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queenofeden · 5 years ago

Text

Day 11: Glory Hole

Pairing: Nadia Satrinava/Female Apprentice

Word Count: 2197

Summary:

Silly, that she should demure now at the thought of a stranger’s hands on her.

✨ My Ko-Fi // Read on AO3 ✨

The room is elegantly appointed, nearly every flat surface draped in luxurious bolts of velvet damask, all in matching hues of burgundy and black. It doesn’t look much like a brothel -- not that Laurel had spent much, or really any time in one prior to this. Were it not for the very obvious rack of… implements along the wall, the straps built into all four corners of the too large poster bed, and the long undecorated wall to her left, she could almost pretend this were some lavish hotel, if a tad eccentric. It’s the latter that truly catches her attention, though:That wall, with its littering of holes, of various heights and sizes, some with padded benches attached, all lined with privacy curtains made of heavy black leather.

She reaches out and touches the cushion of one of the benches, sitting at just about hip height, so similar to the ones they keep at home and yet somehow so foreign here in this new environment. The room is clearly meant for more than two people to share, judging by the sheer size alone, and yet it was empty save for them.

Nadia’s arms wind around her from behind. Her lips press against the nape of Laurel’s neck, soft and dry. “How do you feel, my love?” she asks.

Laurel draws in a deep breath, leaning back in the embrace. Her heart is racing, there’s no hiding that if she tried. “Nervous,” she says, then licks her lips. “But excited as well. Is that bad?”

Nadia chuckles. “Bad that you’re excited? Heavens no, if you weren’t excited about this, we would never have stepped foot in this place.”

Laurel lets a wistful sort of smile play at the corners of her mouth and gives the room yet another cursory glance, taking it in all at once. "Speaking of, this is quite an... interesting place. However did you find it?"

Nadia's hands toy with the flimsy ties holding Laurel's cloak together. The silk ribbons slip against each other and part, one by one, allowing the fabric to fall open. Beneath it she is completely bare, has been since they left the palace where Nadia had prepared her. She had sat as innocently as she could, nude as the day she'd been born, cunt soaked with a plug in her ass in the back of a gondola all the way here. Nadia runs the flats of her palms up Laurel's abdomen, over her pert nipples and past her shoulders, letting the heavy cape fall to the floor with a quiet whump .

Laurel looks down and takes Nadia's hands in her own. They are Nadia's again, not glamoured as they had been for their journey. The level of discretion had been necessary for this excursion, though doing so had been taxing both magically and emotionally. Laurel only hopes that her silly request proves worth while.

"I have my ways," Nadia replies, leaving a necklace of kisses along Laurel's nape. "But rest assured, I have spared no expense to assure your safety--"

"And yours."

Laurel feels Nadia smile against her back. "And mine, of course. I swear to you this establishment has the finest reputation in Vesuvia, both for their discretion and… cleanliness."

Turning in her arms, Laurel presses close to Nadia's still fully dressed form, wrapping her arms around her shoulders. They kiss, both reaching for each other at once, lips slanting together easily. She had thanked Nadia so many times already that her wife had nearly forbade her ever saying the words again, and so she poured all the rest of her gratitude into this kiss.

When Nadia pulls away, she licks her lips, eyes flashing with hunger. "Are you ready to begin?"

Laurel nods.

It begins with Nadia reaching into Laurel's bag, taking all of the assorted amulets she had fashioned one by one, and cording them around Laurel's wrists. Perhaps she had been overly cautious, but as each one is tied she names them in her thoughts: protection against physical harm, against disease, against pregnancy; one to keep her slick, another for relaxation, and she feels the last of her nerves fall away. They look nearly like cuffs around her wrists when Nadia is finished, the thought sending a thrill deep and resonant through her core.

Nadia, of course, saves the best for last. She sweeps Laurel's hair to the side and presses the delicate golden collar to her throat. Normally they did not bother with such trappings, Laurel knew well who she belonged to. But for this, tonight, she had requested the extra physical reminder, and Nadia had been all too eager to indulge her.

“There, just one more thing,” Nadia breathes, petting down her shoulders, kissing the place where the collar latches. She runs her hands down Laurel’s back, and grips the base of the plug that keeps her open and waiting. Slowly, she pulls it out as Laurel whimpers. Setting it aside, Nadia turns back to face her. “Time to take your place now, my love.”

Laurel reaches backwards, hands touching the bench again, and levers herself up onto it. Nadia helps her scoot down into position until her legs ease through the hole in the wall and out the other side. Where wall and leather stop, so does the bench, leaving her lower half hanging. Her heels touch smooth ceramic on the other side. For a moment, Laurel wonders if that is it, and then a hand on the other side grips her left ankle, drawing it upwards. Laurel starts, a gasp ripping through her chest. Nadia kisses her forehead, stroking and petting her hair.

“Tell me what you feel, Laurel.”

Laurel gasps again, foot twitching as a cuff encircles her ankle and tightens to support her. “S-someone is binding my legs,” she says as the same happens to her other leg.

“The proprietor,” Nadia tells her, voice calm and steady.

“Oh.” Laurel laughs, mostly at herself, feeling foolish. Silly, that she should demure now at the thought of a stranger’s hands on her.

“Now you are on display for everyone to see, for everyone who passes to covet,” Nadia says, voice dipping low. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Laurel shudders. “Yes, Nadia.”

The air on the other side of the wall is warm and still. She can see nothing through the leather curtain around her hips, and so her mind swims with imagined thoughts of what it must look like. The other holes in this room were left empty, clearly, but were there more? Was she just one of many? A hall full of anonymous cunts and asses left hanging for those who wished to peruse and try like trinkets at a market stall? She clenches, wetness leaking out of her and dripping down.

A hand appears, or rather, she feels a hand stroke against the swell of her ass and thigh. She releases a quivering breath she had been holding for the gods only know how long.

