlie like this, just made him worry they’d made the wrong choice. What if this wasn’t helping him? What if they were treating him badly and he was too scared to say anything? He’d looked up so many things about clinics like this, read so many horror stories and he couldn’t shake the thoughts from his head. Charlie had been through so much already, this had to help. Nick wasn’t sure there was any alternative if this didn’t. “Okay,” Nick said, swallowing. “I’ll just…” He navigated to Hocus Pocus, selecting the film and pressing play. The volume was down, soft but Nick could still hear it. He looked over to the two playing board games, but neither of them looked bothered by it. He settled into the sofa, trying to be both close to Charlie and respecting the space Charlie had put there. It felt weird, even when they were friends they sat close, shoulders pressed together, bodies in each other’s spaces. Charlie was sitting with his knees up and his arms wrapped around his legs. Nick leaned over and grabbed a blanket. “Are you cold?” “No,” Charlie said, but Nick knew that	Always Surprised By What I Do For Love Nick was a little more than nervous when his mum pulled up to the Daffodil Clinic and put the car in park. Nick was staring at the building, trying to squash down the sudden influx of nervous energy he was feeling. The building looked far more scary then it had any right to be, he’d been in there before, he knew what was waiting on the other side this time. It was just Charlie, his Charlie, everything would be fine. But everything wasn’t fine and this was the first time Nick would be seeing Charlie alone and he still wasn’t better better yet. Things were still so up in the air and unsure and what if him being there didn’t help - “It’s alright, Nicky,” his mum said, reaching out to touch his arm and breaking through the panic. “Do you want me to come in with you?” A part of him really wanted to say yes, partly because she hadn’t seen Charlie in weeks but at the same time, he was so worried about overwhelming Charlie with a surprise person. He felt lucky when Charlie had finally agreed to let him visit along with his family, he didn’t want to put any of that at risk. “It’s okay,” he said, his voice feeling rather small and childish. “Thank you for dropping me off.” “Of course darling,” she said softly, he turned to look at her, the simple smile on her face providing so much comfort. “Tell Charlie I said hello and I’ll text you when I’ve come back.” Nodding Nick tried to give her the best reassuring smile he could, but knew from the look on her face, he failed at it. But she didn’t stop him from getting out of the car and readying himself to walk into the building. Walking in, he kept his head up and tried to act like he wasn’t about to burst into tears. Charlie wasn’t waiting for him at the reception desk like he sometimes was when Nick came with his family. He was hoping he’d be there, but instead Nick went to the desk, smiling at the receptionist. It was one he didn’t recognize, which made his stomach lurch even more uncomfortably. Had he really been here so much that he expected to see a receptionist he knew? Would Charlie be here long enough that Nick would know all of the staff? “Hi,” he said, swallowing down his anxiety, taking up the pen and scribbling his name on the sign in sheet, as he’d done before. “I’m here to visit Charlie Spring, room 67.” “Oh, you must be the famous Nick Nelson,” she said, Nick was partly startled by the recognition, looking up in surprise. “Charlie talks about you all the time,” she added with a chuckle. “I think we all know about his amazing, wonderful boyfriend.” Nick didn’t know what to do with that bit of information. He knew Charlie talked about him, his consoler knew him as well, greeting him at every visit. Nick hadn’t met any of Charlie’s fellow patiences, but he’d seen a few waves at them too. But he’d never been… confronted with it like this before. He certainly didn’t feel like an amazing, wonderful boyfriend very much either. Not with Charlie so unwell he had to go to a clinic to get better and Nick just sort of let it happen. No one acted like they blamed him but he really didn’t do enough to help Charlie, not really. Getting him to tell his parents about his eating disorder was one thing, but he didn’t get Charlie to admit to the self harm and that’s what was really the more dangerous thing. “Oh, uh,” he said, unsure but thankfully Charlie walked over just in time to avoid any nervous rambling. “Hey,” Nick said, directing his attention to Charlie. He looked… okay? He was beautiful, of course, but his face was still a little gaunt, his eyes not nearly as bright as they usually were. His whole body was slumped, shoulders down, the jumper he wore hung off him. It wasn’t even one of Nick’s, but Charlie’s own and even that was way too large for him. Any other time he saw Charlie he was usually wearing Nick’s jumpers, so the change felt a little disheartening. Did he not want to wear Nick’s clothing anymore? Nick had left a jumper for him a few days ago, so it wasn’t like he didn’t have one that smelled like him anymore. “Hey,” he said back, his voice soft and lost. Nick held his arms out and Charlie came to him, closing the distance and allowing Nick to smoother him in a tight hug. It wasn’t lost on him that Charlie didn’t quite hug him back. He had been, the last few times he visited, but everything was always so hit or miss. He’d told them to expect that, the doctors said it took time with new medication and therapy. But seeing the ups and downs again, were really hard for Nick to handle. Just a few days ago Charlie greeted him with a smile and a hug, excited to show him the art he’d made in therapy. It almost felt like he had the old Charlie back and maybe things were working out and he’d be ready to go home sooner than expected. It was during the last visit, did Nick suggest coming by on Halloween. There'd been a few decorations up, but Charlie said they didn’t do anything special for it. Nick had been invited to Sahar’s halloween party but the thought of spending one on one time with Charlie was the better option. But now, feeling the small boy in his arms, he wondered if he made the wrong choice. Did Nick’s need to be here upset him? Did Charlie want to spend the holiday alone? Was he only putting on a brave face in front of his family? Nick couldn’t stop the rush of thoughts, he had to take a deep breath and just will himself to be normal before he could find it in him to speak again. “It’s Halloween,” Nick said, his voice coming out a little unsure. “So I thought um, maybe we could sit in the rec room and watch Hocus Pocus or something?” He pulled out of the hug to gauge Charlie’s response. They weren’t allowed in his private room, so the rec room or outside were the only options. “Or something, I dunno,” Nick offered when Charlie didn’t respond. He didn’t do much of anything, not even a smile or comment about Nick’s crush on Doug Jones, as he usually did. “Char?” he asked, watching as Charlie didn’t actually look at him, but instead turned towards the rec room. “Sounds good,” Charlie mumbled, walking away without waiting for Nick or reaching for his hand. Charlie always reached for his hand when they walked, even stupid ridiculously short distances. Nick followed behind him, relieved to see the room was mostly empty. There were two people sitting at a small table playing a board game, but the sofa and telly were unoccupied. Nick didn’t have a plan B if they couldn’t watch something and he was pretty sure Charlie didn’t have any plans at all. Charlie sat on the sofa, curling onto himself, making himself impossibly small. He hadn’t gained much weight yet, another thing they were told was normal. Aside from the psychological aspect, they couldn’t just make him over eat, they had to let him gain naturally. It did nothing to make Nick feel better, seeing how rail thin his arms looked as the sleeve of his jumper fell down. He knew he shouldn’t comment or really focus on it, but that didn’t mean the sight of it didn’t make his heart ache even more. Nick sat beside him, grabbing the remote and turning the telly on, going to the Disney+ account the center had for free use. “Maybe we should watch Marvel instead,” Nick joked. “Agatha All Along is spooky.” Charlie didn’t respond, just hummed and Nick’s voice quaked a little. “Or if you want to watch something scarier, we can too. You’ll just have to promise to hold my hand and not make fun of me when I scream like a little girl.” Charlie shrugged, his eyes flicking to Nick for a moment before going to look at his hands. The lack of banter was breaking Nick’s heart, filling his eyes with unshed tears, but he couldn’t have a breakdown right now. Clearly Charlie wasn’t doing well and Nick having his only little meltdown wouldn’t help anything. Charlie needed him to be strong, it was the only thing Nick could really give him right now. “If you’re not up for this, I can go,” Nick said quickly, reaching out and touching Charlie’s arm. He was hoping Charlie would deny him, but if Charlie really wanted to leave, Nick would do it. He’d do anything for him, no matter how much it broke Nick’s own heart. His boyfriend looked up at him, the hollowness of his cheeks so much more pronounced, the bags under his eyes so much darker. “No, it’s fine.” “Really,” Nick said quickly. “I just want you to be happy-” “It’s fine,” Charlie said, his voice stronger but still so very weak. Nick had gotten used to the snappy version of Charlie, the one who could be pretty vicious. He knew it was a symptom of his disorder, knew that he was lashing out because he was so scared. But this version, still angry but completely muted, worried him. This was the Charlie that tried to… Nick paused, shaking the thought out of his head. If Charlie was in any danger, this place would know and help him. Nick had to put his trust in these people but seeing Charlie like this, just made him worry they’d made the wrong choice. What if this wasn’t helping him? What if they were treating him badly and he was too scared to say anything? He’d looked up so many things about clinics like this, read so many horror stories and he couldn’t shake the thoughts from his head. Charlie had been through so much already, this had to help. Nick wasn’t sure there was any alternative if this didn’t. “Okay,” Nick said, swallowing. “I’ll just…” He navigated to Hocus Pocus, selecting the film and pressing play. The volume was down, soft but Nick could still hear it. He looked over to the two playing board games, but neither of them looked bothered by it. He settled into the sofa, trying to be both close to Charlie and respecting the space Charlie had put there. It felt weird, even when they were friends they sat close, shoulders pressed together, bodies in each other’s spaces. Charlie was sitting with his knees up and his arms wrapped around his legs. Nick leaned over and grabbed a blanket. “Are you cold?” “No,” Charlie said, but Nick knew that was a lie. “Come cuddle with me under the blanket?” Nick ventured, not sure if Charlie would agree or not. A long moment passed before Charlie unfurled just enough and Nick moved closer, throwing the blanket over them. He still wasn’t cuddling per usual, but it was better than nothing. As the movie progressed Nick tried very hard not to look over at Charlie, but he couldn't help the small glances at his boyfriend. Charlie clearly wasn’t actually watching the movie, his face was blank, the same far away expression he had several months ago. Nick had become an expert on getting Charlie out of his moments, usually touching helped to bring Charlie back, to give him something to anchor too. But when touch wasn’t good, Nick could ramble on and on to him, until the words were enough to pull him out of whatever far away land Charlie’s brain drifted off to. Nick moved a little closer still, not a lot, but his shoulder was now pressed against Charlie’s, who didn’t do anything to acknowledge the gesture. “If you’re tired…” Nick said softly. “I mean, I can go home…” “No,” Charlie said, his voice breaking on the word. He finally, finally turned to acknowledge Nick and suddenly Nick knew exactly why Charlie hadn’t been looking at him. The second they made eye contact, Nick could see the buildup of tears, the quiver of Charlie’s lips, the tip of his nose going red the way it always does when he’s crying. From experience, he knows Charlie hated to do it in front of people. He told Nick that so often, fighting the tears back, holding in the emotions he needed to let out. Crying in front of people made Charlie feel weak and pathetic, like having emotions were some sort of bad thing that made others feel bad in kind. “Darling,” Nick said softly, the word slipping out. “You’re alright.” Charlie fell into his side, curling on himself even more now but at least he was letting Nick hold him. He quickly looked to see if the two others were still in the room and blissfully they must have left because the place was empty. Nick made a quick decision, pulling Charlie up, so he was sitting across Nick’s lap. He worried for a moment, Charlie might jump away but instead he burrowed into Nick’s chest even more. His sobs weren’t very loud, at least not enough to gain attention, although Nick was worried he should be alerting the staff. Was this kind of thing normal for patients to have? Should Nick get a professional to help Charlie out right now? Certainly they would do a better job than Nick ever could. And yet, with Charlie in his arms like this, he just held on, hoping it would be enough for now. “It’s alright,” he repeated, so far out of his depth still. He’d done his best when Charlie was upset and scared, trying to give him any type of comfort. He never felt like it was enough and he knew, really he did, that he couldn’t actually fix it, but he still wanted it to be better. Charlie deserved the world, he deserved happiness and love and not to feel so sad and depressed he didn’t want to be alive anymore. And Nick wanted to give him that, he wanted to show Charlie there were a million reasons to wake up every morning. “Sorry,” Charlie said in a tiny voice, he wiped his sleeve across his nose. “Yuck.” “Let me,” Nick started, looking around, glad to find a tissue box on the table. He had to jostle Charlie a bit to reach for it, but he grabbed a few handing them to Charlie. “Thanks,” he said, using the issue to blow his nose and another to wipe at his eyes again. He went to pocket the tissues but Nick stopped him, taking the tissues from his hand. “Nick,” he said. “That’s gross.” “Nah,” Nick said, putting them in his own jumper pocket instead, he’d worry about throwing it in the bin later. “Nothing about you is gross.” That seemed to be the wrong thing to say because Charlie’s eyes teared up again and he sobbed a little. “S-sorry,” he hiccuped. “I’m just… I’m a mess.” “You’re not a mess,” Nick insisted, but Charlie shook his head, sucking in a deep breath. “But I am. I was so rude to you when you first got here and now I’m sobbing in your lap like a child. I just…” “It’s okay Char, really,” Nick said, putting his arm around Charlie’s shoulder. “I get it, okay? I’m here for you, no matter what you’re feeling.” “I just keep thinking I should be better,” Charlie said, Nick felt like this was something that had been weighing on him. “Like, I’ve been here a few weeks and I’m taking the medication and talking to Geoff and doing everything they want me to do. But I still can barely eat. I still feel like shit most of the time. What if this is just who I am? What if this is just me forever? What if I’m just some depressed loser who can’t eat?” “I don’t think that,” Nick said. “I really don’t. I think you’re a kind, wonderful, lovely human whose had some terrible things happen to him-” “But why can’t I get better?” Charlie cut in. “You being here, you saying that, it almost makes it worse. Because I shouldn’t have… I went too far and I had no reason to do it. I feel so stupid and useless because I know you love me and so do my friends and family but I still did something really bad to myself". “Have you talked to Geoff about this?” Nick asked. Charlie hadn’t really disclosed what he talked about in therapy, not that Nick was expecting him too. The diagnosis was a relief for everyone, finally able to put a name to what Charlie was feeling and to know there were ways to help it. Nick had looked up everything he could on OCD and anorexia, the symptoms painted a picture of what the last few months of Charlie’s life had been like, the things he hadn’t even told Nick about. He was just hoping these feelings, the negative thoughts were something he was opening up to his therapist about and not holding them in. Charlie shrugged. “I guess but he just… he doesn’t know me, right? He just knows what I tell him and like, he doesn’t get it. I feel like shit all of the time still. I mean there’s moments where things aren’t bad, when you guys come and visit or if I talk to someone on the phone but then it’s back to this. Like, I don’t know if I can get better. And I want to, you have to believe me, I really want to. I don’t want to be here forever or to have to keep coming back, or to feel like this anymore.” Nick really, really wanted to call someone to come help. He knew at that moment Charlie wasn’t in danger, not a danger to himself but he didn’t know what he could possibly say to make it any less terrible for him. He believed Charlie had wanted to get better, he didn’t think Charlie would have agreed to come if he didn’t want to. “Charlie,” he started. “I don’t… I know I don’t understand either, not really but this will pass. You will get better, you will feel better. I know how much you want to, I really do. It’s so brave of you to do this, to accept help and to try something that’s scary. I believe in you, I always have and I always will.” The words sounded so cliche and cheesy tumbling out of his mouth, but it didn’t make them any less true. He really hoped Charlie could accept them, understand they weren’t just platitudes but Nick had meant them, then and now. “How can you know that?” Charlie asked, the desperation in his voice made Nick’s heart crack in two. “You always say that but how can you just know?” “Because,” Nick said, trying so hard to think of how he could even say what he was feeling without possibly upsetting Charlie even more. “Because you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met and if anyone can do it, it’s you. Because you’re not alone and you don’t have to pull yourself up anymore. You have me and Tori and Tao, Elle, Isaac, Tara, Darcy, Imogen… so many people who want to and can help you. Because I know you want to get better too, you wouldn’t have agreed to come here, you wouldn’t be sitting here crying if you didn’t want to.” Charlie’s face crumbled again, he put his head back on Nick’s chest. “Thank you,” he said sniffing. “I don’t really deserve you.” “You absolutely do and if you need me too, I’ll spend the rest of our lives telling you so.” Charlie let out another chuckle, this one sounding more like himself. He sniffed again and Nick tightened his hold of him. “Thank you,” Charlie said. “For being here and saying those things,” Charlie said in a hushed voice. “I got so excited you were coming to see me and then I remembered you had mentioned Sahar’s party and I thought, god, I’m wasting his life now. He’s gonna come here, there’s no drinks or candy or our friends… just me.” This was not the first time he’d heard Charlie say something like this and Nick supposed it wouldn’t be the last. He couldn’t understand how Charlie could ever think Nick didn’t want him, didn’t want to be with him all the time. “Charlie, I don’t need drinks, candy or anything else. I just need and want you. I don’t want to go to a party, that I can't escape with you. Where’s the fun in that?” “You could be doing something much more exciting than watching me cry over nothing,” Charlie went on, seemingly still stuck in his negative spiral. Nick had a hard time understanding when this happened at first, unsure how Charlie could just keep thinking these negative things. Nick tried to tell him otherwise, tried to beg Charlie to just listen but… well, Nick learned that it wasn’t always that easy. That sometimes all he could do was listen and try to make Charlie feel better, even if just a little. “Or I can sit here, cuddle with you, watch Hocus Pocus and have a much better time. And you’re not crying over nothing, Char. You’re allowed to be upset, you’re allowed to have feelings.” “It’s just so hard not to feel so… useless. Especially when I’m here and doing well one minute and then just… crashing down the next. I don’t want you and Tori to have to always take care of me and worry about my mental health.” “Nope,” he said simply. “I’m doing exactly what I want to do. So is Tori. I mean, we’d rather you be healthy and happy, Char but we’re here no matter what’s going on with you. We worry because we love you, it’s not a problem, it’s not a chore to worry about the person you love.” “I’m sorry I keep doing this,” Charlie sighed. “I hate showing you how…broken I really am.” Nick kissed the side of his head. “It’s okay, you’re allowed to have these moments, Char. But you’re not broken, okay? You’re getting the help you need and I’m always going to be here to support you.” Nick paused, trying to decide if he wanted to tell Charlie the story that came to mind. “I never told you this, but do you remember the night we talked on the phone when I was in Menorca?” Charlie nodded his head and Nick took a deep breath. “I know you weren’t doing well… and I was really fucking scared. I was so far away and I knew even if I wasn’t there, I really didn’t know how to help you. I just knew that you were suffering and it scared me. I know this might upset you a bit, but my mum came to check on me and I was crying…” Nick trailed, trying not to focus too much on the memory of it. “I ended up telling her that I thought you had an eating disorder.” “Oh,” Charlie said, Nick could see the disappointment in his eyes. “It’s okay,” he said. “I mean, I was making you suffer, you were scared and hurt, you should be able to talk to Sarah.” “You weren’t making me suffer, Char. I was sad because you were sad and I’m sixteen and in love with my boyfriend. I told mum that too, that I loved you and I didn’t know how to fix you. But do you know what she said to me?” “What?” Charlie asked softly. “She told me that love can’t cure a mental illness,” Nick said. “And that sometimes a person needs more than their sixteen year old boyfriend to help them. And then we talked about ways to help you, what I should say… we looked things up. But like Charlie, I don’t want to cure you, you don’t need to be fixed. I want to help you. There’s a difference and it took me a while to see that. I spent so much time trying to do whatever I could to fix it because I thought I could. But what you need is support and love and that’s what I’m able to give you. I can hold you like this, when you’re sad, let you cry all you need to and then remind you how much I love you.” “Sometimes I don’t believe you’re real,” Charlie said, sniffing again, his eyes watering up once more but he didn’t start crying again. Instead he took his sleeve across his eyes. “How come you’re not wearing my jumper?” Nick questioned. “Oh, um,” Charlie said, blushing, his cheeks and nose going even more red now. “Susan made me put them in the laundry, I guess it’s frowned upon to keep wearing the same jumper constantly without washing it.” “Rude,” Nick huffed, which made Charlie giggle. “Well it’s a good thing I always wear one when I come here, just in case you need it. I’ll give it to you before I leave, yeah? That way you can have one that smells like me and when I come next week, we can do an exchange.” “Sounds good,” Charlie nodded. “Can you bring the pink Nike one? I quite like that one.” “Oh, you’re making requests now?” Nick asked, eyebrows raised. “I can’t help but notice how one sided these transactions are.” “I think that’s completely fair,” Charlie said, the lightness to his voice was back, he sounded much happier. It made Nick’s heart soar knowing he could help like this. “If you could fit in my clothing, I’d do a trade but you can’t, so.” “Alright then,” Nick said. “How about this, you trade jumpers for kisses?” Charlie rolled his eyes. “I already give you kisses. All of the time.” “Yeah well, these are extra kisses, so it works.” “Still doesn’t sound like you’re getting much out of the deal,” Charlie said, head tilting to the side slightly. Nick was smart enough to catch on to Charlie’s actual comment, more than about jumpers and kisses. He was suggesting that being with him, that loving Charlie Spring wasn’t a fair enough trade. But he was wrong, so very wrong. Charlie looked so beautiful, even through everything he’d been through. Nick wouldn’t trade these moments, however sad they were, for the world. Charlie Spring, in his arms, looking at Nick like he hung the moon in the sky. Joking about trading kisses for jumpers? That was worth everything to him. “Nah,” Nick said. “As long as I’ve got you, it’s the best deal I could get.” “Sap,” Charlie said, with another eye roll and to Nick’s delight, when he leaned closer, Charlie didn’t pull away.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75700761	{"authors": ["kingdomfaraway"], "language": "English", "title": "Always Surprised By What I Do For Love"}