Nadia’s lips tease the shell of her ear, asking, “Someone is there, aren’t they?” even as the stranger’s hands begin to explore. Laurel nods, hips twisting, twitching as a thick finger finds that bead of slick she’d leaked and drags it up, smearing it over her clit. The lips of her cunt are spread wide, and that same finger teases at her entrance briefly before sliding in, pumping in and out of her a few times as if to test whether she would be a good fit, before resting the head of a thick cock against her hole.

Laurel’s mouth falls open, lips trembling as the cock pushes into her. She is grateful for Nadia’s preparation, but nothing quite readies her for the feeling: Hot and firm, yet soft in a way no toy can replicate at the highest price, even with magic. There is no romance, no easing her into it. The cock slams into her, the hips of whomever it belongs to slapping against her exposed ass. Laurel cries out as a wave of pleasure rips through her, the stretch of her cunt around the stranger’s cock unfamiliar, heady, intoxicating.

The cock fucks with a driving pace, each thrust making her jolt, until it quickly stutters, twitches, and spills inside her -- searing hot and unfamiliar. Nadia’s mouth finds hers and swallows her noises with a kiss, tongue licking deep into her mouth as she is filled.

And then it is gone. Having found their pleasure, the stranger retreats, leaving her gasping and shuddering in Nadia’s arms, dripping someone else’s spend out of her still twitching cunt. It isn’t long before new hands take the old ones’ place, softer, smaller this time.

“A--another! So soon?” Laurel manages to get out, before they use the other man’s come to ease their way, without preamble, into her stretched ass. She chokes, the air in her lungs turning suddenly to syrup.

“There is likely a whole line of people,” Nadia whispers, “just waiting for a taste of you.”

Laurel whines, eyes fluttering as the new stranger rolls their hips expertly. The person’s hands grip her hips to hold her steady as they thrust, slow and dragging each time.

“They’re fucking your ass this time, aren’t they?” Nadia asks, waiting for Laurel to nod. “Yes, I would recognize that look on your face anywhere. You can never hide how eager you are to have that hole filled up.”

Laurel’s face flares red-hot, and grows hotter still as the cock inside her pulls out without coming only for her to feel the splash of their seed against the crease of her thigh moments later.

So it goes. A third set of hands, then a fourth, each of them taking their turns using and spilling inside her cunt. The fifth stranger’s hands feel distinctly feminine, the familiar but unfamiliar feeling of manicured nails curling inside her while a tongue teases her ignored clit. This is the first time Laurel comes, with a strange woman’s mouth on her cunt. The thought makes her sob with shame, with elation, has her gripping Nadia’s arms, nails no doubt digging half moon crescents deep into the skin. Nadia doesn’t seem to mind, just holds her through it even as the stranger leaves her again and is replaced by yet another cock, larger than the others, filling her ass.

“You’re doing so well, my sweet,” Nadia says, her praise washing over Laurel like a comforting balm. “They love you.”

Laurel pants, words and thoughts failing her. Nadia pets over her stomach, cradles her breasts. Laurel swallows dry and feels the press of Nadia’s collar on her throat.

“What would the people say, I wonder?” Nadia continues, tweaking Laurel’s nipples roughly. “If they knew it was their precious Lady Laurel they were fucking like a common whore?”

Laurel’s chest heaves, a white hot knife of pleasure striking true through her core. Nadia chuckles, pressing kisses to her tacky brow, her temples, her jaw.

“Do you think they would love you all the more for what a perfect cockslut you make? I do.”

Laurel’s second orgasm rips through her unexpectedly. She shouts her pleasure full throated, not caring that those on the other side might hear and recognize her voice. A few errant tears leak from the corners of her eyes from pure overstimulation alone. The cock still inside her continues to thrust, faster and faster, until they too reach their climax and pump her ass full of come.

“I -- I can’t, Nadia, no more. Please!”

Without question or hesitation, Nadia reaches for a cord dangling from the ceiling and pulls it three times. The cock slips out of her immediately, and for a moment Laurel hears and feels nothing at all. The next hands that touch her do so only to unbind her ankles, slowly lowering her stiff and aching legs. Nadia hefts her upwards along the bench, easily pulling her back through to their side of the wall. Her legs feel as though they are made of lead, heavy and recalcitrant, unwilling to move or support her if she’d tried. Her well used holes throb, pulsing with the rapid beat of her heart.

Laurel shudders again, a sound almost like a sob bubbling up from her chest. Nadia’s arms hold her tight, rocking her, clutching her to her chest as she peppers every inch of skin she can reach with light kisses.

“Wa--was I good?” Laurel asks, dazed, tongue thick in her mouth.

“Oh my love, you were magnificent,” Nadia whispers. “Just look at you.”

Laurel looks down her body, blinking in flushed surprise at the mess of herself. There is no pain, only bone deep satisfaction mixed with the slight discomfort of the mixed spend leaking sluggishly out of her. It makes her hot all over, gooseflesh prickling every exposed inch of skin.

“Absolutely gorgeous. Did you enjoy yourself?”

Laurel hums, nodding. A sudden wave of exhaustion rolls over her, and try as she might to blink it away, it returns again to drag her back down. Her head lolls against Nadia’s shoulder.

“Good. Tired?”

Laurel nods again, or tries to. Nadia strokes her arm.

“Poor darling. Come, let’s get you cleaned up.”

#the arcana #the arcana game #nadia satrinava #nadia x apprentice #arcanagame #my fic #kinktober2019 #nadia

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iblue-kitzune · 5 years ago

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Of Rising Calamities Beyond the Cosmos: Chapter 9

It was dark out by the time Jane woke up. A big yawn made its way past her lips as she carefully sat up with a stretch, her back and joints making a nice pleasant crack as they popped back into place. Unfortunately for her, that bit of tiny motion caused the woman to become dizzy, causing her to still. At once, she fell silent and waited for the feeling to pass, taking care not to make any sudden movements, subtle or otherwise.

When the feeling disappeared, the young half-spirit woman let out a long sigh of relief. Then moments later, she let out another yawn, this one lasting much longer and being much lower than the last one, as she wiped the residue of sleep from her eyes before lifting them open.

“Oh?” a sparkle of yellow flashed out of the corner of her eyes, and she turned her head in that direction, spotting a group of glow-in-the-dark stars shimmering off the dimly lit nebula painted walls and ceiling. From there, she could spot just a hint of light peeking in through the closed window to the left of her, the same window that was covered in some thick black and white crescent moon patterned curtains at that.

“This is...”

With clear recognition in her golden brown-amber eyes, she looked about her surroundings then down at the soft black and white diamond checkered comforter and blue sheets covering her legs, and back up at the grey, white, and blue decor scattered throughout the place.

Jane realized where she was at now.

“My room...”

She was in her room—her master sized bedroom inside of Tony and Pepper’s three-story home to be precise. And since Jane was considered family, the two had no problem giving away one of the guest bedrooms on the second floor of the mansion to her. And so, with their permission, she remodeled the whole room to her liking.

She painted the walls and ceiling black. Then once that dried, she painted a nebula surrounded by golden yellow and white stars over it, stopping right at the baseboards, which she left white, and three black colored doors—with the one in front of her leading up to her master bathroom near her tall white colored TV stand, the second one behind her queen storage bed and corner wall leading up to outside of her room, and the third one next to her bathroom leading up to her walk-in closet.

Then she filled the room up with various pictures and posters on the walls, brought in her grey dresser, white lamp, huge mirror —which was sitting above the dresser and lamp—, and grey storage ottoman —which was sitting at the foot of her bed— from her mother’s home. With the little change she had left at the time, Jane purchased a long regular grey ottoman —which was sitting off to her left in the corner of the room—, a dark blue recliner loveseat —which was sitting off to her right in the other corner of the room—, and a dark blue bookcase —that she had sitting near her window and was filled to the brim with books— from the nearby furniture store up in town.

And lastly, on the shiny light grey vinyl plank floors, there was a large dark blue rug laying on top of it, which took up the majority of the room.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., what time is it?” Jane suddenly asked, getting up from her bed and walking over to her window. The young woman moved the curtains aside to take a look outside, and judging from the full moon she could see up in the clear night sky, it was pretty late.

“It’s 11:00 p.m., Miss Foster.”

Jane furrowed her brows as she covered the window back up and turned around. “And how long have I been out for?” she fired off another question while making her way over to her drawer and turning the lamp on.

“According to my calculations, Miss Foster, you have been asleep for thirty-nine hours,” Tony’s AI answered her. “But you did wake up during the procedure Mr. Stark, Mrs. Stark, Dr. Jude Mathis, and Miss Elize Lutus performed on you to remove the poison, and they had to stop what they were doing and put you back to sleep since the anesthesia they gave you wasn’t strong enough.”

That gained an eyebrow raise from Jane.

“Well that explains a few things...” she trailed off with a pause, and the young woman hugged herself as a chill swept over her body. “And that explains why I feel a little bit cold too,” the young half-spirit looked over herself and realized what the problem was. She was in her blue and black plaid pajamas.

“Mrs. Stark and Miss Lutus gave you some water and helped you change into your pajamas afterwards. Then you fell right back to sleep ten minutes later,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. explained. “The clothes you had on from before got washed and dried this morning. They’ve been folded up and are now sitting in the fourth drawer of your queen storage bed, Miss Foster.”

Jane smiled. “Okay. Thank you for letting me know, F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” she spotted a white fluffy robe sitting on the other side of the bed, grabbed it, and donned the thing on.

“You’re welcome, Miss Foster.”

Suddenly feeling thirsty, Jane tied her robe up in a loose knot, turned around, and made her way out of the room.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The light sound of small conversation coming from outside reached the young woman’s ears right as she left the hallway and entered the kitchen from around the corner. She reached the refrigerator, opened it, and was about to grab a bottle of water from within inside until a small shadow appeared out of the corner of her eye.

“Auntie! You’re awake!” a small pair of arms wrapped themselves around her middle.

Pausing, Jane looked down to see a young girl about six years old with dark brown hair and brown eyes hugging her and looking up at her with a big smile on her face. “Hey Morgan...” she smiled back and closed the door but not without taking a water bottle out first. “It’s good to see you,” Jane sat the bottle down on the counter next to her then reached down to pick Tony’s daughter up. “What are you doing up this late, Little bear? It’s way past your bedtime,�� she asked, adjusting the little girl in her arms and placed her on her hip.

“She wanted to stay up and say good-bye to all the pokemon before they go back home...” Jane looked up to see Pepper dressed in a modest purple robe with a black nightgown on underneath and making her way over to them. “Tony’s just getting ready to turn the arc reactor teleporter on,” she finished, stopping in front of them.

“So he finally finished the machine he told me about three months ago, huh? That’s good to hear,” Jane said. “I take it you two are going to bed then?” she asked.

Pepper nodded. “Yes,” she answered. “It’s funny how you suddenly decided to wake up right before some of us are about to go to bed,” a small smirk crawled on her lips as she made a comment on this.

Jane laughed a bit sheepishly. “I guess so...” she said and looked down at Morgan, who let out a small yawn, with a soft smile. “Nighty night Morgan! Sweet dreams!” she kissed the sleepy girl on the forehead then handed her over to her mother, who took the six year old in her arms just as her eyes were starting to fall shut. “Goodnight Pepper,” she gave the older woman who was like a big sister to her a hug. “And thanks for, you know, flushing that nasty poison out of my system?” she added in gratitude. “Could you tell that to Tony for me too?”