push your luck It's as close to a proposal as men like them get. Horangi pushes his fragile luck further as he steps closer to König, notches his fingers against the other man's belt then his vest to draw his head down to Horangi's level. König moves easily, more of a marionette than a man to Horangi's whims and he could bite through his tongue for the sheer heady joy of it all, another chip passing over his fingers to clink amongst the others. "Come on leave with me," Horangi calls into König's ear, rises on his toes a little for the sake of it so he can press his mouth to cloth afterwards, feels König's ear twitch and flick beneath the fresh compression. It would be easy for König to kill him. The man would barely need to think twice about it even if he wasn't a werewolf and blessed with claws and fangs. König is chest and head and shoulders taller than Horangi despite his perpetual slouch, the round slope of his shoulders as if he's already apologising for his existence. A single blow to Horangi's chest, his neck, his head, would shatter bone and tear flesh from the impact. He's seen König bite a man's fingers off for doing less than Horangi is right now; with a single tug against the cloth mask and the crunch had echoed around the mess hall, blood scarlet against the cheap linoleum. König's gaze slides sideways to Horangi then away once more, downturned, damp. They've stopped walking, the rest of the squad flowing around them and away back to the field office, and then onwards, to trains and cars for a handful of days of leave. "Me? Why?" König's partially shifted beneath his cloth mask and his voice is jagged, a growl lacing every heavy breath. Horangi shrugs, his luck nudged another heartbeat, another spin, as he brushes his fingertips along the edge of König's mask. It's a roughly torn piece of fabric, hanging loose around a mostly human face and concealing any lines of a muzzle. He draws back just enough to position his mouth over the tremble of König's ear. "Because I want to." He leans into König, draws his lips back over his teeth so the blunt impression of them could be felt as he presses them into his ear, the hot rush of his breath. If he's going to lose his throat, it would be now, a caress of a kind for the liberties Horangi takes, hoards and shines them up so they sparkle in the sun. He waits for it, poised to shatter in lucky red, and receives nothing but a nod from König, enough that the edge of his jaw bumps into Horangi's fingers. Horangi draws back abruptly, releases König at the same moment and the larger man lurches sideways before he catches himself, still folded where Horangi left him. "I've got a place in the countryside off-base. You drive, I'll direct." He grins at König, the action mostly hidden behind his mask and dark glasses, a slight shift of fabric the only indication. König's eyes are dark, the skin concealed behind fur or paint, but they catch the light as Horangi starts walking once more. Horangi's heart catches at the crunch of gravel behind him after a few steps, his shoulders pinching to accommodate the expected crush of muscle and bone to flatten him to the ground that never arrives. He doesn't look back, not until they reach the field office's perimeter and the plexiglass shudder of the guard station reveals the shadow dogging Horangi's steps, his death towering over him a handful of steps behind. "I'll meet you at the reception in an hour," Horangi offers over his shoulder, barely able to make König out at the edge of his vision. He doesn't turn fully, waits for a jagged acceptance before he breaks away to his rooms. Packing is quick, a few items Horangi hopes he won't spend long wearing thrown in one go-bag while he leaves the other here for his return. His mind doesn't linger long on the habitual act, turning instead to his intent, burning and bloody and insistent since he first saw König in the field, this hulking mass of a man introduced first as their new recruit and utterly forgettable except for his size, the hangman's mask he wore, and then showcased in unforgettable glory as he ripped an enemy combatant in two, his claws bright with viscera as he dropped the two halves at Horangi's feet like an offering to a displeasing god, a patriarch with a sharp remark still drying on his mouth. "Nevermind the gun," Horangi had said, pitched loud enough for the group to hear because if he's dying, then it's with an audience. "Bet he could just rip a man in two." And Horangi knew then what he wanted to do. Horangi wants to fuck König. There's other pieces there, all mixed together in a heady desperate want that sends Horangi reeling when it overtakes him, like he's starving and offered a feast to glut himself with. He wants to make König cry from pleasure, overwhelm him until he's trembling and tearing through the sheets and soft from it all; he wants to know König's shape and bite his mark into the junction of his neck, his hip, just because he can. He wants to know König's face so he knows who his last thought would be of. He's going to start with fucking, wrap his luck over the rest of it and see what happens. Horangi slows as he gets closer to the reception, drops his steps into a saunter, his bag slung over one shoulder and knocking against his hip. "—think he's going? The wolf normally spends leave on base." "No wonder, he's a scary bastard, just look at him." Horangi does, every chance he gets and some he doesn't. There's a chunk of plaster taken out of the wall There's a notch on the wall, a crumbling annoyance but not something that needs to be replaced immediately so it's rolled on and rolled on, mission to mission. It's not a perfect line of sight for a sniper's shot but it's enough for Horangi to study König without wondering if the other man would be able to see him. König slouches next to the main door, a spectre from a children's fairytale given substance and spilled beneath fluorescent lights. His bag rests at his feet, nondescript and strangely padded in places beneath the uniform dark canvas. He's dressed simply as well, a loose dark shirt tucked into his trousers, similarly loose and dark. He's kept his mask, his eyes mostly hidden by the fall of the cloth, but it's the sharp aura that slows Horangi's steps to a halt. König is a dangerous man. He's tall and powerful and utterly off-putting in a way that must be deliberate, a risk amongst dangerous men. Horangi grins wide, his cheeks aching as it pulls at scar tissue, exposes gum. Jackpot or bust, he'll know in a few hours. He starts walking, rounds the corner, and König changes. It's slight, a rounding of the shoulders, a slackening of his hands, a shift in the prickly static surrounding him like barbed wire. If he had a tail, Horangi would bet it would be destructive in that moment. "Ready to go?" He asks, tips his head all the back to match König's gaze. "Ja," König murmurs. Horangi steps back and sweeps König forwards, falling into step next to him as König shuffled into motion. It's a wicked thought, another card tipped onto an overflowing pile, and Horangi acts on it in the same heartbeat, slinging an arm around König's waist and hitching his thumb into the soft swell of his lower belly, the top of the dip of his hip. König freezes, rises onto his toes in a full body shiver, but Horangi tugs him along in his wake. "See you later, lads," Horangi calls over his shoulder, his grin bloody now as the thinner skin at the corner of his mouth tears open. He's met with a blur of open mouths, shock and awe in equal exacting pours before the door falls shut behind them and they're officially on leave. The drive is mostly quiet, the silence filled with the crackle of the radio station as Horangi drives. He tips the occasional question König's way: favourite food, best record on the course, clean bill of health sexual and otherwise. König stutters at the last question, what little skin Horangi can see blooming bright pink, but he answers all the same. Horangi doesn't release König, transfers the hold on his hip for one on his upper thigh as he drives, indenting his fingers into the trembling muscle. "Got any questions for me?" Horangi drops down a gear as he takes the turn, returning his hand to König's thigh before the pressure of his grip could fail. His fingers splay wide as he moves his hands further, brushing his fingertips over the rough edge of König's inner seam. König draws in a breath, his knuckles white where his hands rest on his lap. He's as human as Horangi has ever seen him, his fingertips rough and his breath rushing through blunt teeth. "Did you invite me because you want me to fuck you?" Horangi taps his fingers against the steering wheel, the other against König's thigh. "If you aren't interested in me, we can spend the next few days getting drunk and watching shit soaps, or we'll pick up a third, a fourth, whatever." The roulette wheel spins and Horangi's chips balance on a single square, all-in. "But I invited you because I want to fuck you." He's an only child, the favoured golden son. Horangi has never truly learnt how to share, but he'll learn for long enough to keep König permanently. "Oh." König curls his shoulders, ducks his head. His mask hangs limp and hides his features, the narrow catch of his gaze, but his leg twitches into Horangi's hold, lets his fingers move further. "That— that would be nice." Horangi laughs then, knocks his head back against the headrest as he does so. There's still a taste of copper on his tongue and he swallows it back before he speaks, "I can do much better than nice, and I'll bet on that." The house is nondescript, nestled between a few other holiday lets that shrink back into the tree line as they approach. Horangi pulls the truck into the converted shed, removing his dark glasses and dropping them into the cup holder before he slings himself free, quickly circling to open König's door before the other man begins to follow at his heels. König's hand is	push your luck It's as close to a proposal as men like them get. Horangi pushes his fragile luck further as he steps closer to König, notches his fingers against the other man's belt then his vest to draw his head down to Horangi's level. König moves easily, more of a marionette than a man to Horangi's whims and he could bite through his tongue for the sheer heady joy of it all, another chip passing over his fingers to clink amongst the others. "Come on leave with me," Horangi calls into König's ear, rises on his toes a little for the sake of it so he can press his mouth to cloth afterwards, feels König's ear twitch and flick beneath the fresh compression. It would be easy for König to kill him. The man would barely need to think twice about it even if he wasn't a werewolf and blessed with claws and fangs. König is chest and head and shoulders taller than Horangi despite his perpetual slouch, the round slope of his shoulders as if he's already apologising for his existence. A single blow to Horangi's chest, his neck, his head, would shatter bone and tear flesh from the impact. He's seen König bite a man's fingers off for doing less than Horangi is right now; with a single tug against the cloth mask and the crunch had echoed around the mess hall, blood scarlet against the cheap linoleum. König's gaze slides sideways to Horangi then away once more, downturned, damp. They've stopped walking, the rest of the squad flowing around them and away back to the field office, and then onwards, to trains and cars for a handful of days of leave. "Me? Why?" König's partially shifted beneath his cloth mask and his voice is jagged, a growl lacing every heavy breath. Horangi shrugs, his luck nudged another heartbeat, another spin, as he brushes his fingertips along the edge of König's mask. It's a roughly torn piece of fabric, hanging loose around a mostly human face and concealing any lines of a muzzle. He draws back just enough to position his mouth over the tremble of König's ear. "Because I want to." He leans into König, draws his lips back over his teeth so the blunt impression of them could be felt as he presses them into his ear, the hot rush of his breath. If he's going to lose his throat, it would be now, a caress of a kind for the liberties Horangi takes, hoards and shines them up so they sparkle in the sun. He waits for it, poised to shatter in lucky red, and receives nothing but a nod from König, enough that the edge of his jaw bumps into Horangi's fingers. Horangi draws back abruptly, releases König at the same moment and the larger man lurches sideways before he catches himself, still folded where Horangi left him. "I've got a place in the countryside off-base. You drive, I'll direct." He grins at König, the action mostly hidden behind his mask and dark glasses, a slight shift of fabric the only indication. König's eyes are dark, the skin concealed behind fur or paint, but they catch the light as Horangi starts walking once more. Horangi's heart catches at the crunch of gravel behind him after a few steps, his shoulders pinching to accommodate the expected crush of muscle and bone to flatten him to the ground that never arrives. He doesn't look back, not until they reach the field office's perimeter and the plexiglass shudder of the guard station reveals the shadow dogging Horangi's steps, his death towering over him a handful of steps behind. "I'll meet you at the reception in an hour," Horangi offers over his shoulder, barely able to make König out at the edge of his vision. He doesn't turn fully, waits for a jagged acceptance before he breaks away to his rooms. Packing is quick, a few items Horangi hopes he won't spend long wearing thrown in one go-bag while he leaves the other here for his return. His mind doesn't linger long on the habitual act, turning instead to his intent, burning and bloody and insistent since he first saw König in the field, this hulking mass of a man introduced first as their new recruit and utterly forgettable except for his size, the hangman's mask he wore, and then showcased in unforgettable glory as he ripped an enemy combatant in two, his claws bright with viscera as he dropped the two halves at Horangi's feet like an offering to a displeasing god, a patriarch with a sharp remark still drying on his mouth. "Nevermind the gun," Horangi had said, pitched loud enough for the group to hear because if he's dying, then it's with an audience. "Bet he could just rip a man in two." And Horangi knew then what he wanted to do. Horangi wants to fuck König. There's other pieces there, all mixed together in a heady desperate want that sends Horangi reeling when it overtakes him, like he's starving and offered a feast to glut himself with. He wants to make König cry from pleasure, overwhelm him until he's trembling and tearing through the sheets and soft from it all; he wants to know König's shape and bite his mark into the junction of his neck, his hip, just because he can. He wants to know König's face so he knows who his last thought would be of. He's going to start with fucking, wrap his luck over the rest of it and see what happens. Horangi slows as he gets closer to the reception, drops his steps into a saunter, his bag slung over one shoulder and knocking against his hip. "—think he's going? The wolf normally spends leave on base." "No wonder, he's a scary bastard, just look at him." Horangi does, every chance he gets and some he doesn't. There's a chunk of plaster taken out of the wall There's a notch on the wall, a crumbling annoyance but not something that needs to be replaced immediately so it's rolled on and rolled on, mission to mission. It's not a perfect line of sight for a sniper's shot but it's enough for Horangi to study König without wondering if the other man would be able to see him. König slouches next to the main door, a spectre from a children's fairytale given substance and spilled beneath fluorescent lights. His bag rests at his feet, nondescript and strangely padded in places beneath the uniform dark canvas. He's dressed simply as well, a loose dark shirt tucked into his trousers, similarly loose and dark. He's kept his mask, his eyes mostly hidden by the fall of the cloth, but it's the sharp aura that slows Horangi's steps to a halt. König is a dangerous man. He's tall and powerful and utterly off-putting in a way that must be deliberate, a risk amongst dangerous men. Horangi grins wide, his cheeks aching as it pulls at scar tissue, exposes gum. Jackpot or bust, he'll know in a few hours. He starts walking, rounds the corner, and König changes. It's slight, a rounding of the shoulders, a slackening of his hands, a shift in the prickly static surrounding him like barbed wire. If he had a tail, Horangi would bet it would be destructive in that moment. "Ready to go?" He asks, tips his head all the back to match König's gaze. "Ja," König murmurs. Horangi steps back and sweeps König forwards, falling into step next to him as König shuffled into motion. It's a wicked thought, another card tipped onto an overflowing pile, and Horangi acts on it in the same heartbeat, slinging an arm around König's waist and hitching his thumb into the soft swell of his lower belly, the top of the dip of his hip. König freezes, rises onto his toes in a full body shiver, but Horangi tugs him along in his wake. "See you later, lads," Horangi calls over his shoulder, his grin bloody now as the thinner skin at the corner of his mouth tears open. He's met with a blur of open mouths, shock and awe in equal exacting pours before the door falls shut behind them and they're officially on leave. The drive is mostly quiet, the silence filled with the crackle of the radio station as Horangi drives. He tips the occasional question König's way: favourite food, best record on the course, clean bill of health sexual and otherwise. König stutters at the last question, what little skin Horangi can see blooming bright pink, but he answers all the same. Horangi doesn't release König, transfers the hold on his hip for one on his upper thigh as he drives, indenting his fingers into the trembling muscle. "Got any questions for me?" Horangi drops down a gear as he takes the turn, returning his hand to König's thigh before the pressure of his grip could fail. His fingers splay wide as he moves his hands further, brushing his fingertips over the rough edge of König's inner seam. König draws in a breath, his knuckles white where his hands rest on his lap. He's as human as Horangi has ever seen him, his fingertips rough and his breath rushing through blunt teeth. "Did you invite me because you want me to fuck you?" Horangi taps his fingers against the steering wheel, the other against König's thigh. "If you aren't interested in me, we can spend the next few days getting drunk and watching shit soaps, or we'll pick up a third, a fourth, whatever." The roulette wheel spins and Horangi's chips balance on a single square, all-in. "But I invited you because I want to fuck you." He's an only child, the favoured golden son. Horangi has never truly learnt how to share, but he'll learn for long enough to keep König permanently. "Oh." König curls his shoulders, ducks his head. His mask hangs limp and hides his features, the narrow catch of his gaze, but his leg twitches into Horangi's hold, lets his fingers move further. "That— that would be nice." Horangi laughs then, knocks his head back against the headrest as he does so. There's still a taste of copper on his tongue and he swallows it back before he speaks, "I can do much better than nice, and I'll bet on that." The house is nondescript, nestled between a few other holiday lets that shrink back into the tree line as they approach. Horangi pulls the truck into the converted shed, removing his dark glasses and dropping them into the cup holder before he slings himself free, quickly circling to open König's door before the other man begins to follow at his heels. König's hand is warm in his own, a thick band of calluses along the edge of his palm, König's fingers wrapping around Horangi's until he can feel the dull prick of claws against his knuckles. König drops Horangi's hand quickly as if burnt, that self-same blush Horangi had been denied beginning to colour beneath his eyes, the edge of his neck where his mask had shifted beneath the seatbelt. Horangi bites back a groan at the revelation, jabs his fingers clumsily into his belt to shift his trousers. König, turned away to grab his bag from the truck, pauses, half-turning back to Horangi at the sound. Horangi couldn't guess at what König sees, but it keeps the other man in place as Horangi advances, deliberate for now — they've both been in too many combat zones to trust a sudden movement at their backs, and this arrangement still has the tags on — then faster. Horangi crowds König against the side of the truck, his belly flush with the metal as Horangi presses his cock against König's arse, his thighs, one hand threaded through König's and the other reaching high for a fistful of his mask. He pulls the fabric taught, draws König's head back like he would with hair trapped in his grip. König huffs as he's moved, but he doesn't pull away, leaning back and spreading his legs wider. "I could fuck you out here," Horangi says, fully hard and dizzy with it as he grinds his hips into König. There's no space in his head to think about the junction of shoulder and neck so he bites what's in front of him, cloth and the divot of König's spine bruising beneath his teeth before he releases him to continue. "Houses are empty, got supplies shipped up ahead of time, but there's always the chance of teenagers sneaking up. And you'd let me, wouldn't you?" "Yes," König gasps, whines and shudders under Horangi's hold. Horangi squeezes his hand tight enough to feel bones grind together, draws them both back a step so he can manoeuvre their joined hands in front of König, roughly tracing the solid heft of his cock. He's proportional, as best as Horangi can tell with the loose drape of his clothes caught and twisted, big all over. "Inside, puppy," Horangi says, dropping his hold and nudging König forwards. He's still holding both of their bags, barely registering the weight on a single arm as he looks back at Horangi, his eyes large behind his mask. It's drawn close to his features still, the line of his nose, the flutter of his lashes. Horangi stretches his luck further, another card, another spin, and smacks König's arse with the flat of his hand. It stings, the crack of impact nearly concealing the moan that tears through König as he stumbles into the house ahead of Horangi. There's a reflexive sweep — sight lines, door, windows, stairs, potential cover — before König turns back to Horangi, fidgeting with the bags that he holds. He's still folded in on himself, hunched to minimise the sheer heft of him, and Horangi sweeps a hand towards the sofas huddled along one wall, following the line of the corner. The floor changes from sleek wood to soft carpet as they walk over, and Horangi waits for König to drop the bags before he makes his next move. König leans forwards to slide the bag from his shoulder onto one of the chairs, swings the second up next to it, and Horangi moves forwards into the scant space in front of him. He loops his arms around König's neck to keep their eyelines matched, König halting the movement with a low huff, his breathing fluttering the ragged edge of his mask. König blinks at him, his eyes dark and large. "What is— what next?" Horangi leans closer, tilts his face to press his mouth to König's cheek, his guess rewarded a trembling inhalation. They're both still wearing their masks, Horangi's skin tight where König's hangs free, but Horangi bites the slight curve of König's cheek all the same, moves down to bruise the hinge of his jaw. "If I kiss you, will I change too?" Horangi pulls König closer, loosens one arm enough that he can skim his fingers along the edge of König's mask where it drapes over his shoulder, the freshly remembered junction of neck and shoulder. He presses his nails against it in the facsimile of a bite, mimics the motion against König's jaw with his teeth, moving every closer to his mouth. König's hands skim his waist, testing every motion before they settle on his hips, just above the curve of his arse. "You won't change," he says, a pilot light of fervour flickering in his eyes, the flash of doctrine and experimentation combined. "It takes several stages to change someone, specialist preparation as well for us both." He catches himself, stumbles over his words for a moment before he continues, quieter than before, "My mask… I wish to keep it on?" There's the upwards lilt of a question, like he's expecting Horangi to snap and snarl against it. Horangi shrugs, draws back so they're eye to eye once more. "That's fine. I'm going to take mine off." His luck must be tearing at the seams, threatening to unspool itself in glittering innards if Horangi asks much more of it, but he would and he will. Not when everything he wants, he needs, is starving for is right in front of him. His mask sticks to the corner of his mouth, blood dried onto the surface, and he rips it free before he kisses König, bites at the shape of his mouth through fabric, and swallows down the hitched breath, the desperate keen that only breaks into a snarl as Horangi grabs at König's cock once more, drags his hand over it. Once more, Horangi waits for the snap of teeth against his neck, a claw to tear through the narrow seams of his palm, and nothing. He presses König downwards, backwards, until Horangi is straddling his hips, biting a fresh bruise into his shoulder. He fumbles with König's belt for a moment, all grace deserting him in the face of such ardent desperation, and shoves his hand inside. König gasps, curls his spine as Horangi's lifted a few inches into the air with the sheer force of it all. König's still hard, achingly so, as Horangi's fingers trace the heft of him, moves lower and then lower still. He's halted by the angle, his wrist trapped against the bite of the zip, warmth and heat tacky against his fingers, the curve of his palm. "Off or just down?" Horangi asks, bites König again for good measure, grinding another fresh bruise to the rapidly growing collection. He wants König to ache after this, a reminder indented into his skin that whenever something brushes against it, König only thinks of him. König shifts his stance to keep his hips raised as Horangi slides free, before he reaches down to squirm his trousers off. Horangi peels his boxers off, both items thrown somewhere to the side. Distantly, Horangi considers the possibility of an attack, an ambush bursting through the front door with guns drawn, but the thought is distant static as he looks down at König. He's pale, thighs muscled and drawn tight under Horangi's gaze, with a set of scars raked over one knee in lurid pink. Others are paler, a line on his calf, a burn on his other thigh, a smattering of striped stretch marks on his lower belly and hips. König's cock lies curved in the junction of his thigh, the thick crop of dark blonde hair damp and clinging. There's a faint sheen of sweat covering his skin and Horangi leans closer transfixed. Salt, and the faint inoffensive neutral scent of the body wash from the field office. Horangi shuffles forwards on his knees, licks a stripe over König's hip, skimming over the base of his cock. König groans, his now-sharp nails, claws almost, carving pale slivers of wood from the floor, and comes. It's a slow pulse, pooling against his belly, the flat of Horangi's tongue as he runs his tongue over it with a sharp-toothed grin as his thoughts spiral. He knows that sound, that hitched breath, that slow tip of König's hips. He's seen it before, when he backed König against the side of the truck, when he'd kissed König the first time,a diluted version every time since then. Horangi moves so he's between König's legs, shoves his trousers haphazardly down and drags his hand over his cock. "How many more times can you come?" Horangi murmurs, pressing König's legs wider as he leans forwards. He smears one hand through the cooling puddle and nudges his fingers against König's arse. It's easier than he would have expected, already slick beneath his touch, one finger, then two, a third nudging before König answers. "I don't know." A challenge, a discovery, something Horangi can hold the singular record and sharpen his teeth against if they ever grow blunt. It's a dangerous thing to give a gambler, something that could never be beaten, only scavenged and picked clean until the bones gleam. "You prepped yourself for me?" "Ah." König blushes in full-body technicolour, the pale scars on his exposed belly, thighs, his knees burnished bright against the wash of red. König cups his hands over his face, tips his head back so he's speaking to the far ceiling. "Not quite. It's a werewolf thing?" Horangi ducks closer to König's cock, opens his mouth and lets his breath rush hot and heavy. Close, but not touching. "Meaning?" König squirms, not away from Horangi but in place, a butterfly held in place by shining silver pins he's driven through his own joints. "It's intended to make— ah, bitte, more…" "To make?" Three fingers now, salt layered over Horangi's tongue. "To make," König's voice wavers, high and strangled in his throat, "to make breeding easier." Horangi curses, grabs for his cock with a stranglehold to combat the rush of heat that floods through his belly, a lightning strike he had never considered before. He presses his forehead against König's thigh as he gasps, his eyes open and focused on nothing. "Horangi?" König shifts beneath him, propping himself up so he can stare down as Horangi moves to catch his gaze. König pauses, his eyes dark and the fabric damp at the edges. Horangi speaks with a rasp, something feral lurking just beneath this skin. "You want me to breed you?" König nods, his legs falling wide before they bend, ankles hooking behind Horangi to draw him closer. "Ja, yes." Horangi shuffles closer, and presses his fingers back inside König, fucking into him. He's soaking, the sound a cloying secondary heartbeat as he draws his hand free and drags it over his cock. It's slow, deliberately so, as Horangi wants to see, needs to see if— He presses the head of his cock inside and König comes once more, rolling his hips as his hole constricts around Horangi, his cock oozing out his release onto his stomach. Horangi reaches for him, curves down enough to press the flat of his tongue to König's cock. Salt coats his tongue, drips out of his mouth before he's able to swallow it all, and he seats himself fully inside König with a groan. König matches him, breathless, hitching. His form almost seems to shudder, bones cracking before he settles once more, tucking Horangi closer. He's held close, fucking into König with short shallow thrusts, grinding his hips into him. Sweat beads on Horangi's hairline, drips into his eyes, but he doesn't stop, won't stop. This is everything he wanted and it's here in front of him, König gasping beneath his touch with lurid purple bruises from Horangi's teeth, his mask damp with sweat and spit and tears, and his come drying tacky on his belly, dripping down over his thighs. Horangi is never going to let König go again. He's never going to be this lucky again. König's legs tighten around him, drawing him closer as König sits up and draws his mask up, just to his nose. Horangi glimpses a broad nose, thin lips indented with pale dotted scars, before König kisses him, bites at his lip until the skin tears beneath his teeth, and Horangi bites back. Their teeth knock together, the edge of Horangi's scar tearing open anew, and he reaches down between them for König's cock, striping it quickly. It's not in unison, König coming quickly, near dry and trembling, and Horangi grinds deep before he comes, breaks the kiss to bite at König's until the bruise is bright red, blood pooling beneath the surface. König is a weight over his torso as Horangi carefully withdraws, barely moving as Horangi draws his mask back down and presses a kiss to his cheek. His legs are liquid as he stands, an inelegant scramble as he braces himself on the sofa, the walls, as he walks, his trousers loose around his hips. There's a few bottles of water in the cupboard, a handful of packaged protein bars, chocolate, and fruit. Horangi balances everything in a large bowl, adds a washcloth and snags a blanket from the sofa as he goes, letting his trousers drop and kicking them off as he tucks himself one handed back into his boxes. It's a clumsy effort but König sighs as he draws the blanket over him, hiking it high around his hips before Horangi cleans him up carefully, dampening the washcloth with the water before he wipes it over König's thighs and belly. He can't resist pressing his fingers against König's arse and drawing his hole wide, nudging his thumb against it. "What are you doing?" König mumbles and Horangi hums gently, his thoughts slow and sticky. They have time, a few glorious days of fucking and rest. "Making plans," Horangi says. "But first, eat something, sleep." He returns to König's head, sits down and draws König's head onto his lap. König huffs out a quiet laugh, reaching for the bowl and unwrapping a protein bar with a rustle of plastic before he tucks his hand under his mask to eat. "I like these." "Lucky guess," Horangi says with a shrug, biting back a grin as he'd chosen them specifically, watched König until he was certain. Luck would get him so far, blessed and golden, and desperate longing will carry him the rest of the way.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75700796	{"authors": ["keylimemagpie (QuickSilverFox3)"], "language": "English", "title": "push your luck"}
rainy weather The rain poured heavily outside as Pearl stepped inside the coach shed, rain dripping off of her and onto the floor. The weather had been the same pretty much since the day began and Pearl had been on a shift for most of it, meaning she had been stuck in the horrible weather. She would definitely be feeling the effects of this tomorrow, but other than being cold she didn't feel too bad just yet. She just wanted to have a nice warm shower and crawl into bed, something she had been thinking about doing since she had started to travel home. Pearl shut the door behind her, having made a small puddle of rain on the floor from where she had been standing. She hoped that it would dry off on its own; she really didn't want one of the others slipping on it when they came back later, but she was also way too exhausted to mop it up. She began to skate towards the bathroom, fantasizing about the warm shower she was about to have, before she let out a small sneeze. Great, she was already developing a cold. She hated colds. She couldn't dwell on it for long though, the shower was practically calling her name. Pearl had almost made it to the bathroom, before she was stopped by two hands suddenly appearing on her shoulders and swivelling her around. Dinah kept her hands on Pearl's shoulders, looking into her eyes with concern. Confused, Pearl met her gaze. "Pearl," Dinah said bluntly. "Dinah…?" Pearl replied, still confused. She honestly didn't know Dinah was home, if she did she would've said hi when she came in. "Do you have a cold?" Dinah questioned, cocking her head. "I think I'm getting one? But I'm fine right now, why?" Suddenly, Dinah removed her hands from Pearl's shoulders and pointed towards the small sofa in their living room. Pearl looked at where she was pointing, before looking back at Dinah, still feeling confused. "Wh-" "Sit. I'm making you soup," Dinah ordered. Pearl should've known this was where the conversation was going; if there was one thing Dinah liked to do it was making food for her sick friends, and obviously her girlfriend was no different. Sure, she wasn't sick yet, but she wasn't about to refuse Dinah's cooking. "If you insist," Pearl said, smiling and making her way to the sofa. Dinah immediately got to work, rushing to the kitchen and getting the ingredients for the soup. From what Pearl could tell from watching all the way on the sofa, she was making a simple chicken noodle soup, one of Pearl's favourites. She smiled to herself; she had always loved and admired how effortlessly Dinah was able to remember everyone's favourite foods, it sometimes felt like she had an encyclopedia in her brain dedicated to it. She continued watching Dinah cook, it was always nice watching her in her element. She glanced back at Pearl every now and then, still looking concerned but with a hint of affection in her eyes too. After around twenty minutes, the soup was finished. Pearl could smell it from where she was sitting on the sofa, the pleasant aroma filling her with bliss and confirming that the soup was going to taste as nice as usual, if not better. Dinah picked it up and started approaching the sofa, leading Pearl to turn back around and get into a more comfortable position in preparation. Dinah soon appeared, sitting next to Pearl and handing her the warm bowl of soup and a large spoon. She was about to cosy in next to her, before she jumped up abruptly. "Wait!" Dinah blurted out, rushing down the hall towards the bedrooms. Pearl watched her go, her hands being warmed by the soup but not making any effort to eat it, being too confused by whatever Dinah had rushed off to do. She wasn't left confused for too long though, as Dinah soon reappeared again, carrying a blanket in her arms. She sat down at Pearl's side again and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, being very careful to avoid the soup spilling. The blanket instantly warmed Pearl's shoulders and soon her whole self, even more than the soup had already. She hadn't realised how cold she was when she first came in, but being warmed up this much brought her a lot of comfort. Pearl held the soup up with one hand, putting the spoon into it and then into her mouth. She could see Dinah looking at her expectantly from the corner of her eye, most definitely waiting for her reaction. After a few seconds, the taste of the soup hit her tongue, and to say it was delicious would be an understatement. Pearl didn't think Dinah's cooking could be any better than it already was, but she definitely thought wrong. Pearl didn't even know that food could taste this good. "So, what do you think?" Dinah asked. Pearl turned her head towards her, eyes almost glittering. "Dinah, this is incredible," she exclaimed, turning back and continuing to eat. "Why, thank you," Dinah replied, sounding very flattered and slightly giggling. "I'm glad you think so. I've been experimenting with the recipe recently, I've been wanting to make it perfect for you." She muttered the last part, flushing slightly. Pearl still heard her though, looking up to meet her eyes. "Really?" she asked, and Dinah nodded bashfully. "Dinah!" she exclaimed, wrapping one arm around Dinah's waist and bringing her in closer, being careful to avoid spilling the remnants of the soup. Dinah let out a small surprised noise, but leaned into the touch. Pearl continued eating the soup; it was a little more difficult to do one handed as she kept her arm around Dinah's waist, but she managed by resting it on her legs instead of holding it. Every mouthful was better than the last, Pearl would very happily eat Dinah's cooking for the rest of her life. She swallowed the last of the soup, putting it down on the small table in front of them. Pearl adjusted herself to wrap both of her arms around Dinah, curling her legs onto the sofa and leaning more into her side. "Thank you." Pearl smiled, her eyes slowly beginning to close as she began to drift off. "Always," Dinah replied, leaning into Pearl and beginning to fall asleep herself. The two of them soon fell asleep together to the calming sound of rain hitting the outside of the shed, their dreams filled with warmth.	rainy weather The rain poured heavily outside as Pearl stepped inside the coach shed, rain dripping off of her and onto the floor. The weather had been the same pretty much since the day began and Pearl had been on a shift for most of it, meaning she had been stuck in the horrible weather. She would definitely be feeling the effects of this tomorrow, but other than being cold she didn't feel too bad just yet. She just wanted to have a nice warm shower and crawl into bed, something she had been thinking about doing since she had started to travel home. Pearl shut the door behind her, having made a small puddle of rain on the floor from where she had been standing. She hoped that it would dry off on its own; she really didn't want one of the others slipping on it when they came back later, but she was also way too exhausted to mop it up. She began to skate towards the bathroom, fantasizing about the warm shower she was about to have, before she let out a small sneeze. Great, she was already developing a cold. She hated colds. She couldn't dwell on it for long though, the shower was practically calling her name. Pearl had almost made it to the bathroom, before she was stopped by two hands suddenly appearing on her shoulders and swivelling her around. Dinah kept her hands on Pearl's shoulders, looking into her eyes with concern. Confused, Pearl met her gaze. "Pearl," Dinah said bluntly. "Dinah…?" Pearl replied, still confused. She honestly didn't know Dinah was home, if she did she would've said hi when she came in. "Do you have a cold?" Dinah questioned, cocking her head. "I think I'm getting one? But I'm fine right now, why?" Suddenly, Dinah removed her hands from Pearl's shoulders and pointed towards the small sofa in their living room. Pearl looked at where she was pointing, before looking back at Dinah, still feeling confused. "Wh-" "Sit. I'm making you soup," Dinah ordered. Pearl should've known this was where the conversation was going; if there was one thing Dinah liked to do it was making food for her sick friends, and obviously her girlfriend was no different. Sure, she wasn't sick yet, but she wasn't about to refuse Dinah's cooking. "If you insist," Pearl said, smiling and making her way to the sofa. Dinah immediately got to work, rushing to the kitchen and getting the ingredients for the soup. From what Pearl could tell from watching all the way on the sofa, she was making a simple chicken noodle soup, one of Pearl's favourites. She smiled to herself; she had always loved and admired how effortlessly Dinah was able to remember everyone's favourite foods, it sometimes felt like she had an encyclopedia in her brain dedicated to it. She continued watching Dinah cook, it was always nice watching her in her element. She glanced back at Pearl every now and then, still looking concerned but with a hint of affection in her eyes too. After around twenty minutes, the soup was finished. Pearl could smell it from where she was sitting on the sofa, the pleasant aroma filling her with bliss and confirming that the soup was going to taste as nice as usual, if not better. Dinah picked it up and started approaching the sofa, leading Pearl to turn back around and get into a more comfortable position in preparation. Dinah soon appeared, sitting next to Pearl and handing her the warm bowl of soup and a large spoon. She was about to cosy in next to her, before she jumped up abruptly. "Wait!" Dinah blurted out, rushing down the hall towards the bedrooms. Pearl watched her go, her hands being warmed by the soup but not making any effort to eat it, being too confused by whatever Dinah had rushed off to do. She wasn't left confused for too long though, as Dinah soon reappeared again, carrying a blanket in her arms. She sat down at Pearl's side again and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, being very careful to avoid the soup spilling. The blanket instantly warmed Pearl's shoulders and soon her whole self, even more than the soup had already. She hadn't realised how cold she was when she first came in, but being warmed up this much brought her a lot of comfort. Pearl held the soup up with one hand, putting the spoon into it and then into her mouth. She could see Dinah looking at her expectantly from the corner of her eye, most definitely waiting for her reaction. After a few seconds, the taste of the soup hit her tongue, and to say it was delicious would be an understatement. Pearl didn't think Dinah's cooking could be any better than it already was, but she definitely thought wrong. Pearl didn't even know that food could taste this good. "So, what do you think?" Dinah asked. Pearl turned her head towards her, eyes almost glittering. "Dinah, this is incredible," she exclaimed, turning back and continuing to eat. "Why, thank you," Dinah replied, sounding very flattered and slightly giggling. "I'm glad you think so. I've been experimenting with the recipe recently, I've been wanting to make it perfect for you." She muttered the last part, flushing slightly. Pearl still heard her though, looking up to meet her eyes. "Really?" she asked, and Dinah nodded bashfully. "Dinah!" she exclaimed, wrapping one arm around Dinah's waist and bringing her in closer, being careful to avoid spilling the remnants of the soup. Dinah let out a small surprised noise, but leaned into the touch. Pearl continued eating the soup; it was a little more difficult to do one handed as she kept her arm around Dinah's waist, but she managed by resting it on her legs instead of holding it. Every mouthful was better than the last, Pearl would very happily eat Dinah's cooking for the rest of her life. She swallowed the last of the soup, putting it down on the small table in front of them. Pearl adjusted herself to wrap both of her arms around Dinah, curling her legs onto the sofa and leaning more into her side. "Thank you." Pearl smiled, her eyes slowly beginning to close as she began to drift off. "Always," Dinah replied, leaning into Pearl and beginning to fall asleep herself. The two of them soon fell asleep together to the calming sound of rain hitting the outside of the shed, their dreams filled with warmth.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75700811	{"authors": ["susiedeltarune"], "language": "English", "title": "rainy weather"}