“Of course!” Pepper gave her a smile and returned her embrace. “Goodnight Jane,” she pulled back then adjusted her snoozing daughter her arms, “If you get hungry, there’s some leftover lasagna in a pan at the bottom of the fridge you can help yourself to!” and left the kitchen.

“Alright! Thanks Pepper!”

Once she could no longer hear Pepper’s footsteps, Jane turned and grabbed her water of the counter. She twisted the cap off and took a few large swigs. ‘Now that hit the spot!’ she closed her eyes in content, feeling the rush of the cool liquid clear her dry throat and quench her thirst—

“That should it now. Okay everyone, it’s ready!”

The conversation taking place outside suddenly got louder in volume. Then out of nowhere, Jane felt a charge of energy—a certain type of energy that could only belong to the arc reactor, she realized, building up from underground.

‘I should go check it out,’ Jane opened her eyes.

Downing the last of her water, she crushed the empty bottle and dropped it into the recycling bin near her.

Then without a word, the woman teleported out of the kitchen silently.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The view of the full moon in the sky and scenery down below filled with the sounds of talking, lured a tired Lady, Nero, and Jude into a state of peacefulness as they lounged back on the roof of the mansion and watched the arc reactor teleporter —that was located next to the garage— light up blue.

“I didn’t know you guys were up.”

The trio felt a short burst of mana seep into the area, and they looked up to see Jane sit down next to them.

“Nice to see you out of your mini coma, Jane,” Lady teased the young woman before directing her bi-colored eyes back onto the crowd below.

“Oh please! Shut it, Lady,” Jane chuckled in response and playfully shoved her friend on the shoulder, almost making the older woman lose her balance, before turning her eyes on the black spiky haired man sitting on the other side of Nero. “Hey, umm, Jude...that’s your name right?”

“Huh?” after hearing his name being called, the spyrite researcher looked up. Then he realized what she’d asked. “Oh! Yes it is. What’s up?”

“Thank you for curing me from that poison,” Jane told him. “And could you tell your friend Elize I said thank you as well.”

“Sure thing,” Jude nodded at the woman. “And you’re welcome, Jane,” he said with a friendly smile and turned his amber eyes back down just in time to see a light blue light shoot right up into the dark sky. “Whoa...” he whispered, watching in awe at the sight of a small wormhole appearing in front of Tony and the others with a whitish-blue glow.

Jane turned back to the scene below.

“I guess they’re going home now,” she pursed her lips, watching all thirty-seven of the pokemon line up in three rows with Rayquaza, Celebi, Gale, and Raiden hovering a little ways from her and her friends, keeping an eye on Tony and the pokemon.

“Mmhm,” was the only thing Nero replied with, his blue eyes glued onto the scene below.

“By the way, do you know where Victini and Zeraora are at? I didn’t sense any of their auras in the mansion anywhere aside from Elize’s and the others.”

“Those two along with Marshadow left yesterday while you were still out cold, Jane.”

“I see.”

For the next ten minutes, the group was silent. They sat there and watched each pokemon jump through the glowing portal. They became so focused on them that they didn’t even realize that someone else had joined them up on the roof.

“You Midgardians sure lose focus of the world around you once your attention’s been snared by something else. Now if I were an enemy sent to kill you, the four of you wouldn’t have enough time to prepare yourselves for an attack. You’d all be dead before you even manage pull out your weapons...” they sat up straight at the sound of footsteps coming up behind them. “But lucky for you guys, I’m not an enemy,” a flash of black and green appeared in their peripheral vision, and Loki, who was donned in nothing more than a pair of black sleeping pants with green accents on the sides and black socks, stopped right next to Jane. “Not this time at least.”

“Oh...” Nero mumbled, watching the raven haired god sit down next to his friend with slight disinterest in his eyes. “It’s just you,” he turned back to watch the pokemon jump into the portal.

Jane frowned at the God of Mischief sitting next to her. “Where is your shirt?”

“Hmm?” Loki blinked, “Oh that! Well...” then had the audacity to look all innocent as he laid his eyes —and surprisingly, one of them had a faint purple ring around it— on the woman. “I seem to have misplaced it earlier in the guest room I’ve been staying in for the past two days now,” he gave her a shrug.

‘Liar!’ Lady and Jude said in their minds and disguised their “pfft” sounds with a cough.

Loki ignored the two and continued his staring contest with Jane. And it was at this point, the woman got a little fed up with his blatant staring. “What makes you think I should believe that?” she crossed her arms, trying her uttermost to ignore his state of undress.

He smirked. “And what makes you think I’m lying?”

“You are! I just know it,” she retorted. “You’re doing this shit on purpose, Loki. No one here wants to see you walking around half-naked.”

“You’re not saying that just because the sight of me without a shirt on is making you uncomfortable, are you?” the God of Mischief raised an elegant brow. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Jane, hmm?”

For her part, Jane kept her composure. “Tsk. No,” she answered with a drawl and turned back to the scene down below.

His brow rose higher. He noticed how the young half-spirit skillfully dodged his first question without even batting an eye. Impressive. Loki smirked again before moving his eyes away from her and planting them on the scene still taking place below them instead.

‘((Admit it, dear Jane, you liked what you saw.))’

‘((Shut up Loki!))’ she shoved him out of her mind and inwardly glared at familiar yet faint voice she could hear snickering in the back of her head. ‘You too, Ruby!’

‘But I didn’t even say anything!’

The young scientist inwardly rolled her eyes at the Aether’s complaint. ‘You laughed that’s what!’ she tuned the infinity stone out and continued watching the pokemon jump into the portal.

Soon enough, it was down to just Absol and her group, Lucario, Bisharp, Talonflame, Magmar, Misdreavus, and Gardevoir.

‘Wait a minute...’ a thought occurred to Jane just now, and she turned her attention to the Embrace Pokemon. ‘((Hey Gardevoir!))’ she called out to her, immediately grabbing the humanoid pokemon’s attention and making her look up. ‘((I want to thank you and the others for looking after me, and for her attempt, give Misdreavus my gratitude! Do the same with Talonflame and Magmar for keeping me warm. Please tell them I said that, okay?))’