Catharsis You look at your reflection in the full-length mirror in the lair, the glass framed in ornate gold that glimmers in the candlelight as your gloved hands smooth down your black fencing jacket and breeches - wonderful fabric, thick and dense, tailored by Erik specifically to protect you, the material hugging your body with perfect precision. “Is everything to your liking?” You hear his velvet voice from behind you, low and smooth, sending a shiver down your spine. You turn around, your breath catching as Erik walks towards you, his presence commanding the room with effortless grace, a vision of dark elegance. “It's…” your voice falters as you take in the sight of him: a loosely fitted black shirt hugs his broad shoulders, open at the collar to reveal the dark chest hair dusting his skin, tight black trousers outlining his muscular thighs, black leather gloves and boots reflecting the candlelight, dark hairpiece styled back, his pristine white half-mask a stark contrast to his shadowy attire - every bit the alluring, mysterious Phantom you fell for. “...Gorgeous,” you breathe. He smiles faintly, the curve of his full lips making your knees weak. “Hold still,” he murmurs as he presents the metal mesh mask for face protection, the wire thin yet sturdy. “We would not want your lovely face to end up as marred as mine,” he adds softly, his gloved fingers brushing the sensitive skin of your neck as he fastens it around you, the mesh slightly uncomfortable yet secure, the world viewed through its fine grid a little distorted but clear enough. “Are you not going to protect yours?” you ask, worried, reaching out and placing your gloved hand on his smooth exposed cheek, your index finger tracing his sharp cheekbone. Erik smiles at you, his mismatched eyes softening behind the porcelain mask as he takes your hand and presses a kiss to the center of your gloved palm, his lips warm and lingering. “Take no offense, my dear, but I doubt you will be able to cause any damage,” he murmurs, voice a gentle caress that wraps around you like silk. “This,” - he points at his half-mask, “is to prevent abrasion.” He's right, of course - he weighs much more than you, his height as intimidating as his broad, strong body. You don't stand a chance. “Go easy on me, will you?” you say quietly, your nerves alight with fear and anticipation. “Oh?” Erik breathes, his voice dropping an octave, lips curling into a smirk that makes your breath catch, eyes gleaming with dark amusement behind the mask. “That is not what you usually ask of me.” You try not to lose your breath already as he offers you the foil, and you take it carefully - it's lighter than expected, elegant, balanced, the hilt smooth under your gloved fingers, the weight perfectly distributed. His hands are on yours immediately, one steadying your wrist with a firm grip, the other adjusting your hold on the hilt. “Now,” he murmurs as he steps back, giving you space yet never breaking the spell, his voice a velvet command, “try a guard stance.” You shift your weight, feet finding the position he taught you - knees bent, foil raised, one foot behind the other. Erik moves behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his chest brushing your back as his hand slides along your arm, correcting its angle, his touch firm and confident. “Relax your shoulder,” he murmurs against your mesh-covered ear, “feel the line from your hip through your arm.” He shifts your weight, gently nudges your knee with the side of his boot, straightens your spine with two gloved fingertips along your back. “There,” he murmurs, voice smooth as silk. He takes his place in front of you, foil raised, and your heart rate triples. “On my mark.” he murmurs, “Defend.” The first pass is slow, almost gentle - Erik demonstrates the advance, the lunge, the recovery - every motion fluid, controlled, lethal in its grace, his thighs flexing beneath his black trousers as he lunges, the muscle bunching and rippling, his shirt pulling tighter across his chest, outlining every breath. You barely have time to gasp before he flicks his wrist again in a light, testing strike - nowhere near enough to harm, but enough to make you panic. He moves with a deadly kind of confidence, but your blade rises instinctively, and steel meets steel with a sharp, ringing chime. “Good,” Erik says, “but you moved too wide. Again - lift your wrist.” This time when you lunge, he parries with a whisper of steel, then ripostes so smoothly that the button of his foil kisses the center of your chest. He holds the point there, eyes locked on yours. “Do not look at your foil, my dear. Look at me.” You take his advice, but it does not help you in the slightest. His thighs flex and release beneath the tight black trousers with every lunge and recovery, the fabric outlining every curve. His eyes burn into yours behind your metal mask, intense and unblinking, a predator’s focus that makes your pulse race. When he advances, the movement is fluid, his hips shifting with controlled power, his black shirt pulling open just a bit more as if to taunt you, his lips parting slightly on each measured exhale, full and inviting. The next passes are faster, fiercer. Erik moves before you even register the shift of his weight, and in a flash of movement, your blade is knocked aside with effortless superiority. You stumble back, breath catching. He presses forward, his presence overwhelming - every step he takes is smooth, predatory, and when you lift your sword again, he is already there, closing the distance. He disarms you with a flick of his wrist. Your back meets the wall. Your breath stutters, and your foil clatters away. “Your guard is too open,” Erik murmurs as he steps in close, the words trickling down your spine like honey as the length of his body pins yours gently but inescapably against the cool stone wall. His forearm braces against the wall above your head, his foil clinking against the stone as his thigh slides forward between yours - powerful, steady, the pressure enough to make your knees weaken. “Do not surrender your ground…” he lowers his voice further, “unless you intend to.” Your lungs fail you as you look up into his eyes - he examines you with intense, beautiful focus, his free hand coming to rest on your shoulder, then deliberately sliding down the front of your body, lingering on the center of your heaving chest, the pressure gentle and warm even through multiple layers of clothing. Your eyes dart towards the enticing V of his open collar - you can't resist the temptation, drawn towards the patch of dark hair, already reaching out to weave your gloved fingertips through the thick curls. “Let's continue,” Erik murmurs, and your gaze lifts to find his full lips curled into the most devastating smirk, “Before either of us loses composure." He steps back once more, rolling his broad shoulders with fluid grace, the black shirt shifting over the taut muscle beneath as he smooths his dark hair back with his free hand, gloved fingers gliding down the side of his neck in a slow, tantalizing caress that draws your gaze like a magnet, sending a shiver through you that clenches your hands into fists and presses your thighs together in aching need. The lesson continues - and your resolve crumbles. His posture never falters - shoulders square, chin lifted, spine perfectly straight - as he advances with a single, soundless step that seems to cut the distance between you without effort. His long fingers tighten around the foil’s grip, his solid, defined muscles flexing as he pushes forward with the grace and power of a panther. Every step is a fluid shift of muscle and precision, each stride radiates controlled strength - chest rising with steady, disciplined breaths, the foil in his hand a natural extension of his body, gliding through the air effortlessly- In one fluid blur he disarms you with a twist of his wrist, and your blade is swept aside with expert ease. You stumble back one step, then two, trying to keep your footing, but the next moment your wrist is caught, your balance taken as he hooks his leg behind yours, and lowers you to the mat. His body follows, and your back meets the floor with a soft thud, breath punched out of you as his weight settles above you, thighs bracketing your hips as he straddles you, pinning you beneath his weight, one of his large hands pressing down on the center of your chest, piercing eyes holding you captive as much as his powerful body. Your core throbs. Erik towers above you like a dark colossus, his thighs strong around you, the weight of him both protective and overwhelming, every line of his body humming with restrained power as he looks down at you through the shadows of his mask. A broken moan slips from your throat, and your hands reach out to touch his thighs, gloved fingers digging into the muscle through the fabric, your eyes locking on his with pure, unfiltered desire as you test the strength of his hold, struggling against it - and he answers instantly, lowering his weight a little more, enough for you to feel exactly how thoroughly he has you pinned, how easily he could keep you there, his powerful thighs clamping around your hips, the muscle firm and hard like warm steel beneath your palms, the pressure exquisite, inescapable. “Ruin me,” you gasp breathlessly, letting go of his thighs to fumble with the fastenings of your fencing mask, your chest heaving with ragged gasps. “Please,” you add, lifting the metal mesh from your face and dropping it beside you with trembling hands as you look up into his dark, wild eyes without the pesky obstruction, drinking in the sight of his fiery intensity. A low, dark growl erupts from the back of Erik's throat, raw and feral, vibrating into your body where his weight pins you to the mat, the thick muscle of his thighs flexing hard on either side of your hips. His pupils are blown wide behind the half-mask, his breath coming in ragged bursts as his	Catharsis You look at your reflection in the full-length mirror in the lair, the glass framed in ornate gold that glimmers in the candlelight as your gloved hands smooth down your black fencing jacket and breeches - wonderful fabric, thick and dense, tailored by Erik specifically to protect you, the material hugging your body with perfect precision. “Is everything to your liking?” You hear his velvet voice from behind you, low and smooth, sending a shiver down your spine. You turn around, your breath catching as Erik walks towards you, his presence commanding the room with effortless grace, a vision of dark elegance. “It's…” your voice falters as you take in the sight of him: a loosely fitted black shirt hugs his broad shoulders, open at the collar to reveal the dark chest hair dusting his skin, tight black trousers outlining his muscular thighs, black leather gloves and boots reflecting the candlelight, dark hairpiece styled back, his pristine white half-mask a stark contrast to his shadowy attire - every bit the alluring, mysterious Phantom you fell for. “...Gorgeous,” you breathe. He smiles faintly, the curve of his full lips making your knees weak. “Hold still,” he murmurs as he presents the metal mesh mask for face protection, the wire thin yet sturdy. “We would not want your lovely face to end up as marred as mine,” he adds softly, his gloved fingers brushing the sensitive skin of your neck as he fastens it around you, the mesh slightly uncomfortable yet secure, the world viewed through its fine grid a little distorted but clear enough. “Are you not going to protect yours?” you ask, worried, reaching out and placing your gloved hand on his smooth exposed cheek, your index finger tracing his sharp cheekbone. Erik smiles at you, his mismatched eyes softening behind the porcelain mask as he takes your hand and presses a kiss to the center of your gloved palm, his lips warm and lingering. “Take no offense, my dear, but I doubt you will be able to cause any damage,” he murmurs, voice a gentle caress that wraps around you like silk. “This,” - he points at his half-mask, “is to prevent abrasion.” He's right, of course - he weighs much more than you, his height as intimidating as his broad, strong body. You don't stand a chance. “Go easy on me, will you?” you say quietly, your nerves alight with fear and anticipation. “Oh?” Erik breathes, his voice dropping an octave, lips curling into a smirk that makes your breath catch, eyes gleaming with dark amusement behind the mask. “That is not what you usually ask of me.” You try not to lose your breath already as he offers you the foil, and you take it carefully - it's lighter than expected, elegant, balanced, the hilt smooth under your gloved fingers, the weight perfectly distributed. His hands are on yours immediately, one steadying your wrist with a firm grip, the other adjusting your hold on the hilt. “Now,” he murmurs as he steps back, giving you space yet never breaking the spell, his voice a velvet command, “try a guard stance.” You shift your weight, feet finding the position he taught you - knees bent, foil raised, one foot behind the other. Erik moves behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his chest brushing your back as his hand slides along your arm, correcting its angle, his touch firm and confident. “Relax your shoulder,” he murmurs against your mesh-covered ear, “feel the line from your hip through your arm.” He shifts your weight, gently nudges your knee with the side of his boot, straightens your spine with two gloved fingertips along your back. “There,” he murmurs, voice smooth as silk. He takes his place in front of you, foil raised, and your heart rate triples. “On my mark.” he murmurs, “Defend.” The first pass is slow, almost gentle - Erik demonstrates the advance, the lunge, the recovery - every motion fluid, controlled, lethal in its grace, his thighs flexing beneath his black trousers as he lunges, the muscle bunching and rippling, his shirt pulling tighter across his chest, outlining every breath. You barely have time to gasp before he flicks his wrist again in a light, testing strike - nowhere near enough to harm, but enough to make you panic. He moves with a deadly kind of confidence, but your blade rises instinctively, and steel meets steel with a sharp, ringing chime. “Good,” Erik says, “but you moved too wide. Again - lift your wrist.” This time when you lunge, he parries with a whisper of steel, then ripostes so smoothly that the button of his foil kisses the center of your chest. He holds the point there, eyes locked on yours. “Do not look at your foil, my dear. Look at me.” You take his advice, but it does not help you in the slightest. His thighs flex and release beneath the tight black trousers with every lunge and recovery, the fabric outlining every curve. His eyes burn into yours behind your metal mask, intense and unblinking, a predator’s focus that makes your pulse race. When he advances, the movement is fluid, his hips shifting with controlled power, his black shirt pulling open just a bit more as if to taunt you, his lips parting slightly on each measured exhale, full and inviting. The next passes are faster, fiercer. Erik moves before you even register the shift of his weight, and in a flash of movement, your blade is knocked aside with effortless superiority. You stumble back, breath catching. He presses forward, his presence overwhelming - every step he takes is smooth, predatory, and when you lift your sword again, he is already there, closing the distance. He disarms you with a flick of his wrist. Your back meets the wall. Your breath stutters, and your foil clatters away. “Your guard is too open,” Erik murmurs as he steps in close, the words trickling down your spine like honey as the length of his body pins yours gently but inescapably against the cool stone wall. His forearm braces against the wall above your head, his foil clinking against the stone as his thigh slides forward between yours - powerful, steady, the pressure enough to make your knees weaken. “Do not surrender your ground…” he lowers his voice further, “unless you intend to.” Your lungs fail you as you look up into his eyes - he examines you with intense, beautiful focus, his free hand coming to rest on your shoulder, then deliberately sliding down the front of your body, lingering on the center of your heaving chest, the pressure gentle and warm even through multiple layers of clothing. Your eyes dart towards the enticing V of his open collar - you can't resist the temptation, drawn towards the patch of dark hair, already reaching out to weave your gloved fingertips through the thick curls. “Let's continue,” Erik murmurs, and your gaze lifts to find his full lips curled into the most devastating smirk, “Before either of us loses composure." He steps back once more, rolling his broad shoulders with fluid grace, the black shirt shifting over the taut muscle beneath as he smooths his dark hair back with his free hand, gloved fingers gliding down the side of his neck in a slow, tantalizing caress that draws your gaze like a magnet, sending a shiver through you that clenches your hands into fists and presses your thighs together in aching need. The lesson continues - and your resolve crumbles. His posture never falters - shoulders square, chin lifted, spine perfectly straight - as he advances with a single, soundless step that seems to cut the distance between you without effort. His long fingers tighten around the foil’s grip, his solid, defined muscles flexing as he pushes forward with the grace and power of a panther. Every step is a fluid shift of muscle and precision, each stride radiates controlled strength - chest rising with steady, disciplined breaths, the foil in his hand a natural extension of his body, gliding through the air effortlessly- In one fluid blur he disarms you with a twist of his wrist, and your blade is swept aside with expert ease. You stumble back one step, then two, trying to keep your footing, but the next moment your wrist is caught, your balance taken as he hooks his leg behind yours, and lowers you to the mat. His body follows, and your back meets the floor with a soft thud, breath punched out of you as his weight settles above you, thighs bracketing your hips as he straddles you, pinning you beneath his weight, one of his large hands pressing down on the center of your chest, piercing eyes holding you captive as much as his powerful body. Your core throbs. Erik towers above you like a dark colossus, his thighs strong around you, the weight of him both protective and overwhelming, every line of his body humming with restrained power as he looks down at you through the shadows of his mask. A broken moan slips from your throat, and your hands reach out to touch his thighs, gloved fingers digging into the muscle through the fabric, your eyes locking on his with pure, unfiltered desire as you test the strength of his hold, struggling against it - and he answers instantly, lowering his weight a little more, enough for you to feel exactly how thoroughly he has you pinned, how easily he could keep you there, his powerful thighs clamping around your hips, the muscle firm and hard like warm steel beneath your palms, the pressure exquisite, inescapable. “Ruin me,” you gasp breathlessly, letting go of his thighs to fumble with the fastenings of your fencing mask, your chest heaving with ragged gasps. “Please,” you add, lifting the metal mesh from your face and dropping it beside you with trembling hands as you look up into his dark, wild eyes without the pesky obstruction, drinking in the sight of his fiery intensity. A low, dark growl erupts from the back of Erik's throat, raw and feral, vibrating into your body where his weight pins you to the mat, the thick muscle of his thighs flexing hard on either side of your hips. His pupils are blown wide behind the half-mask, his breath coming in ragged bursts as his intense stare devours you. “If you tell me to stop, I will,” he rasps, his voice low, rough and breathless at the edges. “I know,” you breathe, trusting him with your life even though he’s clearly as aroused as you are, the hard, throbbing length of him evident through the fabric of his tight trousers. “I won’t.” Your voice cracks, heart pounding with the force of your desire, thighs spreading wider beneath him of their own accord. Erik growls again as he lowers himself over you, the heat and weight of his body enveloping you as he braces his weight on one forearm beside your head while his other hand tangles in your hair, grasp tightening in a teasing pull that draws your head back, arching your neck and exposing your throat to his full lips as they press hot and open against your pulse point, the edge of the mask digging into your skin, his low moan rumbling through you like thunder. His thighs flex in a slow, sensual squeeze around your hips, the thick muscle clamping down just enough to pin you utterly, the heat of him searing through the fabric. You release an answering moan, raw and desperate as you reach for him, your hands sliding down his strong, sculpted arms, fingers digging into the hard curve of his biceps as his hot mouth latches onto the side of your neck - teeth grazing, tongue soothing, sucking hard enough to leave a blooming mark you’ll wear proudly for days. He relents, but only briefly, lifting his head to meet your gaze with eyes gone almost black with hunger, then his hands shift again, gloved fingers digging into the thick fabric of your fencing jacket with possessive urgency. He tears it apart in one fierce motion, the fabric parting with a sharp rip of stitches, buttons flying everywhere, clinking and scattering across the floor like metallic rain. His mouth is on your chest before you can gasp, hot and ravenous, gloved hand squeezing the soft flesh of one breast, leather gliding over sensitive skin as his lips close around the other, tongue swirling, lips suckling, humming deep in his throat with raw appreciation. His other hand slides down the front of your body, slow and firm, the leather of his glove rasping over the torn edges of your fencing jacket, across the skin of your belly, until his palm settles between your thighs, where he gives your core a possessive squeeze, ripping a desperate moan from your throat as you roll your hips into his grip. “Needy, shameless little thing,” Erik growls against your breasts, voice velvet-dark and powerful as his tongue flicks once more before he lifts his head, eyes burning, pupils dark with feral hunger, “begging me to ruin you.” He lifts his weight off you to kneel between your spread legs, his stare still pinning you more thoroughly than his thighs ever could. “Is there anything that you wouldn’t let me do to you?” His strong hands grasp your boots and pull them off your feet in one smooth, commanding motion. “No,” you gasp, the word torn from you on a ragged exhale as the leather slides down your calves. “I thought so…” Erik murmurs, lips curling into a dark, devastating smirk that makes your heart stutter as his long fingers hook into the waistband of your breeches and underwear, knuckles brushing the sensitive skin as he drags them down over your hips in a single, steady pull, the sudden bareness leaves you trembling, utterly open to him, his gaze raking over you like fire. You help him, lifting your hips and legs for him as you discard your gloves and hastily shrug out of your torn jacket, the thick fabric catching on your sweat-damp skin before falling away, leaving you exposed beneath his hungry gaze, completely vulnerable beneath the man who looks ready to devour you whole, your breath coming in shallow, shaky waves. One of his gloved hands takes hold of your thigh, fingers splaying wide to hold you open while his other hand moves right toward your center, two gloved fingers circling your entrance with firm, teasing pressure, the leather slick with your arousal, the texture a delicious friction against your sensitive nerves before he eases them inside you, the glide smooth and stimulating, warm leather stretching you, filling you, your eyelids fluttering in bliss, lips parting on breathy moans. “God, you are drenched,” Erik growls, voice rough with desire, his long fingers sliding deep, curling inside you to stroke your hidden spot with unerring precision, your walls clenching greedily around the leather. He withdraws his fingers entirely only to return with three of them thrusting into you, the stretch divine, a burning fullness, the leather gliding wonderfully, every ridge and seam dragging against your inner walls as he pumps slow and deep, your broken moans mingling with his ragged breaths. “Opening like a flower for me,” he murmurs, his voice deep with feral lust. You look up at him - his eyes are on fire, devouring your trembling form as his fingers plunge into you in a deep, sensual rhythm, the slick glide of leather against your velvet walls sending electric waves of pleasure through your core, every curl stroking that hidden spot without mercy. The muscles in his arm and shoulder flex with every controlled, precise thrust of his hand, his thumb sliding over your clit in firm, teasing circles that make your hips jerk, his other hand unrelenting on your thigh, holding you in place. It’s too good to endure. Pleasure coils impossibly tight and hot, and you come for him, a shattering moan spilling from your lips, raw and unrestrained, echoing off the walls as your thighs quiver uncontrollably, hips rolling up into his hand, chasing every pulse. “Oh, that’s it, my love,” Erik purrs, “Ride the waves.” His voice is softer now, a silky caress filled with adoration, his eyes never leaving yours, holding your gaze through the tingling contractions, the hungry intensity softening into tender worship as he watches you unravel. His fingers don’t relent, pumping hard through your climax, forcing a long string of moans from you as pleasure pulses over and over, your walls clenching around the leather in violent spasms. His thumb teases your firing clit, drawing out every aftershock until you start to twitch, oversensitive, tears of bliss pricking your eyes. Only when your convulsions ebb does he ease his fingers from you, the slow withdrawal a delicious ache, your core fluttering emptily as he removes his gloves, the leather peeling away to reveal his beautiful, elegant hands. You prop yourself up on your elbows, your chest still heaving from your climax as you watch Erik open his trousers and free his erection - he's rock-hard, thick, curved, flushed and pulsing, the sight causing a soft, needy sound to escape from the back of your throat. “Do you want this?” he murmurs, his voice deep and sinful as his large hand wraps around his shaft, “Claiming you? Filling you?” He strokes himself with deliberate relish, his fingers gliding up and down in slow, sensual motions, his thighs flexing as he kneels before you. You shift onto your hands and knees, crawling toward him, the cool air kissing your skin as you press your mouth against his swollen, flushed tip, lips parting to allow him to slip inside, salty precum coating your tongue in a heady rush. Erik releases a low moan, deep and resonant, his hand sliding into your hair, fingers threading through the strands with possessive tenderness. “Oh, you gorgeous, precious angel,” he purrs as he sits back on his heels, the movement making his thighs seem even thicker, the black fabric stretched taut over the powerful muscle, every curve outlined like sculpted steel wrapped in silk. You run your palms over them, fingers digging into the firm muscle beneath, feeling it flex and shift as he breathes. The taste of him floods your senses as you take him deeper, the weight of his arousal sliding over your tongue, heavy and throbbing, making you moan around him. “You're going to ruin me with your raw worship,” he rasps, voice dissolving into velvet gravel, his hips beginning to roll with small, gentle thrusts, the silky skin of his length gliding back and forth between your lips, slick and hot. You close your lips around him and suck fiercely, greedily, hollowing your cheeks, tongue swirling along the underside, desperate to feel every pulse, every throb, every vein, your eagerness making him moan in response, low and drawn-out, the sound of his voice sending a lightning through your core, his control slipping as he thrusts just a bit too hard, too far, the spongy tip hitting the back of your throat, making you gag. “Forgive me,” Erik breathes immediately, pulling back with tender haste, his warm hands cupping your face, his gaze wide with concern and adoration, lips parted on shaky breaths as he searches your face. “It's fine... I'm fine,” you gasp quickly, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush as you press your lips against his shaft, kissing the velvet skin with reverent hunger. “I wish I could take more…” Your voice trembles with desire as you slump in his lap, your cheek resting on his clothed thigh, the