Gardevoir smiled at the half-human woman and gave her a silent nod. The psychic/fairy type turned around in time to see the last three members of Absol’s group jump in, and she along with the other five walked up a few steps.

“And there they go,” Jude said when the final six pokemon all jumped into the wormhole at the same time and disappeared, watching the hole close up as Tony shut down the machine down.

“Looks like that’s it for the night.”

They all stood to their feet and turned to each other.

“I don’t know about you guys but I’m going to bed,” Nero announced before walking towards the edge of the roof. “Night!” he gave them his signature wave before jumping off.

“Me too,” Lady said with a stretch.

“And me three. I’m getting a little tired myself,” Jude said with a small yawn.

The two waved at them and followed Nero’s lead.

Now, only Jane and Loki remained on the roof.

However, before the God of Mischief could turn and speak to Jane, she raised her hand, “While I appreciate the fact that you came out here and hung out with me and some of my friends, Loki, please wear a damn shirt and show up for real next time instead of sending a double in your place!” and punched him in the side, knocking him off his feet.

“Well, well, well...this is quite a surprise.”

Jane looked up to see the Loki double give her one last smirk before fading away in shimmer of light.

“It was a good try I’ll give you that,” she shook her head. ‘Still...I wonder who gave him a black eye?’ the young woman mused right as her stomach growled. ‘Then again, I would not be surprised if Tony did that,’ Jane mused with snort, teleporting away, her destination being the kitchen.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The raven haired god grinned in the darkness, his green eyes and white teeth being the only two things visible in his temporary room.

“So she knew that was a double all along huh? That woman there...”

He fell back onto the king sized bed with an undignified flop, and a bubble of laughter escaped from his lips. “Amazing...”

Then for the next ten minutes, Loki laid there, staring blankly at the ceiling, mulling over tonight’s encounter as well as the previous ones he had with the little scientist in his head.

‘Truly impressive I must say,’ he chuckled again before turning over on his right slide, his eyes landing on the door up ahead in front of him. ‘Who would’ve thought Jane Foster turned out to be like...this? I sure didn’t think so,’ his eyes became half-lidded as he thought this.

The trickster god could finally feel his body and mind winding down after no two days of rest—and no, he didn’t count the few hours of sleep he was able to get on the island or that time he spent unconscious at Jane’s suite on the other island as a griffin.

He could fall asleep at any moment now; the feeling was there, just lingering beneath the surface.

Waiting...

He knew he shouldn’t hold it back any longer, especially now that he knew a certain half-spirit was awake and in the clear. She wasn’t in danger of dying anymore. So, he will allow himself this moment of weakness. He will rest.

...For real this time.

And so, he closed his eyes.

‘Why...why did I do all of that? I still don’t understand...’

It was strange yet a little alarming to discover how much he was starting to care about this Midgardian woman.

Just what the hel did she exactly do to him?

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kinghyra · 7 years ago

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The sun, the moon and all the stars.

HINNY FANFICTION

Author’s message: Hey there. This is a Hinny fanfic set a few weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts. I plan to turn this into a series that explores the change and complexities of Harry’s relationships. Naturally, I would start with Hinny as they are golden. It’s been a WHILE since I’ve written fanfiction (about 6 years), so apologies for my rusty skills. I plan to write a lot more now that it’s summer. Hope you enjoy! xx

“You actually are joking Perce…I don’t think I’ve heard you joke since you were-” Harry shook awake suddenly, gasping for air as the memory faded away. Reclining back into his soft pillow, he wiped away the beads of sweat trickling from his forehead. Harry stared at chipped paint on the ceiling, which was starting to reveal the wood underneath. His sweaty t-shirt clung to him and he shivered. Shifting to his side, he attempted to fall back to his slumber when he noticed the cold, empty bed beside him. Ron. He still hadn’t returned from his trip to Australia with Hermione.

Harry wondered where they were, what they were doing, whether they were missing The Burrow, or if they were thinking about him…A sick feeling rose up his stomach. He won’t ever forgive me, not after what I did. Unable to clear his mind, Harry grabbed his glasses and shoved them on hastily. A violently orange poster plastered on the wall directly in front of him greeted his new vision. Harry watched as the Chudley Cannon player whizzed past before circling back and waving to the audience around him. The smile rooted on his face caused the sick feeling in Harry’s stomach to rise again. When was the last time he smiled?

A shadow crept past him, diverting his gaze to the small owl perched on the windowsill. Its body heaved up and down in a systematic fashion and Harry turned his attention to his own heartbeat, which seemed to want to explode through his chest. Pushing his feet against the ground, he stood and wandered to the window. The endless fields swayed rhythmically to the breeze under the twinkling navy sky. Harry’s shoulders relaxed, and his breathing evened. Staring into the familiar made him feel leveled; he wished to remain like this forever.

The sudden urge to bathe in the familiar made him turn around and stride out of the room, down the stairs, through the kitchen and out the back door. He could hear the wooden structure behind him groan as he walked away from it, but he didn’t care; he just wanted to be able to breathe again. A small part of him resisted- it willed him to return to the house inhabited by those he considered to be his family. It doesn’t matter, thought Harry, they probably don’t want that title anymore. The further he walked, the lighter he felt. Harry stopped at the top of a small hill and stared into the endless horizon. He stood there, watching the stars exchange secrets and wink around the waning crescent.

Years seemed to pass when he inhaled a waft of flowers. He felt the presence of something slender and small walking toward him. Rooted to the soil, Harry turned his head toward Ginny, who was now standing right next to him, staring ahead. Her crossed arms and knitted brows made him feel uneasy, but he did not waver. “You’ve been avoiding me”, she said coolly. When he failed to respond, she turned to face him squarely. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

Harry felt her brown orbs pierce into his skin. “I haven’t been avoiding you”, he replied calmly. “You’re pathetic.” Ginny said. Flummoxed by her response, Harry turned to face her “Whaa..What?” Harry gasped. “I said, you’re pathetic. P-A-T-H-E-T-I-C!” Ginny bellowed. The wind stopped. The grass levelled. Harry caught sight of a few garden gnomes taking refuge in rabbit holes.

Although it was no laughing matter, Harry couldn’t help but smile. His eyes lit up as his smile transformed into a low chuckle. For a moment, everything seemed to go back to the way it was before. Ginny’s strong, hard expression softened, causing Harry’s heart to ache.

“Why do you say that?” Harry mustered, cocking an eyebrow. “No reason.” She replied, diverting her eyes. “Now you’re avoiding me” said Harry. They had switched positions in an instant. “I didn’t expect you to smile is all.” Ginny frowned. “I thought you were going to get mad or something. I just... I didn’t expect you to smile. I’d forgotten what it looked like. Ever since...” Harry’s heart sank. He had imagined this moment for weeks; he ran through every scenario in his head until it was about to burst, but he had never expected their conversation to turn into this.

Harry closed his eyes. When he opened them, he felt his fears wash away. He stood taller and firmer. Ginny gaped; the boy she admired from an early age was now standing in front of her. “I’m sorry Ginny.” He breathed. Saying her name gave him strength to continue. “I’m sorry for everything. I never meant for any of this to happen. I have been avoiding you. I have been avoiding all of you. But that’s because I don’t know where I stand.” Harry sighed truthfully, looking down at Ginny, who was now fighting back fresh tears. “I would take everything back if I could.”

“Everything?” Ginny whispered. Harry nodded. “I wouldn’t.” Ginny said, tears rolling down her cheeks. “What?” “You know what’s funny? I came out here expecting to comfort you. I’ve been watching you for the past few weeks. You looked like a ghost, walking in and out of rooms with no will left to live. All I’ve wanted to do these past few weeks was ensure you were alright. Instead, I’m the idiot who’s sobbing while you’re there looking all calm.” “You calm me down,” Harry said instinctively.

It was time for Ginny to close her eyes and sigh. “I don’t want you to take everything back Harry”, she said, opening her eyes. “I know you’re haunted by guilt. But know that everyone who was involved made a choice. We all made a choice to be there that night. Fred made a choice to go out and fight for what he believed in. If you take everything back, you’d be taking away the hope you instilled in people. The bravery you sparked in them. The will that inspired them. You’d be reversing their attention back to the taunting memories of their families that burn through their minds. You’d be allowing fear and hate to win!” Ginny said, her voice rising as heavy tears fell to the ground. “And you’d be taking back those stolen moments that we shared at Hogwarts.” Ginny whispered.

Harry stood frozen with his heart in his throat. Tears surfaced from his green orbs. For the first time in a long time, Harry felt like he was truly seeing her- Ginny. The girl whose blazing words warmed his cold heart. The girl who endlessly stood her ground. The girl who made everyone feel safe, even when chaos ensued. She gave him strength when no one else could. She was alive and standing right in front of him, shining like an angel. She was familiar, she was his home. “We will be ok.” She said, stepping forward and placing a hand on his cheek. Harry absorbed her radiance and consolidated his newfound strength. He knew that no matter what happened next, he would be alright. Harry held her hand to his cheek and squeezed. “I know we will.”

#hinny #hinny fanfic #hinny fanfiction #harry potter #ginny weasley #ronald weasley #hermione granger #harry #arthur weasley #battle of hogwarts #the burrow #fanfiction #hinny fic

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hxh-secretsanta-2017 · 7 years ago

Text

yo this is for @sanktpetyrthethird who asked for drug dealer au killugon

honestly thank you cause?? this is not at all a story i would have ever brainstormed let alone written if not for that prompt and ive fallen in love with it and it really really improved my writing workflow to. yknow. plot instead of writing <3000 word fluff pieces (raincheck for acts 2 and 3 my dude. this. kinda got away from me)

(also i started following u cause of this and ur sweetheart!! i was really happy to be writing this for such a cool and awesome person)

I HOPE YOU LIKE IT!!!!!!! :D

also thank you to @driftingglass for beta reading a whack of this and helping me to realize i had to cut some prose described by a friend as “violet”

Prologue.

Golden eyes. An earnest smile. Freckles that mark a childhood spent in sunlight.

Killua shakes out his hands, hoping to flick away heart fluttering memories and dread that sinks through his gut like ink in water.

“I need you tomorrow,” says Illumi. His hands drag across the spines of the books, fingers knobby and nails sharp. He eyes the titles with the same vacant, disinterested scowl he has for everything.

Iron supports hold aloft the domed glass ceiling and cast sweeping shadows like eagle’s wings. Fading dusk sky snatches away scarce warmth from the city below.

Killua shrugs off his suit jacket and drapes it over the back of one of the few couches clustered by the unlit fireplace. He walks past the table stacked high with stolen documents awaiting review by himself, his parents, or senior staff.

As Illumi browses through the children’s books—Killua suppresses a disgusted sneer—he slides a brass ladder along the wall of the circular library. Its wobbly wheels scream in the otherwise silent air. He swallows hard and hopes that he hasn’t awoken Kikyo.

Body sluggish and aching for sleep, he climbs up and finds what he’s looking for by the marks he left in the dust a few days prior. It’s an old farmer’s almanac with folklore stories scattered throughout, factual and fantastical in equal measure.

Killua hops to the floor and runs his thumb along the scarlet cover.

It’s an illustration of a humanoid goat standing over a river of blood. Her apron flies in a vicious wind, and the scissors she holds over her head are open around a crescent moon. She stares straight out at the viewer, defiant and oozing with fury.