solid muscle radiating heat that seeps into your skin, your arms wrapping around his strong hips. “How much more?” Erik whispers as his hand caresses your upper back, fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns along your spine. “Everything. All of you,” you murmur before you kiss his thigh, lips pressing warm and open against the taut fabric, your breath hot as you nuzzle closer, the muscle flexing subtly under your touch. “You would let me take your mouth?” Erik's voice has dropped even lower, his tone making you shiver, his hand stilling on your back, fingers splaying wide. “I... I enjoy the thought of it,” you confess, hiding your blush by pressing your face deeper against his inner thigh, the warmth and strength of him overwhelming. You feel his hands cradle your cheeks, warm palms cupping your face with infinite tenderness as he gently coaxes your head up, tilting it until you meet his gaze. Those expressive eyes burn into yours behind the porcelain mask, fierce yet achingly soft. “I would never hurt you, or push you beyond what you can bear,” he says, voice low and silky, thumbs caressing your cheekbones in slow, soothing arcs that make your eyelids flutter. “But we can explore this fantasy - safely.” You nod faintly, the motion brushing your skin against his palms, and he pulls you up, one strong hand on your waist, the other sliding to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he leans in to press his lips against yours, warm and velvet-soft, the kiss slow and gentle, making your body melt into his chest. “Tell me,” Erik murmurs, his breath hot on your lips, “how does it unfold in your mind?” You close your eyes and lean your forehead against his, the cool porcelain of his mask soothing your fevered skin. “I would lie on my back…” you whisper, voice trembling with want. He hums in response, his hands shifting to grasp your hips with possessive care, guiding you upward until you straddle him on the mat, the material creaking softly beneath your combined weight. He pulls you close until your folds kiss his shaft - hot and throbbing against your core. “And you would be… above me,” you continue, steadying yourself with your hands on his broad shoulders, fingers sinking into the hard muscle beneath the dark shirt as you start to grind against his length - the thick, flushed shaft sliding slick between your folds, each slow roll of your hips dragging your clit against him. “You want me to be in control?” Erik's breath is hot against your lips as he guides your movements, hands warm and steady on your hips. “You want to be at my mercy?” “Yes…” you whisper, pressing your clit against him, fingers digging into his solid shoulders, nails biting through the fabric as pleasure coils tighter. “I want… I want your thighs on either side of my head…” “Of course you do,” Erik whispers before he presses a kiss to your lips, his tongue sweeping in to steal your breath. “I… I want you to use me as you desire,” you confess quietly, the words trembling out against his mouth, and he groans low in his throat, his hands slipping beneath your thighs in one fluid motion, lifting you as if you weigh nothing, the sudden shift making you gasp as he guides you onto his erection, easing you down with exquisite control, the blunt head parting your folds and stretching you open inch by burning inch. “My-” your voice falters as the heat of him fills you so completely, the stretch delicious and all-consuming, the slick glide overwhelming, every vein dragging against your walls until he’s seated deep. “My mouth a haven for your pleasure…” Your words dissolve into a gasp as he bottoms out, hips flush to yours, his length pulsing hot and heavy, pressing against your deepest spots, “a- and for your release…” Erik moans low and heated as he starts to take you in his lap, his large, strong hands under your thighs, lifting you without effort, moving you up and down on his thick length while thrusting gently, each deep glide filling you utterly, pressing against your sensitive walls. “I would fill you so deeply, so perfectly…” he breathes, voice a velvet growl. You sling your arms around his solid shoulders, fingers digging into the hard muscle beneath his shirt, your legs wrapping around his strong hips, letting him move you with that effortless power, each lift and drop sending jolts of pleasure pulsing through your core. “Surrounding you, invading you, claiming you until I am all you can see, all you can feel, all you can breathe,” Erik continues, thrusting up into you with fervent precision, each roll of his hips driving deeper, the pressure building against your sweet spot as you kiss his neck, lips warm and hungry against his skin. “Please…” you whimper, your voice muffled as you unbutton his shirt further with trembling fingers, the fabric parting to reveal more of the dark hair dusting the taut planes of his chest, and you lean down to drag your lips along his collarbone, then lower still to bury them in his chest hair, inhaling his scent deeply as you nuzzle and kiss, the unruly curls tickling your lips. He hums in deep appreciation, his hands tightening on your thighs, lifting you higher before pulling you down harder, the rhythm intensifying as pleasure coils tighter. “In this fantasy of yours… do you consume my release?” Erik rasps, voice gravel-rough and thick with barely leashed hunger, “Or do I mark you as mine?” His large hand slides to the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair before pressing your face into the coarse warmth of his chest hair, the rasp of it against your cheek and lips sending shivers racing down your spine. “Both… always both,” you breathe against the coarse hair, the words muffled, hot, desperate. He releases a feral growl that rumbles through his entire frame as he gives you a particularly hard thrust, punching the air from your lungs in a sharp cry, your walls clenching around him as pleasure spikes. “Let me give you some of that helpless surrender you crave,” he whispers darkly, and in one fluid surge of strength he takes you into his arms and lifts you, the world tilting as he turns you until you’re on hands and knees, facing the full-length mirror, your reflection staring back utterly wanton. He kneels behind you, his heat a furnace at your back, and bends over you, his strong hands taking hold of both your wrists, pulling them behind your back in a single, smooth motion, leaving you suspended in his grasp, back arched, completely at his mercy. “Feast your eyes, you wanton angel,” he growls against your ear, holding both your wrists in one of his large hands while the other fists gently in your hair, tugging until your neck arches and your gaze locks on the mirror. “Watch yourself be claimed.” Erik's burning eyes meet yours in the glass as he lines up and slides into you from behind in one long, smooth thrust, the stretch overwhelming, the angle devastating, filling you so completely your breath evades you, your body rocking forward with the force, lips parted on a breathy cry. His grip on your wrists tightens, holding you suspended, helpless, while his other hand keeps your head tilted back - you don’t look at yourself in the mirror, but you can’t tear your eyes away from him - his dark eyes blazing behind the mask, devouring you with feral possession, his broad shoulders flexing with each fierce thrust, his hips rolling in fluid motions as he drives into you, his lips parting with pleasure as he claims you relentlessly. “E- Erik…” you moan, the syllables distorted by the impact of his forceful thrusts, each one punching the air from your lungs, your voice dissolving into desperate cries as you spread your legs wider, thighs trembling as you open yourself fully, his balls kissing your clit, the wet, hot slap sending electric pleasure exploding through your core, his length stretching you to your limits with every deep plunge, throbbing hot and heavy inside you. “Scream my name, darling,” he growls, his voice deep as thunder as he pounds into you, thrusting with unrestrained power, his hand tightening in your hair, his eyes wild with lust and love. “Let all of Paris know who brings you to ecstasy!” You do scream for him, the sound tearing from your throat as you come hard, your body convulsing in his hold with divine agony, clenching around him in violent, pulsing spasms as he fills you with his seed, his moans primal and filthy as he stills deep inside, pumping you full in powerful surges, then starts thrusting again as if to push it deeper into you, his length throbbing with each pulse. His moans mingle with your breathless gasps in the afterglow, your body shaking, boneless and sated. He releases your hair and wraps his arm around your front, his warm palm splaying across your ribcage, pulling you back against his solid chest, the heat of his body a grounding anchor as he slips out of you slowly, a faint trickle of his release seeping from your core. You slump against his chest, your head dropping back onto his shoulder as you melt into him, his breath warm and ragged against your temple. “You are perfect - divine, my angel, so good for me, so brave and honest…” Erik purrs, his hand roaming all over you, fingers sliding down your side, over your hip, caressing every inch with reverent possession. “Are you alright?” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear, “Any unpleasant ache?” “I feel incredible,” you breathe, your voice hoarse and raw from your cries, a soft smile curving your lips as you turn your head to press your lips against his sharp jawline beneath the edge of the mask. “Mhh, so do I,” he murmurs, voice thick with adoration as he leans in to kiss your forehead, his lips soft and lingering. “Do you need anything? Water? Food? A blanket?” he whispers against your skin, his breath stirring your hair, his hand reaching between your bodies to tuck himself back into his trousers. “Just hold me,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut. “Of course, always,” Erik whispers, his voice a velvet caress, his arm sweeping beneath your thighs with effortless strength and lifting you, the movement making you gasp softly. He lies down with you in his arms, your body fully on top of his, settling back onto the mat and pulling you close against his chest, his thighs framing yours as he tucks you into his embrace. You curl into him, bare skin pressed flush against his solid chest, the faint rasp of his chest hair tickling your skin as you nestle closer, your legs trapped between his powerful thighs, the muscle flexing gently to cage you in a delicious, possessive hold. Your face presses into the curve of his neck, inhaling the intoxicating warmth of his scent as his hands stroke your back, fingers tracing soothing patterns along your spine, igniting gentle tingles that ease the lingering ache of your climax, his heartbeat syncing with yours. “Did you enjoy the lesson?” Erik asks, his tone soft yet teasing, his hands never pausing their caress, one sliding up to cradle the nape of your neck. “Before we… succumbed.” “It was… it was lovely,” you breathe, your voice hoarse and sated, your hand playing with his chest hair, fingers twirling the dark, coarse strands. “We can keep practicing, but I don’t think I’ll ever be a worthy opponent.” Who even is, when faced with him - his imposing height, his incredible strength, his feline grace - it would overwhelm anyone. He chuckles, the sound rich and warm, his arms and thighs tightening around you, the muscle flexing with gentle possession, pinning you closer in a cocoon of heat and safety. “Your greatest strength may lie in your ability to surrender so enticingly,” he murmurs, voice dropping to a seductive whisper, lips brushing your ear. “It certainly is one way to bring your opponents to their knees.” His words wrap around you like silk, laced with adoration and a hint of playful menace, but something about his phrasing doesn’t sit right with you, a faint sting beneath the warmth of his words. You prop yourself up on his chest, your palms pressing into the firm muscle beneath the damp curls of his chest hair. The candlelight flickers across his masked face, his eyes meeting yours. “Do you believe I’d surrender to anyone but you?” you ask, voice soft but steady. Erik doesn’t respond, his lips parted, breath shallow, expression unreadable behind the mask, the air between you charged with unspoken weight. You shift higher, your thighs still trembling faintly from earlier as you look at him, searching his gaze. “Do you believe I’d let another man touch me?” Your voice is quieter now, laced with a tender urgency. He just stares, lips parted wider now, his eyes flickering with something raw - disbelief, perhaps, or fear. His silence cuts deeper than words. “Oh, Erik…” you murmur, letting your forehead drop against his collarbone, the warm, smooth skin there a comfort as you breathe him in, your heart clenching with the need to make him understand. “I’ve never truly wanted anyone until I met you,” you confess, voice trembling, your lips brushing his skin as you speak. “My darling…” he breathes, voice low and steady as his hand closes around yours, fingers intertwining, holding tight. “You flatter me, and I treasure every single moment that you spend with me, but…” he pauses, his breath catching, the faint tremor in his grip betraying the storm within, “one day, you will wake, and realize that you deserve someone better.” Your heart sinks, a cold weight settling in your chest, your mind reeling as his words cut deeper than any blade, his voice measured yet laced with the pain of lifelong loneliness. “Someone who can stand beside you in broad daylight, where you belong,” Erik continues, his thumb stroking your palm in slow, soothing circles, grounding you even as his words tear at your heart. “Someone whose face does not terrify those unlucky enough to glimpse it.” You look up, meeting his gaze again. “You think I love you despite who you are…” you murmur, voice heavy with conviction as you reach up, letting your palm rest against the smooth surface of his mask. “But I love you because of who you are. I do not want anyone else. I do not love anyone else. I want you. Only you. Always you.” Your fingers tremble as you carefully remove his mask, the porcelain slipping away, revealing the asymmetrical beauty of his face - the mottled, uneven flesh you adore, warm and alive under your palm. His heart rate picks up, a frantic thud that matches your own, his breath catching as vulnerability floods his gaze. “I see all of you,” you whisper, voice fierce with love, “and I choose you - with all my heart.” His eyes shimmer in the candlelight, lips trembling as a single teardrop escapes, tracing an uneven ridge of his cheek. Your thumb brushes the dampness, tender and reverent. “In fact, I… I want you to-” You hesitate for a second, the words fluttering on the tip of your tongue, unsure how he will react - you’re not supposed to be the one to ask this. “What are you saying?” Erik's breath shudders, a sound that slices straight through your heart. He’s breaking, right there beneath you, those intense eyes now softened by a whirlwind of emotion. “I want you to marry me,” you say, voice quiet but firm, the words steady even as your own heart threatens to burst. His breath catches on a soft, broken sound, his brows knit together in raw, disbelieving agony, his chest heaving beneath you, his full lips trembling as silent sobs shake his powerful frame. “Take me as yours - as your wife. Bound for eternity,” you implore, tears threatening to spill over your own lashes as your fingers brush the wet paths on his cheeks. He stares at you, lips parted and shaking, breath coming in ragged, disbelieving gasps. “I… I do not- you cannot-” his voice wavers, breaking on every syllable, centuries of loneliness and self-loathing crashing against the gift you’re offering. Tears spill, silent and hot, sliding down his face, his eyes wide and glassy, searching yours. “Hush,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth, his bloated bottom lip soft and quivering, his heart thundering in his chest. “Say yes,” you breathe as you caress his face, tracing the uneven contours of his rough cheek with tender reverence. “Just say yes.” Your voice is a soft, soothing murmur as you lean down to kiss his torn cheek, lips pressing warm and lingering against the ridged skin. Erik takes a long, shuddering breath, his chest heaving against yours. “Yes…” he says on an exhale, his voice raw and unsteady. You wrap your arms around him, pressing close, and a broken sob tears from his throat as he buries his face against your neck, his breath hot and uneven as his arms tighten around you with desperation and worship, fingers digging into your back as if afraid you’ll vanish, his entire body shaking in your embrace as sobs wrack him. You hold him through every tear, every breath, every ounce of disbelief finally melting away under your touch.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75700816	{"authors": ["celebrain"], "language": "English", "title": "Catharsis"}
T4T Hookup Miranda had dow like features and mousy brown hair that only has memories of a curling iron. She stood the tallest of all the women but the shortest of all the men. She wasn’t more than a year into hormones, her upper arms hadn’t given up yet, but the rest of her body was well developed and curvier than she ever was. She stood in a black dress, tight around the waist and loose everywhere else, looking around the room for anything of note, hoping that this night wouldn’t just end alone again. Her eyes met the face of a guy with a well cut body but a boyish face with an adult attitude. His hair wasn’t brown, but not quite black, not curly, but not quite straight, above an impressive jawline. Miranda noticed her friend talking to this boy and decided to walk up to them. “Maia, where have you been, I’ve been looking all over for you.” “Oh well I was-” Miranda turned to the man, slightly below eye level, and said. “Hi, I’m Miranda and you are?” “Danny” He said shaking her hand. From his voice she looked him up and down and wondered if he was also trans. “Where are you from?” “I’m from Arizona, but it’s my friends, one of the guys on the debate team.” “Cool, do you go to college? What’s your major?” “No, I’m a trade school I…” Miranda wanted desperately to rip them both out of benign small talk, her eyes fixated on his soft lips, she looked down, feeling her heart in her chest, wondering if she felt his, what his muscles would feel like. “Mhm. Mhm.” “...Mhm as in yes, or mhm as in you're thinking about it?” “what?” “I asked what’s you’re major” “...right…I know a spot, do you wanna go…with me?” “Sure” he said as if he thought she was growing bored of him. She walked him away from the noise, past other people on the skybridge with the same idea of getting close to one another and down a flight of stairs. She pushed open a door to a small cement patio underneath one of the skybridges, with no trails, cameras or anything other than an ornate bench. “I don’t even know how many people know about this spot, I only found it after getting lost in my freshmen second week.” He sat down, awkwardly holding his red solo cup with both hands, slumped down with legs spread apart. “It’s a bit cold.” He said like a dumbass. “I can warm you up," she said, sitting next to him, wrapping one of her legs around his, resting her arm and head close to his. “What did you say you did in trade school?” She asked. “Car mechanic, technically just a mechanic, but I work pretty much with just cars.” “Is that why you’ve got more muscles than most of the men here?” she said gingerly, grazing his arms with her hands. “You seem interested in…me, you should know..I am trans.” “..So what, so am I.” He looked at her up and down like she offered to let him do anything to her. He lent in for a kiss, chasing it with more as he gently held the side of her head, diving his fingers through her hair, grazing the back of her ear with his thumb and teasing the top of the back of her neck with his pinky, making her feel liquid and feminine. She slid on top of him, arching her back, feeling the muscles in his arm and neck, embracing him, trying to replicate their first kiss as many times as possible. She felt his hands move over her dress and squeeze her thighs and ass. She let one of her hands go up his shirt and feel his muscles like she wanted to, like she needed to. His chest made her get slightly hard and involuntarily start to grind. He had no hesitation, cupping one of her breasts, gently thumbing the nipple. She gasped, slamming a grasp onto the rail of the bench and gripped as she softly moaned. He was intoxicated by her body and the soft moans she would whisper in his ears; he slid off her tucking panties, spit into his hand and started teasing her with his fingers. She threw her head back and her whole body rocked. She felt electrified in how much more sensitive she became after starting transition and how freeing it felt to have all of that now at the mercy of a man. She ran her hand up the back of his head, letting a moan ride on top of her every breath. “Oh-h fuck, unhh, Danny” The stimulation of his cold lips kissing at her upper chest and neck almost made her eyes water in ecstacy. He gracefully slid her onto the bench and got on his knees, the swiftness of the movement made her stomach flutter. He lifted her legs over his shoulders, kissing her thighs as his head disappeared under her dress. With a gasp, she sang moans into the treeline. She moaned his name as his mouth steadily pleasured her. With a finger he hooked onto her stocking and pulled it down to claw into her thigh, caressing her soft skin. She sent her left hand under the length of her dress, running her fingers over his scalp, and biting onto her right index finger, stifling her moans. “Wait.” She exhaled. He paused to look up at her. “Did you come here in your own car?” “Yeah” She quickly composed herself and her appearance, snaking her arm into his, as he walked her by the stray individual, and out to his car. She laid down on the back seats, and he got on top of her. They’re hands tore off the necessary clothes as they almost aggressively made out. He slowly went back. Miranda cradled his head with her hands. They moaned into the thin air between them as their bodies joined. The gaze they shared sweetened into a more romantic expression. Danny started to move faster, and Miranda tightened her arms around him, pulling him chest-to-chest. They moaned each other’s names into each other’s ears, as they both neared climax. She unbuttoned his button up shirt, one of the remaining items of clothing he had on, and slid her arms beneath it, clawing desperately into his stony back muscles as she near-screamed his name. Danny went faster and harder, their moans grew, and they embraced even more as they both orgasmed. Miranda went weak, and Danny breathed heavily. She tenderly kissed his forehead. They exchanged smirks as they put their clothes back on. He drove her back to her place, and on the way out of the car, she gave him her number and a firm kiss on the cheek.	