Killua passes the book to Illumi and Illumi looks up at him, unblinking. For a moment, Killua thinks he’s going to make him pick out something else, but then he adds it to the small stack balanced in the crook of his elbow.

Illumi fades towards one of the arched entrances, which gapes wide like a jaw.

Killua bites his lip.

“Can I give them to her?”

Illumi pauses, a hand gracefully posed on the archway. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Was there any trouble tonight?”

“Will I see you again?”

Killua can hardly keep himself standing. He rubs the side of his temple with the heel of his palm, before forcing himself to open his eyes as wide as he can manage.

“I’m fine.”

Illumi tut-tuts, sickeningly similar to their mother. “Oh Kil, you must be falling ill. Go rest. I don’t want to lose my best spotter.”

Killua is going to vomit.

He hisses in a breath to argue, but something about the way Illumi raises an eyebrow stops him. For a moment he’s pulled into his brother’s dense orbit. A cold sweat runs down his neck.

Killua’s legs itch, screaming both to run and freeze like ice.

Illumi breaks the stare, and Killua gasps, his breathing heavy.

“Goodnight, Kil,” he says, before vanishing with steps so smooth he may as well have been a ghost.

Killua raises a hand to the base of his neck and rubs his skin in a fruitless attempt to self-soothe.

Illumi is far from good company, but he leaves a vacuum in his wake.

Killua does not enjoy solitude. Loneliness, he has learned to live with; solitude, he abhors.

The library is gray and old. It’s a room that hasn’t seen proper use in years, a forgotten corner of the Zoldyck estate with mildew air that itches Killua’s nose and tastes like dust on his tongue. The books are no more than lifeless stacks of paper, ripped apart from the one who loved—loves—them most. The reading chair in the corner, undisturbed even by the housekeepers, calls out for company.

“Will I see you again?”

Killua grabs the hair at his temples and tries not to scream. For a moment, grief compresses him so hard he’s knocked to his knees.

There are translucent hands wrapped around his arms, grabbing at his neck, twisting the flesh of his thighs. His chest bubbles with panic that wants to spill over into sobs. A reckless desire he’s kept in check for years torrents through his heart, and he wants nothing more than to give in and let it ruin him.

Killua has survived through routine and a lace veil of iron between himself and the world beyond his fingertips, but now the walls are crashing down around him.

A thousand deaths on his hands, and he is going to crack for just one person.

There’s a chance, a risk, so stupidly foolish he hates himself for even considering the possibility.

Killua is a professional murderer. He has the heart of a killer, and the drying blood under his fingertips to prove it. He has never shown mercy, and tonight has yet to become an exception. His record is flawless, and his legacy, should he choose to embrace it, will be unparalleled.

Life stretches out before him, every cranny of it predetermined, and he has learned to accept that, to swallow it, for the sake of his sister.

It’s been months since he was allowed to see her, to rest her head in his lap and answer her questions about the outside. Even the polish on his toes has chipped away.

What do they have left to lose? Pain does not scare him, and they dare not touch her.

***

There are pinup posters on the walls of Milluki’s room, and a strip of lights wrapped around the ceiling that flash green and purple. Monitors are mounted to the walls, and boxes of cables in tangled knots are stored under the desk.

Milluki doesn’t even look up when Killua closes the door.

“What do you want?” he asks, tapping his finger on the mouse. A loading bar ticks slowly on one screen, and a jumble of code Killua has never cared to understand lights up another. Milluki continues working, used to more hysterical interrupters than Killua.

What does he want? Killua pauses for a moment, and then he almost laughs, because any answer even close to honest is surreal.

“Can you do me a favour?”

Milluki chokes at that, before spinning his chair around. There’s a glowing smile on his face, though he’s trying to hide it and failing poorly. A flash of irritation burns on Killua’s cheeks.

“Sorry, can you repeat that?”

Killua grinds his teeth and swallows his pride. “I need a favour.”

Milluki claps his hands together and rocks back in his chair. His eyes sparkle with delight. “Anything for my most darling little brother.”

“Shut up,” says Killua, his nose wrinkling.

Milluki’s enthusiasm is undeterred. “What do you need?”

Killua plunges over the point of no return before he can convince himself of reason. Hesitation, his grandfather always said, is the antidote to good fortune. “I need you to leak the outgoing messages from Zenji’s phone over the past two weeks. It can’t be tied back to us, and no one can find out about it.”

Milluki nods happily, and he’s already closed out one screen for another when he stills. “Wait—does anyone know about this?”

Killua shakes his head, frustrated and impatient. Kikyo could wake at any moment, Silva should be home soon, and Illumi has a knack for appearing when he is least wanted. Which is always.

Milluki sobers and worries his lip with his teeth. “I mean, yeah, I can do it, but…” His eyes slide up to the monitors and then down to Killua’s feet. “It isn’t a good idea.”

“I’ll owe you. Seriously.” Killua watches the door, his palms sweaty and his mouth dry.

Milluki sneers at that. “Obviously, idiot. But if they find out—”

“They won’t. You’re good at what you do.”

Milluki rubs the back of his neck, unconvinced. Killua can’t blame him, but he needs Milluki to help him.

Anxiety rises in his chest and he has to slide his hands into his pockets to keep from running them through his hair.

“Milluki, please.”

Milluki’s eyes shoot up to his. Killua doesn’t know what does it, but something about his voice, or maybe his expression, makes Milluki bite his cheek and shake his head.

He licks his lips, and then huffs a laugh. “Tell you what, Kil,” he says, turning back to his keyboard. “It’ll be one hell of a favour.”

Chapter 1.

Meteor City is a jagged mountain of metal and glass. It imposes over the landscape, cast in silhouette by the setting sun. A hazy cloud of pollution hangs over it like flies on an open wound.