T4T Hookup Miranda had dow like features and mousy brown hair that only has memories of a curling iron. She stood the tallest of all the women but the shortest of all the men. She wasn’t more than a year into hormones, her upper arms hadn’t given up yet, but the rest of her body was well developed and curvier than she ever was. She stood in a black dress, tight around the waist and loose everywhere else, looking around the room for anything of note, hoping that this night wouldn’t just end alone again. Her eyes met the face of a guy with a well cut body but a boyish face with an adult attitude. His hair wasn’t brown, but not quite black, not curly, but not quite straight, above an impressive jawline. Miranda noticed her friend talking to this boy and decided to walk up to them. “Maia, where have you been, I’ve been looking all over for you.” “Oh well I was-” Miranda turned to the man, slightly below eye level, and said. “Hi, I’m Miranda and you are?” “Danny” He said shaking her hand. From his voice she looked him up and down and wondered if he was also trans. “Where are you from?” “I’m from Arizona, but it’s my friends, one of the guys on the debate team.” “Cool, do you go to college? What’s your major?” “No, I’m a trade school I…” Miranda wanted desperately to rip them both out of benign small talk, her eyes fixated on his soft lips, she looked down, feeling her heart in her chest, wondering if she felt his, what his muscles would feel like. “Mhm. Mhm.” “...Mhm as in yes, or mhm as in you're thinking about it?” “what?” “I asked what’s you’re major” “...right…I know a spot, do you wanna go…with me?” “Sure” he said as if he thought she was growing bored of him. She walked him away from the noise, past other people on the skybridge with the same idea of getting close to one another and down a flight of stairs. She pushed open a door to a small cement patio underneath one of the skybridges, with no trails, cameras or anything other than an ornate bench. “I don’t even know how many people know about this spot, I only found it after getting lost in my freshmen second week.” He sat down, awkwardly holding his red solo cup with both hands, slumped down with legs spread apart. “It’s a bit cold.” He said like a dumbass. “I can warm you up," she said, sitting next to him, wrapping one of her legs around his, resting her arm and head close to his. “What did you say you did in trade school?” She asked. “Car mechanic, technically just a mechanic, but I work pretty much with just cars.” “Is that why you’ve got more muscles than most of the men here?” she said gingerly, grazing his arms with her hands. “You seem interested in…me, you should know..I am trans.” “..So what, so am I.” He looked at her up and down like she offered to let him do anything to her. He lent in for a kiss, chasing it with more as he gently held the side of her head, diving his fingers through her hair, grazing the back of her ear with his thumb and teasing the top of the back of her neck with his pinky, making her feel liquid and feminine. She slid on top of him, arching her back, feeling the muscles in his arm and neck, embracing him, trying to replicate their first kiss as many times as possible. She felt his hands move over her dress and squeeze her thighs and ass. She let one of her hands go up his shirt and feel his muscles like she wanted to, like she needed to. His chest made her get slightly hard and involuntarily start to grind. He had no hesitation, cupping one of her breasts, gently thumbing the nipple. She gasped, slamming a grasp onto the rail of the bench and gripped as she softly moaned. He was intoxicated by her body and the soft moans she would whisper in his ears; he slid off her tucking panties, spit into his hand and started teasing her with his fingers. She threw her head back and her whole body rocked. She felt electrified in how much more sensitive she became after starting transition and how freeing it felt to have all of that now at the mercy of a man. She ran her hand up the back of his head, letting a moan ride on top of her every breath. “Oh-h fuck, unhh, Danny” The stimulation of his cold lips kissing at her upper chest and neck almost made her eyes water in ecstacy. He gracefully slid her onto the bench and got on his knees, the swiftness of the movement made her stomach flutter. He lifted her legs over his shoulders, kissing her thighs as his head disappeared under her dress. With a gasp, she sang moans into the treeline. She moaned his name as his mouth steadily pleasured her. With a finger he hooked onto her stocking and pulled it down to claw into her thigh, caressing her soft skin. She sent her left hand under the length of her dress, running her fingers over his scalp, and biting onto her right index finger, stifling her moans. “Wait.” She exhaled. He paused to look up at her. “Did you come here in your own car?” “Yeah” She quickly composed herself and her appearance, snaking her arm into his, as he walked her by the stray individual, and out to his car. She laid down on the back seats, and he got on top of her. They’re hands tore off the necessary clothes as they almost aggressively made out. He slowly went back. Miranda cradled his head with her hands. They moaned into the thin air between them as their bodies joined. The gaze they shared sweetened into a more romantic expression. Danny started to move faster, and Miranda tightened her arms around him, pulling him chest-to-chest. They moaned each other’s names into each other’s ears, as they both neared climax. She unbuttoned his button up shirt, one of the remaining items of clothing he had on, and slid her arms beneath it, clawing desperately into his stony back muscles as she near-screamed his name. Danny went faster and harder, their moans grew, and they embraced even more as they both orgasmed. Miranda went weak, and Danny breathed heavily. She tenderly kissed his forehead. They exchanged smirks as they put their clothes back on. He drove her back to her place, and on the way out of the car, she gave him her number and a firm kiss on the cheek.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75700881	{"authors": ["ViolentEgg246"], "language": "English", "title": "T4T Hookup"}
...And We Begin Again The hot summer sunlight passes through the foliage of tall trees. The peaceful stream of the river glimmers as the water catches the rays, casting a highlight, and bouncing it back to the surrounding area. Between the lush greenery, a riverside cabin lies, with a dock over the river, surrounded by bushes and branches trimmed not so diligently, just enough to make the place look habitable. The warmer climate of Japan is a stark contrast to Arctika’s, where the weather is harsher. So naturally, Bi-Han sits still on the wooden deck over the river as he has been doing for the past twenty minutes, soaking in the calmer environment, enjoying the lack of cold for once. If today was any other day, he would certainly not be idling like this. But today marks the Lin Kuei’s annual visit to Japan. The ten-year old Bi-Han greatly appreciates the silence. The past few days have been filled with nothing but excitement and activities that the thought of socializing drains him. He glances over to Kuai Liang who is playing with Harumi, the first-born of the Shirai; the two being the same age – eight years old – makes them at the prime of coming up with creative games. With water up to their knees, they are tossing little cubes of fish food as far as they can. Remembering how the Lin Kuai and the Shirai get to be allies requires Bi-Han to recall the extensive history lesson. At that time, Japan was still ruled by an Emperor, and clan wars were at its height. But it seemed unnatural for such an ordinary Shirai clan to constantly had the upper hand upon their enemies, whether politically or physically, whether they came from outside or inside – it was as if they had a gift to see the future. Their achievement was greatly regarded by the Emperor that they were given a seat in his court. Such achievement also earned the interest of Fire God Liu Kang, who suggested that the Grandmaster of the Lin Kuei at that time to covertly forge an alliance with the Shirai. But when the Grandmaster finally arrived in Japan, he found himself being surrounded, and greeted, by none other but the Shirai themselves. That chapter in the history of Lin Kuei always amuses Bi-Han; he imagines the look and the confusion on his ancestor’s face, how he must have thought there was a mole within the Lin Kuei – after all, who else knew about his visit to Japan? How he must have thought to attack the Shirai, but decided against it, fearing that they already knew what he would do. So he let himself be taken away to a place so remote in the forest, where the tall trees acted as the roof, where the river cut through the lush area, where a wooden house stood, where the Shirai asked questions as to why foreigners set foot in their territory. At first, the Lin Kuei tried to lie, to cover up the truth about who they were, claiming they were simply merchants coming to trade, yet it did not work. With each layer of lies given, it was quickly uncovered. Then the Grandmaster noticed there were peculiarly dressed people among the members of the Shirai’s troops. While the Shirai wore black with dark red accents and the pattern of cherry blossoms, these individuals were wearing dark teal accents with a pattern of silver butterflies. The same individuals had been watching intently, observing in silence, and that with every answer the Lin Kuei had given, they had been whispering to the Shirai as if they could see how it was a lie. That was when the Grandmaster realized how the Shirai always had the upper hand in everything. They did not work alone; they were aided by a clan of spies. Ultimately, the Lin Kuei relented, and told the truth about Fire God Liu Kang and the realms, about why they were sent to Japan, about the Fire God’s wishes for an alliance. The individuals in dark teal were seen whispering something to the Shirai again, but this time, the Shirai replied favorably. In return, the Shirai introduced them to the whispering individuals who had been pivotal in supplying information and secrets behind their success, the Tenshikiri. Thus, being pragmatic, the Lin Kuei entered an alliance with two clans: the Shirai for their political knowledge, and the Tenshikiri for their eyes and ears. And here are the new generations of the three clans, honoring traditions by attending a two-week-long annual visit in the grounds of the Tenshikiri where their ancestors once met, with Bi-Han as the future Grandmaster of the Lin Kuei, and Kuai Liang as his future advisor, Harumi as the future Grandmaster of the Shirai, and as for the Tenshikiri – “May I join you?” A young female voice calls out, and soon the owner comes to Bi-Han’s peripheral view: a short Japanese girl dressed in a dark teal kimono, with black eyes the same color as her hair that’s held up in a neat bun by a silver butterfly hairpin. Jun, first-born and future Grandmaster of the Tenshikiri. Bi-Han responds to her request with an affirmative hum, and he watches as Jun removes her sandals before sitting down beside him. “Your kimono will be dirty.” “It can be washed.” She defends. “Creating unnecessary labor for your workers, Jun-sama?” “Afraid to get a little dirt? Is that why you’re not playing with your brother, Young Master Bi-Han?” They exchange a look before Bi-Han rolls his eyes and Jun giggles, while his own laughter comes out in a huff, “How ridiculous.” Jun grins, “Indeed. ‘Young Master Bi-Han’ is a long title, you know.” “Knowing the proper honorifics is necessary. You will understand when you’re older.” “You speak like a grandpa.” “I am older than you.” “By three years, not thirty.” “Well, if my speech bores you so, why don’t you play with Kuai Liang and Harumi?” Jun glances at the pair. Her black eyes are observing, quick motion, reading. There is a slight disappointment on her face when she finds Kuai Liang and Harumi too engrossed in their little world, “Uhm, no, I don’t think they’d want me to.” “And you think I do?” Bi-Han teases, seeing her lower lip jutting out in a pout, eyebrows curving up to her forehead. “Crybaby.” Immediately, her expression returns to normal, “Ice Wall.” She sticks out her tongue at him in a childish manner befitting a seven-year-old. Bi-Han notices a small pouch tied around her wrist, “Were you collecting rocks again?” “Mm. Do you want to see?” Even though he doesn’t want to, Jun is already digging into the pouch, taking out a shiny black stone with uneven white lines. She hands it to him, and he has no option but to receive it in his palm. “We just returned from upstream. Did you know that the more rapid the stream, the smoother the rocks will be? We found so many –” “‘We’?” “Oh, Ryota and me.” Jun turns around, and Bi-Han follows her line of sight. A few feet away from them, a young man wearing a hakama wielding a katana is standing guard. He stands with uncertainty, surrounded by the air of inexperience. The black kimono he’s wearing has a faded pattern of silver butterfly, a clear tell that his loyalty belongs to the Tenshikiri. Oh, so his name is Ryota. Bi-Han has seen Ryota tailing Jun in the past few days, and though he knows Ryota is certainly a guardian, he never bothered to learn his name until today. “Is he a new initiate?” “No, Ryota has been with us for a while, but he only finished his training this spring.” “Another orphan that your clan adopted.” “Tenshikiri guards indeed consist of orphans, so, yes.” “Inexperienced in combat, I assume. He looks nervous.” “That’s because you’re glaring at him.” “My point stands.” “Don’t be rude to my guardian, Young Master Bi-Han, he keeps me alive.” Jun chuckles, elbowing Bi-Han’s arm, effectively making him turn to her. He finds her digging into her pouch again, “Here, here, this might interest you more. We were on our way here when Ryota found this rock –” she pulls out a white oval stone with a weird surface depicting an asymmetrical triangle, and hands it to him, “Doesn’t it look a bit like the Lin Kuei’s symbol?” Though not interested, Bi-Han takes the stone and pays it half a mind, especially when Jun is looking at him excitedly as if she’s expecting praise or a comment. If it is smaller or thinner, it will look like a weathered Lin Kuei badge, but alas, nature has carved its damage upon the stone. He concedes and nods, “It needs a little polishing, but yes, it does resemble our symbol. Good find, Jun.” And as expected, she beams at the words; round cheeks turning rosy and eyes narrowing as her smile widens; the display resembles Kuai Liang whenever Bi-Han praises him for doing something mundane, and it makes him wonder why his approval is that highly coveted among these young ones. For a moment, she doesn’t say another word as she is placing the rocks back into her pouch, and Bi-Han welcomes the silence. His gaze returns to watching the scenery that’s being disturbed by Kuai Liang and Harumi skipping stones. But there is just enough time before the silence becomes too rude – this is a social event after all – and he has a reputation to maintain as the future Grandmaster of the Lin Kuei. Tentatively, he asks, “I presume your combat training is going well?” Jun shrugs, “It’s going well. I’m still memorizing the pressure points.” “‘Still’? Oh how would your clan survive if their next leader cannot master their legacy?” “I know, right? Truly a disaster.” She chuckles at their shared sarcasm, but says nothing more. Bi-Han presses on, “Your espionage training fares better, I hope?” Jun sighs aloud, as if the question exasperates her. “Well, you’ll be happy to know that I’m better at reading expressions. But now everytime I look at someone, I’d be reading them too much. It feels good, though, whenever I guess someone’s intention correctly and point it out, but it’s… how should I put it… It hurts…? Yes, it hurts here,” she points at the center of her chest. “Because I could be talking to someone about anything, but then I’d notice they’re not interested or spacing out.” Does that mean she noticed – But Jun	...And We Begin Again The hot summer sunlight passes through the foliage of tall trees. The peaceful stream of the river glimmers as the water catches the rays, casting a highlight, and bouncing it back to the surrounding area. Between the lush greenery, a riverside cabin lies, with a dock over the river, surrounded by bushes and branches trimmed not so diligently, just enough to make the place look habitable. The warmer climate of Japan is a stark contrast to Arctika’s, where the weather is harsher. So naturally, Bi-Han sits still on the wooden deck over the river as he has been doing for the past twenty minutes, soaking in the calmer environment, enjoying the lack of cold for once. If today was any other day, he would certainly not be idling like this. But today marks the Lin Kuei’s annual visit to Japan. The ten-year old Bi-Han greatly appreciates the silence. The past few days have been filled with nothing but excitement and activities that the thought of socializing drains him. He glances over to Kuai Liang who is playing with Harumi, the first-born of the Shirai; the two being the same age – eight years old – makes them at the prime of coming up with creative games. With water up to their knees, they are tossing little cubes of fish food as far as they can. Remembering how the Lin Kuai and the Shirai get to be allies requires Bi-Han to recall the extensive history lesson. At that time, Japan was still ruled by an Emperor, and clan wars were at its height. But it seemed unnatural for such an ordinary Shirai clan to constantly had the upper hand upon their enemies, whether politically or physically, whether they came from outside or inside – it was as if they had a gift to see the future. Their achievement was greatly regarded by the Emperor that they were given a seat in his court. Such achievement also earned the interest of Fire God Liu Kang, who suggested that the Grandmaster of the Lin Kuei at that time to covertly forge an alliance with the Shirai. But when the Grandmaster finally arrived in Japan, he found himself being surrounded, and greeted, by none other but the Shirai themselves. That chapter in the history of Lin Kuei always amuses Bi-Han; he imagines the look and the confusion on his ancestor’s face, how he must have thought there was a mole within the Lin Kuei – after all, who else knew about his visit to Japan? How he must have thought to attack the Shirai, but decided against it, fearing that they already knew what he would do. So he let himself be taken away to a place so remote in the forest, where the tall trees acted as the roof, where the river cut through the lush area, where a wooden house stood, where the Shirai asked questions as to why foreigners set foot in their territory. At first, the Lin Kuei tried to lie, to cover up the truth about who they were, claiming they were simply merchants coming to trade, yet it did not work. With each layer of lies given, it was quickly uncovered. Then the Grandmaster noticed there were peculiarly dressed people among the members of the Shirai’s troops. While the Shirai wore black with dark red accents and the pattern of cherry blossoms, these individuals were wearing dark teal accents with a pattern of silver butterflies. The same individuals had been watching intently, observing in silence, and that with every answer the Lin Kuei had given, they had been whispering to the Shirai as if they could see how it was a lie. That was when the Grandmaster realized how the Shirai always had the upper hand in everything. They did not work alone; they were aided by a clan of spies. Ultimately, the Lin Kuei relented, and told the truth about Fire God Liu Kang and the realms, about why they were sent to Japan, about the Fire God’s wishes for an alliance. The individuals in dark teal were seen whispering something to the Shirai again, but this time, the Shirai replied favorably. In return, the Shirai introduced them to the whispering individuals who had been pivotal in supplying information and secrets behind their success, the Tenshikiri. Thus, being pragmatic, the Lin Kuei entered an alliance with two clans: the Shirai for their political knowledge, and the Tenshikiri for their eyes and ears. And here are the new generations of the three clans, honoring traditions by attending a two-week-long annual visit in the grounds of the Tenshikiri where their ancestors once met, with Bi-Han as the future Grandmaster of the Lin Kuei, and Kuai Liang as his future advisor, Harumi as the future Grandmaster of the Shirai, and as for the Tenshikiri – “May I join you?” A young female voice calls out, and soon the owner comes to Bi-Han’s peripheral view: a short Japanese girl dressed in a dark teal kimono, with black eyes the same color as her hair that’s held up in a neat bun by a silver butterfly hairpin. Jun, first-born and future Grandmaster of the Tenshikiri. Bi-Han responds to her request with an affirmative hum, and he watches as Jun removes her sandals before sitting down beside him. “Your kimono will be dirty.” “It can be washed.” She defends. “Creating unnecessary labor for your workers, Jun-sama?” “Afraid to get a little dirt? Is that why you’re not playing with your brother, Young Master Bi-Han?” They exchange a look before Bi-Han rolls his eyes and Jun giggles, while his own laughter comes out in a huff, “How ridiculous.” Jun grins, “Indeed. ‘Young Master Bi-Han’ is a long title, you know.” “Knowing the proper honorifics is necessary. You will understand when you’re older.” “You speak like a grandpa.” “I am older than you.” “By three years, not thirty.” “Well, if my speech bores you so, why don’t you play with Kuai Liang and Harumi?” Jun glances at the pair. Her black eyes are observing, quick motion, reading. There is a slight disappointment on her face when she finds Kuai Liang and Harumi too engrossed in their little world, “Uhm, no, I don’t think they’d want me to.” “And you think I do?” Bi-Han teases, seeing her lower lip jutting out in a pout, eyebrows curving up to her forehead. “Crybaby.” Immediately, her expression returns to normal, “Ice Wall.” She sticks out her tongue at him in a childish manner befitting a seven-year-old. Bi-Han notices a small pouch tied around her wrist, “Were you collecting rocks again?” “Mm. Do you want to see?” Even though he doesn’t want to, Jun is already digging into the pouch, taking out a shiny black stone with uneven white lines. She hands it to him, and he has no option but to receive it in his palm. “We just returned from upstream. Did you know that the more rapid the stream, the smoother the rocks will be? We found so many –” “‘We’?” “Oh, Ryota and me.” Jun turns around, and Bi-Han follows her line of sight. A few feet away from them, a young man wearing a hakama wielding a katana is standing guard. He stands with uncertainty, surrounded by the air of inexperience. The black kimono he’s wearing has a faded pattern of silver butterfly, a clear tell that his loyalty belongs to the Tenshikiri. Oh, so his name is Ryota. Bi-Han has seen Ryota tailing Jun in the past few days, and though he knows Ryota is certainly a guardian, he never bothered to learn his name until today. “Is he a new initiate?” “No, Ryota has been with us for a while, but he only finished his training this spring.” “Another orphan that your clan adopted.” “Tenshikiri guards indeed consist of orphans, so, yes.” “Inexperienced in combat, I assume. He looks nervous.” “That’s because you’re glaring at him.” “My point stands.” “Don’t be rude to my guardian, Young Master Bi-Han, he keeps me alive.” Jun chuckles, elbowing Bi-Han’s arm, effectively making him turn to her. He finds her digging into her pouch again, “Here, here, this might interest you more. We were on our way here when Ryota found this rock –” she pulls out a white oval stone with a weird surface depicting an asymmetrical triangle, and hands it to him, “Doesn’t it look a bit like the Lin Kuei’s symbol?” Though not interested, Bi-Han takes the stone and pays it half a mind, especially when Jun is looking at him excitedly as if she’s expecting praise or a comment. If it is smaller or thinner, it will look like a weathered Lin Kuei badge, but alas, nature has carved its damage upon the stone. He concedes and nods, “It needs a little polishing, but yes, it does resemble our symbol. Good find, Jun.” And as expected, she beams at the words; round cheeks turning rosy and eyes narrowing as her smile widens; the display resembles Kuai Liang whenever Bi-Han praises him for doing something mundane, and it makes him wonder why his approval is that highly coveted among these young ones. For a moment, she doesn’t say another word as she is placing the rocks back into her pouch, and Bi-Han welcomes the silence. His gaze returns to watching the scenery that’s being disturbed by Kuai Liang and Harumi skipping stones. But there is just enough time before the silence becomes too rude – this is a social event after all – and he has a reputation to maintain as the future Grandmaster of the Lin Kuei. Tentatively, he asks, “I presume your combat training is going well?” Jun shrugs, “It’s going well. I’m still memorizing the pressure points.” “‘Still’? Oh how would your clan survive if their next leader cannot master their legacy?” “I know, right? Truly a disaster.” She chuckles at their shared sarcasm, but says nothing more. Bi-Han presses on, “Your espionage training fares better, I hope?” Jun sighs aloud, as if the question exasperates her. “Well, you’ll be happy to know that I’m better at reading expressions. But now everytime I look at someone, I’d be reading them too much. It feels good, though, whenever I guess someone’s intention correctly and point it out, but it’s… how should I put it… It hurts…? Yes, it hurts here,” she points at the center of her chest. “Because I could be talking to someone about anything, but then I’d notice they’re not interested or spacing out.” Does that mean she noticed – But Jun replies before Bi-Han can finish his thought, “Yes.” Trying to hide his guilt, he scoffs, “You can read minds too?” “It’s all in your face. Your eyebrows and eyes are more expressive. You didn’t mean to offend, I know, the weather is too hot and you’re annoyed that you can’t enjoy the silence – this is what I was talking about, Bi-Han. I can’t stop reading people’s faces and gestures, or questioning their intentions, even when I only wish to have a casual conversation. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to call your intention aloud.” For once, Bi-Han wonders if this is what his ancestor felt when they first met a Tenshikiri and tried to lie, only to have those lies be called out one by one until the only option was to speak the truth. One truly should not trifle with a clan of spies… To be honest, he is never one to mince his words, even though he knows he should, lest his directness lead him to troubles. But since he’s facing a Tenshikiri, subtlety wouldn’t be necessary. “Jun, I am uncertain about your need to complain. If it were me, I’d be glad to know who truly deserves my time and who only comes to waste it. Despite what you read, our casual conversation has been enjoyable.” The disappointment in her face deepens. “Are you truly not annoyed with my presence?” “Did I say I am?” “No, but –” “Then I do not see you as annoying. Should you find me seem disinterested, bear in mind that in the Lin Kuei, displaying emotions expressively is considered showing a weakness. Unlike my brother –” Bi-Han nods towards Kuai Liang, “-- I have a reputation to maintain. You shall not find me frolicking in the muddy water with glee when I am happy.” That seems to cheer her up a bit, when he hears her chuckling, even though her smile does not reach her eyes. “Wise words. How is your training in cryo – cry – cryom – ice power?” “Cryomancy, but yes, ice power.” Bi-Han ignores the protesting nudge she gives. He rolls the sleeve of his kimono. Inhaling deeply, he concentrates on drawing his ability; frost blooms on the skin of his forearm; a sphere gradually taking form on his palm, glowing light blue. Once he deems it enough, he stops, exhaling a cold breath that competes against the warmer air. “As you can see, I can produce solid objects now. And this.” Bi-Han drops the sphere into the river. As soon as it gets submerged, the water turns to ice, solidifying the area surrounding the deck; ice spikes protruding from the uneven surface. His little demonstration has earned the attention of Kuai Liang and Harumi; both stopping their little game to see what happened; a look of awe etched on their faces, and Bi-Han internally admits he appreciates the attention. That earns an earnest laughter from Jun. Eyes widening, she is leaning forward to look at the frozen water below. “Amazing! You froze it all the way to the bottom! Look! You even got the fish!” “If that seems interesting to you, this one would blow you away.” This time, he controls his breathing, isolating the air surrounding him. His body temperature drops; he can taste the cold growing in his chest, spreading to his limbs. Within seconds, snow begins to form in the air. Slowly, they fall without directions. Bi-Han glances at Jun, finding her wide-eyed with hands outstretched, how the snow melts on her palms, and her breath is visible in the frigid space, “It’s snowing!” “Impressive, is it not?” His gaze falls to Kuai Liang and Harumi, both stopping their activity to watch the sudden snowfall. Kuai Liang meets his gaze, shaking his head, mouthing a small ‘show-off’ with a smile. Despite the attention and the praise teasing him to show how powerful he has grown, he chooses to stop his demonstration. The snow gradually ceases to fall, leaving behind a thin layer on every nearby surface, one that’s melting already. His body temperature slowly returns to normal, albeit he can still taste the cold in his throat. “Well, well, I wasn’t aware winter would come so early.” A deep voice comes, followed by footsteps, approaching the dock; Bi-Han instantly sits upright when he recognizes the pattern of one of the footsteps; he turns around, and swiftly stands up, facing the unmistakable face of none other than the Grandmaster of the Lin Kuei – Father. Father walks with a proud stride, with his sharp brown eyes looking judgmental over everything and everyone around him. His dark brown hair is always styled in a neat bun, with streaks of gray decorating the temples. Despite his age, his wrinkles remain minimal, and even if there are any, they only serve to strengthen his features. Although, the blue kimono he is wearing seems to be softening his scowl – no sharp edges, a little loose and less rigid than his usual Grandmaster outfit. Father does not come alone; Grandmaster Yasu of the Shirai is walking on his left, and Grandmaster Wataru of the Tenshikiri is on his right. Both are also dressed in kimono but with different colors, deep red for the Shirai, and dark teal for the Tenshikiri. Unlike Father, their expressions are more delighted, cheerful even. Bi-Han notes how the Shirai’s Grandmaster is still walking with a limp – a battle injury or some sort – and he is perspiring to the point that sweat is dripping from his bald head to his cheeks. Seems he is still not in good health. The same, however, can’t be said for Grandmaster Wataru, as he looks fresh and calm, as if the heat doesn’t bother him at all. His short black hair hasn’t had any grays yet, though it looks thinner than what Bi-Han remembers from last year. Bowing down with trained diligence, Bi-Han greets, “Father, Grandmasters.” “At ease.” Father waves him off with an indifferent tone. “Is there a reason why you must interrupt this fine weather with your power? And dirtying our host’s attire.” His gaze falls to Jun, who is rising to her feet – Bi-Han offers his arm, and though the assistance is not needed, she accepts it nonetheless. Father narrows his eyes when he sees Jun bowing in the similar manner as Bi-Han, but then his attention shifts to the river, and he sighs. “And neglecting your brother and Harumi.” Bi-Han turns to Kuai Liang, finding his younger brother wading through the knee-high water with Harumi beside him, both are half drenched, with their messy hair sticking to their sweaty foreheads. Father’s gaze makes them stop in their tracks, and they bow, in the ankle-high water that doesn’t hide the mud sticking to their shins. “Harumi,” Grandmaster Yasu shakes his head at his daughter, but an amused smile is forming on his wrinkly face, “you wild child, what mess have you dragged Kuai Liang into?” “He did not mind.” Harumi defends herself – always strong-headed, even in the face of esteemed Grandmasters. “We stayed in the shallows, Father, it was safe. Besides, Bi-Han is keeping watch too.” Bi-Han flinches when he hears Father scoffing in reply. Already, he can sense the string of reprimands Father would give later: one, for demonstrating his cryomancy; two, for letting Harumi and Kuai Liang be this dirty; three, for sitting still on the dock. But Grandmaster Wataru chuckles, seemingly sensing the tension in the air, and he waves it off so easily, “Ah… this reminds me of when we were kids – do you remember, Yasu, when Jianzhong used to freeze the river so we could skate? The sun was hotter than this, yet his ice could remain frozen for an hour.” The remark earns a hum from Grandmaster Yasu, “How could I forget? You often spent most of your time falling, and I was busy laughing.” “Remind me again who often fell through the ice.” “You did.” “Truly?” “Mm, Jianzhong had to make the ice thicker for you, and still you fell anyway.” “It’s funny how you claim that I frequently fell through the ice, when you were the one who would always be catching a cold.” “Do remember that your foolish antiques earned me more trouble than joy.” Father scoffs again, despite the rare display of his smile, “Such a story should not be told in front of our children; it won’t do well to preserve your reputation.” “How icy. Come now, Jianzhong, we should do that again. You’re stronger now; you can freeze the whole river without difficulty. Perhaps tomorrow, yes?” Grandmaster Wataru smacks Father on the back – Father does not react to it, as if he’s used to the action. “Or are you not as strong as you used to be? If that’s the case, your son can assist you – look at how easily he made it snow in the middle of this heat! Only ten years old and already this powerful? I’d thank Lord Liu Kang for blessing your lineage, but your teaching should be given credits.” He looks at Bi-Han with narrowed eyes and a forming smile. “I must extend my gratitude for helping my daughter cool down, Bi-Han. Did you know that Jun has been so excited these past weeks? Said she wants to see the Lin Kuei’s cryoma –” At that, Jun jumps, “I did – I did not!” But Grandmaster Wataru carries on, taking joy in embarrassing her, “Don’t be rude, Jun, you should feel privileged to see the Lin Kuei’s power firsthand. Oh, why the need to blush?” Father quickly puts an end before Bi-Han could even feel proud of his ability, “It must be blissful, to be at an age where every little thing looks impressive in your eyes. Now, Wataru, quit torturing your offspring. You said you wanted to show us the grounds? We should pick up the pace before you’re needed elsewhere.” “Tsk. Strict as always. You’d get a new wrinkle if you don’t relax.” “One is forming already.” “But you are right. We have places to go, and matters to discuss. Where is Ryota – ah there, you are,” Grandmaster Wataru calls for the young guardian who has been doing nothing other than finally approaching when summoned. “Would you please escort Jun back to the main house?” Ryota bows, “At once, Grandmaster.” “Bi-Han, Kuai Liang,” Father calls with a stern look in his cold eyes, “you both should clean up before your mother returns from the garden. I don’t want to see a speck of mud or have you smelling like a damp rag, understood?” “Yes, Father.” Bi-Han and Kuai Liang reply before the Grandmasters and Father take their leave without another word – except Grandmaster Yasu’s lighthearted remark that makes Father emit a rare chuckle. They walk the riverside path at a brisk pace until they disappear in the distance. Only then does Bi-Han turn around, glancing between Jun, Harumi, and Kuai Liang – the latter pair looks equally disheveled, but neither seems to care about the mud caking their legs and staining their kimono. Jun sighs, “I suppose I should be going now.” “What’s the hurry? You can always clean up at my cabin like usual.” Harumi walks up the deck, smearing mud and trailing water with every step. “Unfortunately, I can’t.” “Why? We're still going to have dinner, right?” Jun shakes her head, “No, some guests will be coming tonight.” “Guests?” This time, Bi-Han interjects. “You are expecting to host other clans? Tonight?” Kuai Liang glances between Harumi and Bi-Han, “Isn’t our visit supposed to be kept a secret?” “Indeed.” Harumi’s face hardens. She stands in front of Jun, almost half a head taller than her. “It is unlike the Tenshikiri to accept other guests during our annual visit. Who are they, and why do they take precedence over us?” Jun flashes a smile, but if she is trying to seem nonchalant, she surely fails at it. Because neither Bi-Han, Kuai Liang, nor Harumi buys her performance, not even when she replies, “The Shirai and the Lin Kuei are still our priority; the new guests will not spend a night on our grounds, nor will they be informed of your presence.” “That does not make it better.” “Surely it does? All will be well, and –” “Stay still, why don’t you –” Harumi tugs onto Jun’s sleeve, effectively halting the younger girl, “– we are entitled to an explanation. Who is coming tonight?” For someone coming from a long line of spies, and trained in the way of reading people, Jun looks utterly vulnerable beneath the glare of Harumi. She glances at Bi–Han – a look that he immediately replies with a shrug, what do you expect me to do? And when she can't find the response she wants, she turns to Kuai Liang, and this time, her effort is fruitful, as Kuai Liang steps closer. “Perhaps it is not a problem to have other guests, Harumi. Jun said it herself, they won’t know we’re here, so there is no need to be alarmed. See, you are scaring her right now.” “I’m scaring her?” Harumi glares at Kuai Liang. “Quit that before she cries.” Bi-Han cuts in before the two can argue further. Harumi turns towards him with furrowed brows, but he quickly adds, “Our fathers do not seem to mind that there will be guests later. Perhaps they are of some importance to the Tenshikiri, whoever they are, this is not our business. As future Grandmasters of our clans, we should not suspect each other. I am certain that Jun will tell us the truth if the time calls for it.” Jun groans quietly, “Do not make me feel guilty.” Bi-Han raises his right eyebrow at the accusation, partially feigning being offended, partially amused that she can pick that up. “Why would you be? I meant what I said. We trust that in time you will tell us who your guests are, and why it is important to keep them a secret from us.” “I am not keeping them a secret.” “Then you will have no problems answering us.” There is another groan coming out of Jun’s mouth as she finally relents. “It is not supposed to be a secret, at least not to our parents. Father thinks it is not important. The guests will only be here for a meeting and a dinner, and they will leave before the moon is high. Besides… if you know, I think you will disapprove of them immediately.” She fidgets with the small pouch tied around her wrist. “We… uhm… we will be hosting the Kagehane clan tonight.” The answer is startling, even to Bi-Han’s standard. Harumi gasps aloud. Kuai Liang’s eyes are widening, his jaw goes slack as his expression turns into pure surprise. Bi-Han narrows his eyes at Jun, trying to process her reply. Jun shrugs, “See, I know you will –” “The Kagehane clan?” Harumi repeats. “The same Kagehane who our clans have been in rivalry with? That Kagehane?” “Shh!” Kuai Liang and Jun hiss at the same time, but it is Kuai Liang who elaborates with a strained voice. “We should not say their name aloud. The trees might have ears.” “A sound advice, Young Master Kuai Liang.” Ryota finally speaks after moments of silence. He steps behind Jun, placing a hand over her shoulder, silently informing her that the time is up. “Jun-sama, it is unwise to speak further about tonight’s agenda. If –” “The Kagehane proposed a peace.” Without hesitation, Jun takes the chance and speaks. “Their current leader, Grandmaster Gao, is soon to step down from his position. He wants his last action to be fostering peace between the Kagehane and the Tenshikiri. We have been exchanging gifts and meeting envoys for a few months now – cautiously, of course. Father doesn’t want them to know about our alliance –” “Neither do we. We’d rather not run with them.” Harumi adds under her breath. “The feeling is mutual.” Kuai Liang agrees. “But why did you not tell us sooner?” “Yes, why? We wrote to each other, can you not give a hint in your letter?” But Ryota interjects by gripping Jun’s shoulder once, and the seemingly inexperienced guardian takes over the role to speak, “My apologies, but Lady Midori will –” “Mother can wait.” Jun responds. Bi-Han disapproves of her remark, “You should not keep her waiting. This dinner will be important for your clan. It is imperative that the future Grandmaster should be prepared. Take your leave now, and do not worry about us; our fathers will tell us what to do.” At that, Jun bows deeply. When she raises her head, she is standing up straighter than before, with an expression that has been schooled to near perfection, trying to be devoid of emotion. “I am truly sorry for not telling you sooner. I promise I will make it up to you tomorrow.” “Spare us if you wish to take us on a rock hunt. However, we will not turn down a friendly spar.” That gets her relaxing slightly. “As you wish. We’ll have a spar tomorrow then.” They exchange another bow, before Jun finally steps away with Ryota beside her. The riverside somehow becomes quieter than before. Harumi excuses herself without words; her muddy feet stomping so unladylike, speaking out her irritation at the turn of events; her guardian hurries after her, leaving Bi-Han and Kuai Liang on the dock. “What now, brother?” Kuai Liang’s question is laced with uncertainty. He approaches, trying to keep his voice low, “I do not like this, to be honest, and neither Harumi nor Jun seem to agree with this. Can we not do something?” As much as Bi-Han shares the sentiment, he understands this is beyond the jurisdiction of the Lin Kuei and the Shirai. Clans are expected to have allies after all, even if such an ally has to come from an age-long rival. Bi-Han motions at Kuai Liang to follow him towards the cabin where the Lin Kuei are staying, “We have spoken our opinions. How their new alliance would affect ours is yet to be determined, but I am certain Father would have thought on what to expect. Like I said,” he slides the door open, “we will wait for Father’s instructions.”	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75698206?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["redara"], "language": "English", "title": "...And We Begin Again"}
Fall into your arms FALL INTO YOUR ARMS Chapter 1: You forced your eyes open, consciousness flowing back to your sleeping body. It felt like you hadn’t slept at all. Sniffling your nose, you noticed the open window. “Damn it,” you said to yourself, you remember thinking about it last night but being too exhausted to close it. You reached for your phone. No new notifications. It’s not like you were expecting any. You rolled your eyes and tried shutting them again to force your body to rest, but it couldn’t. It was time to get up. Releasing a sigh out through your mouth, you dragged your body off the bed. Shivers conquered your every muscle. You sloppily walked over to the window, releasing another sigh as you closed it. It was finally Saturday, well, it didn’t make a difference for you now that you don’t have a job. Every day was like a weekend. “Yay,” you thought to yourself, your mouth morphing into a sarcastic half-faced smile filled with self-disappointment. The guilt of losing your job as collections manager at the haunted-looking archaeology museum on the other side of town flooded your brain. You walked over to the kitchen counter, filled a cup with water, and chugged it. “You know what,” a thought sparked in your head, “that job was ass anyway.” You brushed off all your negative thoughts, as if you weren’t just submerged in them neck-deep. You drank another cup of water and took a deep breath. Today was a new start. You were going to keep trying. Dropping the blanket you wrapped yourself with when you got out of bed, you put on the same pair of jeans that you wore the whole week and threw on a shirt. You collected the crumpled-up candy wrappers on your nightstand and threw them away. You made yourself a healthy avocado sandwich and sat down on your bed. “Damn it, this is London! How are there no jobs for someone with a bachelor’s degree in archaeology?” You put your phone down and took a deep breath. “I need to go for a walk.” You took your keys and shut the door. Somehow, you were going to figure this out. Jogging down the three flights of stairs, still submerged in your thoughts, as always, a faint memory appeared in your head. A “looking for help!” poster for an Egyptology museum. Snapped out of your thoughts, you tried to recall where you saw the poster. “I don’t go outside THAT much; it had to be somewhere here….” you mumbled to yourself, trying to scan the poster panels outside the apartment building you lived in, which was particularly annoying right now considering your glasses were left in the apartment. Giving up before getting a good look at all the posters, you decided to just look for the museum instead. You always ended up on side quests like these. No phone, no glasses, only you and the wrinkly £20 bill in the back pocket of your jeans. How hard can it be to find an ancient Egypt museum in central London, though? You could never bring yourself to be that organised person that stays on top of their life. It’s just not you, and you have to deal with it. With the help of a few pedestrians and the luck of not getting caught without a bus ticket, you found yourself finally standing at the feet of the museum. It looked much fancier than your last place, although that was not a high standard to achieve at all. You walked in, exhaling the breath you were unconsciously holding in, and were greeted by a quick peek of what looked like a security guard. To be honest, you weren’t even sure if he looked at you because his eyes were super-glued to the screen in front of him. “Excuse me,” you said in his direction. Nothing. You cleared your throat. “Sorry,” you said, taking one step closer. You saw videos of otters playing on the monitor in front of him. “That’s one hell of a security guard,” you thought sarcastically. When you finished roasting him in your head, he was already looking at you. “What?” he sounded annoyed already, which was discouraging, but you weren’t sure if he hadn’t said anything during your little zone-out moment. “I saw that you are looking for help?” You questioned. He scratched his head. “I don’t need any help,” he said, with that same hint of annoyance, scrunching his face in confusion. “I mean a job,” you clarified. “Obviously,” you added in your head. “Oh, I don’t know about any of that; you need to ask somebody else,” the guy said, turning his neck back to the otter videos. “Alright, thank you; have a nice day!” You said, faking your enthusiasm. He muttered something in response, or maybe he didn’t. “Well, that was helpful,” you shook your head with annoyance. Surprisingly, there weren’t many people in the museum, so you decided to take a stroll around. You tried to care about the artefacts and read about them, but all the objects were just the same—some king died, and they found it next to his body. After walking around for a bit, you saw a counter with plushies and key chains; it made you remember why you even went to the museum in the first place. As you were walking over, a guy came out from the back and started sorting something under the cash register. “Damn,” your mind whispered, “he’s fine.” After acknowledging the simple fact, you put it away in the back of your brain and approached him. “Excuse me?” you said hesitantly. “Oh, hi,” he said as he looked up. His deep, dark, yet soft eyes met yours, paralysing your thoughts just for a second before you forced them back to reality. “I saw there was a job available here, although at this point I’m not sure because the security guard knew nothing about it,” you did a mental facepalm after finishing that sentence. You always ramble when you’re nervous, and to make it even stupider, you copied his British accent. “Oh….” he looked away, thinking about something. You scanned his outfit - random pants, a crumpled-up t-shirt, and a name tag that read “Hi, I’m Steven!” You smirked at the exclamation mark at the end of his name; you loved when people did silly stuff like that. “Yeah, I think we do have a spot!” he said enthusiastically, forcing you to absorb some of his positive energy. You didn’t hate it at all. “And about J.B… he treats everyone like crap; it comes naturally to him”. You giggled. “Well, then I can’t wait to work here then!” you almost said out loud, but stopped yourself realising it’s probably better for you to seem like you actually want to work there. “I will go ask my manager, and I’ll be right back!” Steven said, disappearing to the back again. Standing there fidgeting with your hands, you caught yourself smiling. Steven’s demeanour had really cast a spell on you , not to mention his appearance. You were secretly hoping you’d get to work with him, just to have someone to motivate you. Maybe you’d even make a friend ? Who knows. Steven came back with a blonde lady wearing a blazer and a serious expression on her face. “I’m Donna, the manager of this place,” she said, raising her eyebrows in a passive-aggressive way. You reached out and introduced yourself. “Hello ! I’m y/n, and I’m here for the job ?” You said— or more like asked. She shook your hand quickly in a firm handshake. Her hand was cold. “We can do the interview now, if you don’t mind,” Donna said to you, but from her tone, it sounded like she had already decided you would do it now. “OKie,” you responded shortly before adding, “ I don’t have any documents with me though,” you said hesitantly, searching your pockets. “Who the hell comes to a job interview without any documents?” As she finished her rhetorical question, you pulled out an id “I have my ID?” You informed. “It’ll do, let’s just get it on with,” the woman sighed out, as if you were supposed to know that they would interview you the exact same day that you asked about the job. “Follow me,” said Donna, turning around. You glanced at Steven, raising your eyebrows, just to be met with a pitying, sympathetic look. Surprisingly, the interview was really easy. It didn’t seem like Donna cared about your qualifications, or really anything about you. You got the job on the spot. “There must not be many people applying to work here,” you said to yourself, but it’s not like you had a list of jobs to apply to either, and you needed to survive somehow. To make up for all of your new co-workers’ behaviours though, at least you got a position working with Steven. You came back to the gift shop, but he was nowhere to be found. “Steven?” You yelled, the sound of something falling over came from the back. “Yeah, coming!” Steven yelled back, and a few seconds later, he emerged from the doorway with a sign on it saying “employees only”. “Well, that was quick, y/n” he said. You were taken aback a little by the fact that he knew your name—you didn’t think he paid attention when you introduced yourself to his manager. “Hi Steven! I just got the gig! Apparently, I’ll be working with you from now on,” you said, flashing a genuine smile. “Amazing! I could definitely use some extra help here. Do you need me to show you ‘round?” he asked. “Yes, please, and may I also have a nametag?” you said half-jokingly, but you really wanted one. “Of course, c’mere” Steven said, disappearing into the storage room. You didn’t even feel the time fly by before it was already time for lunch. You had spent the whole time with Steven. He knew a lot about ancient Egypt—actually, that’s the only thing he talked about for the most part. Somehow, though, listening to him talk about it was very enjoyable, and you even found yourself learning a thing or two. It was cute how he knew so much about the topic. Or is it just because he is cute? You swatted the thought away. You were just looking for a friend. Either way, you learned a lot about him. He has a fish, lives not far from the museum, and obviously is a big nerd. He didn’t mention any friends or even family when talking about his personal life, though, so you figured he may be just as much of a loser as you. But that doesn’t bother you. “So, is there a place where I can eat something?”	Fall into your arms FALL INTO YOUR ARMS Chapter 1: You forced your eyes open, consciousness flowing back to your sleeping body. It felt like you hadn’t slept at all. Sniffling your nose, you noticed the open window. “Damn it,” you said to yourself, you remember thinking about it last night but being too exhausted to close it. You reached for your phone. No new notifications. It’s not like you were expecting any. You rolled your eyes and tried shutting them again to force your body to rest, but it couldn’t. It was time to get up. Releasing a sigh out through your mouth, you dragged your body off the bed. Shivers conquered your every muscle. You sloppily walked over to the window, releasing another sigh as you closed it. It was finally Saturday, well, it didn’t make a difference for you now that you don’t have a job. Every day was like a weekend. “Yay,” you thought to yourself, your mouth morphing into a sarcastic half-faced smile filled with self-disappointment. The guilt of losing your job as collections manager at the haunted-looking archaeology museum on the other side of town flooded your brain. You walked over to the kitchen counter, filled a cup with water, and chugged it. “You know what,” a thought sparked in your head, “that job was ass anyway.” You brushed off all your negative thoughts, as if you weren’t just submerged in them neck-deep. You drank another cup of water and took a deep breath. Today was a new start. You were going to keep trying. Dropping the blanket you wrapped yourself with when you got out of bed, you put on the same pair of jeans that you wore the whole week and threw on a shirt. You collected the crumpled-up candy wrappers on your nightstand and threw them away. You made yourself a healthy avocado sandwich and sat down on your bed. “Damn it, this is London! How are there no jobs for someone with a bachelor’s degree in archaeology?” You put your phone down and took a deep breath. “I need to go for a walk.” You took your keys and shut the door. Somehow, you were going to figure this out. Jogging down the three flights of stairs, still submerged in your thoughts, as always, a faint memory appeared in your head. A “looking for help!” poster for an Egyptology museum. Snapped out of your thoughts, you tried to recall where you saw the poster. “I don’t go outside THAT much; it had to be somewhere here….” you mumbled to yourself, trying to scan the poster panels outside the apartment building you lived in, which was particularly annoying right now considering your glasses were left in the apartment. Giving up before getting a good look at all the posters, you decided to just look for the museum instead. You always ended up on side quests like these. No phone, no glasses, only you and the wrinkly £20 bill in the back pocket of your jeans. How hard can it be to find an ancient Egypt museum in central London, though? You could never bring yourself to be that organised person that stays on top of their life. It’s just not you, and you have to deal with it. With the help of a few pedestrians and the luck of not getting caught without a bus ticket, you found yourself finally standing at the feet of the museum. It looked much fancier than your last place, although that was not a high standard to achieve at all. You walked in, exhaling the breath you were unconsciously holding in, and were greeted by a quick peek of what looked like a security guard. To be honest, you weren’t even sure if he looked at you because his eyes were super-glued to the screen in front of him. “Excuse me,” you said in his direction. Nothing. You cleared your throat. “Sorry,” you said, taking one step closer. You saw videos of otters playing on the monitor in front of him. “That’s one hell of a security guard,” you thought sarcastically. When you finished roasting him in your head, he was already looking at you. “What?” he sounded annoyed already, which was discouraging, but you weren’t sure if he hadn’t said anything during your little zone-out moment. “I saw that you are looking for help?” You questioned. He scratched his head. “I don’t need any help,” he said, with that same hint of annoyance, scrunching his face in confusion. “I mean a job,” you clarified. “Obviously,” you added in your head. “Oh, I don’t know about any of that; you need to ask somebody else,” the guy said, turning his neck back to the otter videos. “Alright, thank you; have a nice day!” You said, faking your enthusiasm. He muttered something in response, or maybe he didn’t. “Well, that was helpful,” you shook your head with annoyance. Surprisingly, there weren’t many people in the museum, so you decided to take a stroll around. You tried to care about the artefacts and read about them, but all the objects were just the same—some king died, and they found it next to his body. After walking around for a bit, you saw a counter with plushies and key chains; it made you remember why you even went to the museum in the first place. As you were walking over, a guy came out from the back and started sorting something under the cash register. “Damn,” your mind whispered, “he’s fine.” After acknowledging the simple fact, you put it away in the back of your brain and approached him. “Excuse me?” you said hesitantly. “Oh, hi,” he said as he looked up. His deep, dark, yet soft eyes met yours, paralysing your thoughts just for a second before you forced them back to reality. “I saw there was a job available here, although at this point I’m not sure because the security guard knew nothing about it,” you did a mental facepalm after finishing that sentence. You always ramble when you’re nervous, and to make it even stupider, you copied his British accent. “Oh….” he looked away, thinking about something. You scanned his outfit - random pants, a crumpled-up t-shirt, and a name tag that read “Hi, I’m Steven!” You smirked at the exclamation mark at the end of his name; you loved when people did silly stuff like that. “Yeah, I think we do have a spot!” he said enthusiastically, forcing you to absorb some of his positive energy. You didn’t hate it at all. “And about J.B… he treats everyone like crap; it comes naturally to him”. You giggled. “Well, then I can’t wait to work here then!” you almost said out loud, but stopped yourself realising it’s probably better for you to seem like you actually want to work there. “I will go ask my manager, and I’ll be right back!” Steven said, disappearing to the back again. Standing there fidgeting with your hands, you caught yourself smiling. Steven’s demeanour had really cast a spell on you , not to mention his appearance. You were secretly hoping you’d get to work with him, just to have someone to motivate you. Maybe you’d even make a friend ? Who knows. Steven came back with a blonde lady wearing a blazer and a serious expression on her face. “I’m Donna, the manager of this place,” she said, raising her eyebrows in a passive-aggressive way. You reached out and introduced yourself. “Hello ! I’m y/n, and I’m here for the job ?” You said— or more like asked. She shook your hand quickly in a firm handshake. Her hand was cold. “We can do the interview now, if you don’t mind,” Donna said to you, but from her tone, it sounded like she had already decided you would do it now. “OKie,” you responded shortly before adding, “ I don’t have any documents with me though,” you said hesitantly, searching your pockets. “Who the hell comes to a job interview without any documents?” As she finished her rhetorical question, you pulled out an id “I have my ID?” You informed. “It’ll do, let’s just get it on with,” the woman sighed out, as if you were supposed to know that they would interview you the exact same day that you asked about the job. “Follow me,” said Donna, turning around. You glanced at Steven, raising your eyebrows, just to be met with a pitying, sympathetic look. Surprisingly, the interview was really easy. It didn’t seem like Donna cared about your qualifications, or really anything about you. You got the job on the spot. “There must not be many people applying to work here,” you said to yourself, but it’s not like you had a list of jobs to apply to either, and you needed to survive somehow. To make up for all of your new co-workers’ behaviours though, at least you got a position working with Steven. You came back to the gift shop, but he was nowhere to be found. “Steven?” You yelled, the sound of something falling over came from the back. “Yeah, coming!” Steven yelled back, and a few seconds later, he emerged from the doorway with a sign on it saying “employees only”. “Well, that was quick, y/n” he said. You were taken aback a little by the fact that he knew your name—you didn’t think he paid attention when you introduced yourself to his manager. “Hi Steven! I just got the gig! Apparently, I’ll be working with you from now on,” you said, flashing a genuine smile. “Amazing! I could definitely use some extra help here. Do you need me to show you ‘round?” he asked. “Yes, please, and may I also have a nametag?” you said half-jokingly, but you really wanted one. “Of course, c’mere” Steven said, disappearing into the storage room. You didn’t even feel the time fly by before it was already time for lunch. You had spent the whole time with Steven. He knew a lot about ancient Egypt—actually, that’s the only thing he talked about for the most part. Somehow, though, listening to him talk about it was very enjoyable, and you even found yourself learning a thing or two. It was cute how he knew so much about the topic. Or is it just because he is cute? You swatted the thought away. You were just looking for a friend. Either way, you learned a lot about him. He has a fish, lives not far from the museum, and obviously is a big nerd. He didn’t mention any friends or even family when talking about his personal life, though, so you figured he may be just as much of a loser as you. But that doesn’t bother you. “So, is there a place where I can eat something?” you were starving. The energy from that sandwich for breakfast was long gone. “There’s a café right next to here,” Steven said. “Great, can we go?” you asked, getting up. “Of course,” Steven answered. You sat down at a table for two. Luckily, you still had your £20 you saved by not getting bus tickets earlier. “What’re you getting?” you asked Steven. “Oh, me? I have my own food, so you go ahead.” “Awww, so you came here just for me.” You teased, smirking. Steven rolled his eyes lazily and tried to hide his smile. For a second, you thought his cheeks got a little red, but when you blinked, they were normal again. “Alright then, I will go order and be right back.” You went up to the counter, smiling. Smiling. He really did go just for you. You ordered a piece of carrot cake with a coffee and snickered when seeing Steven eating his own sandwich at the table. You sat down and took a sip. “Someone’s feeling fancy,” Steven joked. You giggled, shaking your head. “Indeed, I am,” you responded. His clever comments and sassy remarks never fail to lift you up spiritually. You liked that he felt comfortable enough with you to say them, something you wouldn’t have expected when you first met Steven just a few hours ago. „So, which gig takes the win, the old archaeology museum where the rooms are haunted, or the Egypt museum, where all your co-workers are haunted?” Steven’s silly question brought a smile to your lips. “So far it’s definitely this one, but I better hope I’m not speaking too soon,” you answered. “And hey, not all of my co-workers are haunted,” you added with a wink. It was true, you liked this job better already. At least you had somebody to talk to. “By the way, you told me you got fired, but never why?” Steven’s question brought your mind back to the previous workplace. It was a stupid reason, but one that had you beating yourself up about it. “I was late practically every day.” You said, looking down. “They were sick of it…” After a brief beat of silence, you added: “But I just cannot stop being late! I always forget something and have to run back to my apartment building when I’m already on overtime!” You confessed. You felt it sounded silly, but it was a very real problem in your life. “You know what, it’s their own loss for firing you because you ran late a few minutes,” his answer cheered you up. He was right, if they couldn’t handle a few minutes late a day, they were not right for you anyway. You liked that Steven talked a lot, but every time you wanted to speak, his eyes were glued to you and you knew his full attention was on you. The rest of the lunch break went exactly the same, you say something, then he says something, followed by a moment of silence. It felt nice to just converse with someone for no particular reason other than getting to know each other. Something you didn’t even realise you missed. You both arrived late from the lunch break and sneakily went back to the gift shop, just hoping not to be seen by Donna. It was much busier now than before. And even though most of the earlier “training” you got from Steven was just random facts about Egypt, he also taught you how to generally operate the gift shop and you couldn’t even lie, the two of you made a very efficient duo at the workplace. The tasks themselves were actually quite repetitive, “sort through that” or “restock this”, but exchanging remarks or having a short conversation with Steven while you both were busy made it all much less boring. Towards the end of the day, the number of customers fell quickly, and Donna said you would be finishing early. “So, what do you think about this hole?” Steven asked as you were both cleaning up after the day. “Honestly, it’s not terrible! There is a lot of work, but it was nice to do it together,” you replied honestly. “Yeah… I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. It’s days like these that had me thinking about quitting when working alone. We make a great team together!” Steven said. You smiled at the appreciative words, a warm feeling spreading through your body.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75698221	{"authors": ["Sillysebster"], "language": "English", "title": "Fall into your arms"}
Thorns & Roses Sayaka Maizono wasn’t used to romance. She’s had plenty of guys fawn over her before, but it’s not like she ever felt the same attraction towards any of them. Idols weren’t allowed to date. Something that was drilled into her head since the beginning. If she was caught dating, she’d be in serious trouble. She seemed to have a habit of breaking the rules a bit. When she first arrived to the killing game, she never once expected to develop feelings for anyone. She was perfectly content staying with the one person she knew in this place. She felt comfortable knowing she could trust at least one person here. She was close with Sakura, Aoi and Junko as well… but there was a small voice in the back of her head telling her she knew that she couldn’t fully trust anyone in a life or death scenario. Byakuya Togami found most relationships pointless and a waste of time, platonic or romantic, he didn’t care. In his mind, you were competition. He didn’t care for anyone at this killing school. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. Makoto was rather insistent about gaining his friendship. While he’d never admit this out loud, he enjoyed the company occasionally. Other times he found Makoto annoying and a waste of space. …A knock at the door. A simple knock changed his outlook. “Byakuya?” Makoto’s voice rang out. “I brought a friend!” His cheery voice called through the door. Byakuya rolled his eyes, closing the book he was reading and getting up from his desk chair. “Make this quick.” He snapped as he opened the door. Makoto smiled, and behind him stood the gorgeous world-famous pop idol. None other than Sayaka Maizono. Byakuya cut his thoughts of how beautiful she was off. He couldn’t think like that. “I just wanted to say hi!” Makoto smiled, the girl behind him remained silent. “I hope you don’t mind me bringing Sayaka! She doesn’t know many people here yet… so I figured I’d introduce the two of you!” He beamed. Sayaka smiled sweetly. She had a pretty smile, the kind that immediately puts you in a good mood when you see it. “It’s nice to meet you!” She greeted. Byakuya simply nodded in response, with a quiet “You too.” This was awkward. Why in the world would Makoto arrange something like this so out of nowhere?! Sayaka looked around the room, her eyes falling on a violin case behind his bed. Byakuya noticed her gaze, and for the first time, he felt… shy. “You play?” She asked, her eyes lighting up. “Yes.” Byakuya replied. “Many instruments.” Sayaka was star struck. “I sing!” She exclaimed like Byakuya didn’t already know. “I know.” He replied. It was almost endearing in a way. Just a minute ago she was hiding behind Makoto like she was afraid of him, and now she was a whole different person. “When we get out of here you should totally come to the studio with me!” She suggested. “I’m not sure about that.” Byakuya replied. “Cmon, Byakuya! It’d be so fun!” Makoto nudged him. Byakuya simply rolled his eyes in response. “I… suppose as long as my name isn’t featured.” He sighed. Sayaka happily squealed. Somehow… that was the beginning of an unlikely friendship. Sayaka would wave to him at breakfast, and Byakuya would acknowledge her with a nod. Only one day, when they got their motives, Sayaka had isolated herself. She barely even let Makoto talk to her. Byakuya gave her space, he knew all too well what it was like to need it. But he couldn’t help but grow concerned as the hours passed and she still hadn’t left her room. He rang her doorbell. No answer. “Sayaka, you can’t stay in there forever.” “Leave me alone!” If Byakuya was good at anything, it was being persistent. He wasn’t giving up until she answered the door. After about the fourth ring, Sayaka finally answered. She paused in her tracks when she realized it was Byakuya. “Bya? Why are you-“ she started to ask, only to be cut off. “I’m worried about you.” He replied, letting himself into the room. Sayaka did not look good. She was pale with tangled hair, and her big blue eyes, usually so full of energy, just felt… dull now. “You can’t seriously believe those videos are real, can you?” He sighed, taking a seat at the edge of her bed with her. Sayaka shook her head. “I don’t know.” She sighed. “But even the possibility that it’s real scares me…” Byakuya nodded. “I understand. But… we have no way of knowing if it’s real or not.” He pointed out. “Do you think it would help you to try thinking it’s not real?” He suggested. “I don’t know.” Sayaka cried. “I still want out of here! The outside world is going to forget about me! By the time we leave this place they’re going to have already replaced me with the next big thing!” She rambled. For the first time ever, Byakuya did something he never would’ve considered doing with absolutely anyone else. And he hugged her. “It’s okay.” He whispered. “We’ll get out of here, I promise.”	Thorns & Roses Sayaka Maizono wasn’t used to romance. She’s had plenty of guys fawn over her before, but it’s not like she ever felt the same attraction towards any of them. Idols weren’t allowed to date. Something that was drilled into her head since the beginning. If she was caught dating, she’d be in serious trouble. She seemed to have a habit of breaking the rules a bit. When she first arrived to the killing game, she never once expected to develop feelings for anyone. She was perfectly content staying with the one person she knew in this place. She felt comfortable knowing she could trust at least one person here. She was close with Sakura, Aoi and Junko as well… but there was a small voice in the back of her head telling her she knew that she couldn’t fully trust anyone in a life or death scenario. Byakuya Togami found most relationships pointless and a waste of time, platonic or romantic, he didn’t care. In his mind, you were competition. He didn’t care for anyone at this killing school. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. Makoto was rather insistent about gaining his friendship. While he’d never admit this out loud, he enjoyed the company occasionally. Other times he found Makoto annoying and a waste of space. …A knock at the door. A simple knock changed his outlook. “Byakuya?” Makoto’s voice rang out. “I brought a friend!” His cheery voice called through the door. Byakuya rolled his eyes, closing the book he was reading and getting up from his desk chair. “Make this quick.” He snapped as he opened the door. Makoto smiled, and behind him stood the gorgeous world-famous pop idol. None other than Sayaka Maizono. Byakuya cut his thoughts of how beautiful she was off. He couldn’t think like that. “I just wanted to say hi!” Makoto smiled, the girl behind him remained silent. “I hope you don’t mind me bringing Sayaka! She doesn’t know many people here yet… so I figured I’d introduce the two of you!” He beamed. Sayaka smiled sweetly. She had a pretty smile, the kind that immediately puts you in a good mood when you see it. “It’s nice to meet you!” She greeted. Byakuya simply nodded in response, with a quiet “You too.” This was awkward. Why in the world would Makoto arrange something like this so out of nowhere?! Sayaka looked around the room, her eyes falling on a violin case behind his bed. Byakuya noticed her gaze, and for the first time, he felt… shy. “You play?” She asked, her eyes lighting up. “Yes.” Byakuya replied. “Many instruments.” Sayaka was star struck. “I sing!” She exclaimed like Byakuya didn’t already know. “I know.” He replied. It was almost endearing in a way. Just a minute ago she was hiding behind Makoto like she was afraid of him, and now she was a whole different person. “When we get out of here you should totally come to the studio with me!” She suggested. “I’m not sure about that.” Byakuya replied. “Cmon, Byakuya! It’d be so fun!” Makoto nudged him. Byakuya simply rolled his eyes in response. “I… suppose as long as my name isn’t featured.” He sighed. Sayaka happily squealed. Somehow… that was the beginning of an unlikely friendship. Sayaka would wave to him at breakfast, and Byakuya would acknowledge her with a nod. Only one day, when they got their motives, Sayaka had isolated herself. She barely even let Makoto talk to her. Byakuya gave her space, he knew all too well what it was like to need it. But he couldn’t help but grow concerned as the hours passed and she still hadn’t left her room. He rang her doorbell. No answer. “Sayaka, you can’t stay in there forever.” “Leave me alone!” If Byakuya was good at anything, it was being persistent. He wasn’t giving up until she answered the door. After about the fourth ring, Sayaka finally answered. She paused in her tracks when she realized it was Byakuya. “Bya? Why are you-“ she started to ask, only to be cut off. “I’m worried about you.” He replied, letting himself into the room. Sayaka did not look good. She was pale with tangled hair, and her big blue eyes, usually so full of energy, just felt… dull now. “You can’t seriously believe those videos are real, can you?” He sighed, taking a seat at the edge of her bed with her. Sayaka shook her head. “I don’t know.” She sighed. “But even the possibility that it’s real scares me…” Byakuya nodded. “I understand. But… we have no way of knowing if it’s real or not.” He pointed out. “Do you think it would help you to try thinking it’s not real?” He suggested. “I don’t know.” Sayaka cried. “I still want out of here! The outside world is going to forget about me! By the time we leave this place they’re going to have already replaced me with the next big thing!” She rambled. For the first time ever, Byakuya did something he never would’ve considered doing with absolutely anyone else. And he hugged her. “It’s okay.” He whispered. “We’ll get out of here, I promise.”	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75698231	{"authors": ["JohannaBarker"], "language": "English", "title": "Thorns & Roses"}

Subsets and Splits

No community queries yet

The top public SQL queries from the community will appear here once available.