Gon walks towards it along the edge of a dusty road, alone among a thousand others making the journey. Trucks pass by, forming an unbroken caravan from the blurry tree line behind him to a field of canvas tents and sheet metal buildings. People hang from the sides and produce jostles under tarps. A great big billowing cloud of dust forces Gon to wrap his bandana around his mouth and nose.

He stops when he reaches the edge of the shadow cast over the desert scrub. A woman with a weathered face and bandaged hands slows beside him, and the two of them look up, silently.

Somewhere in the staggeringly enormous mass, he’s going to find Ging.

The woman moves on first. It takes Gon a few more minutes, and by the time he starts on again, the shadow had crept to his shins.

The eastern market is the major entry point for the city, but Gon isn’t interested in squeezing his way through the crowd. He cuts off onto a thin path, with dry grass growing high down the center.

The buildings, jutting like crowded teeth, are packed together so tightly that not even a starving alley cat could squeeze its way through. More are under construction. Workers buzz about the scaffolding, and huge machines Gon has only ever seen in an encyclopedia gifted by Abe dig up the ground.

There are open balconies on every story. People lounge in them, wearing fancy clothes and airs.

“Welcome home, sunshine!” shouts a woman, hanging off the arm of a clearly intoxicated man with a hideous mustache.

Gon waves. “I’m just passing through.”

She snorts, covering her mouth with a ring-bejeweled hand. “Sure, of course. Just passing through.”

Gon’s breath hitches and he wants to ask what she means by that, but the two of them giggle off into the room beyond.

He waits to see if they’ll return, and when they don’t, he draws closer.

Gon approaches the building like it’s a frightening animal tensing to bolt.

He reaches out and touches the wall. The cold concrete is unyielding against the warmth of his palm.

Gon walks along the edge of the city as dusk falls around him.

The workers continue clanging, sparks bright and flying in the fading light. Gon is careful not to step underneath the swaying cranes, or cut across through dug out pits.

Eventually, he finds a door propped open with a rock. Workers stroll in and out, chatting to each other in a language Gon doesn’t understand. None of them pay him any mind as he slips inside.

The air is rot and neglect and grease. He slams a hand over his mouth and doubles over in the hallway, gagging. His eyes water, and his lungs burn as he forces himself to breathe.

A man walking out snickers down at him, and Gon’s nose wrinkles. He straightens himself intentionally, pulling the bandana back up over his nose.

Gon swipes a tear out of his eyes. The corridor stretches on, long and punctuated with bursts of light where caged fluorescents flicker. All he can see between the pockets is darkness shifting like falling sand.

A fly buzzes in the nearest light, banging itself against the walls of its confinement.

Gon swallows hard.

Just passing through.

***

Gon sits on scaffolding made of plywood and cheap metal, his feet dangling over oblivion. The bridge connects two different buildings. The bustling neon party scene on one side fades into the almost idyllic business row on the other, where plants hang on the walls and shoes squeak across vinyl flooring.

Gon takes another bite of his sandwich and clicks his heels together, watching people stream across the dizzying sprawl of other connectors below.

When he was young, Mito got him an ant farm. Sometimes it spilled sand all over his windowsill, but he still loved it. Gon could watch the workers dig for hours. The city is the same; something about it is mesmerizing.

He’s been meandering for a day and a half. Whale Island, for all its beauty, was plagued by familiarity. Gon grew up around the same four hundred faces and a bitterly frigid line to his exploration quite literally in the sand. Meteor City is incomparably dense with wonders.

He found a shop that sold glass butterfly charms in every colour of the rainbow and watched the artist make one.

It dangles around his neck, now. A luxury he can’t afford, but one he couldn’t say no to, either.

He passed by a funeral procession marching slowly through the street, percussion instruments made of wood and beads clacking. The woman leading them wore a bone white tunic and red shoes.

He looked at park from an observation window, unable to afford the fee to enter. It had a high ceiling and ivy climbing the walls. Gigantic lights fed the lawn, and a handful of couples were clustered on benches under carefully pruned apple trees.

Gon finishes his lunch and shrugs on his backpack, careful not to let it fall.

The next market he passes through has a ceiling painted to look like a midday sky. Dragons swirl through thick cumulus clouds and swoop down the walls. The stalls are open and cascade throughout the entire floor. Support columns are painted green and plastered with posters. Most of them are written in a language he doesn’t recognize.

He skirts around an open vat of oil, manned by an old woman with bags under her eyes and whiskers at the corners of her mouth. She dips meat down in strips, and they sizzle on the surface. A mother with a toddler in tow buys a bag, and pays by tapping the back of her phone to a metal plate drilled into the table.

Gon is pushed onwards by the swelling crowd.

The Hunter Association, when he finally finds it, is marked by the logo on a handleless door.

Gon hops onto the bridge to it. Both above and below, he can only spot three other entrances to the building.

A voice crackles from a speaker.

“Name?”

Gon tugs the collar of his shirt. “Gon. Kite sent me. He said to tell you ‘strawberry blackwater’ and to apologize for using an old pass code.”

“I can’t let you in with an old pass code.”

“He said I should mention I’m Ging’s son.”

There’s a long silence.

The speaker crackles, and Gon can make out indistinct words spoken too far away to be picked up clearly.

“Fine.”

The door slides open with a chime.

There’s no one on the other side. Gon pokes down the hallway, expecting to be interrupted once again by whoever was watching the door, but he’s only met by dead air.

All the hallways are painted the same grating shade of gray, and every door he tries to open is locked and beeps at him angrily. He’s steered like cattle through the building by short stairwells and dead ends until he stumbles upon a lobby.

The room is large, white, and brightly lit. There are a few people talking in clusters of two or three. Gon doesn’t recognize any of them. None of them smile when they look his way.

He fists the hem of his sleeves, rubbing the fabric between his thumb and his knuckles. There isn’t a line at the front desk.

“I’m looking for Ging Freecss.”

The woman behind the high counter snorts. “I’m sorry,” she deadpans, flipping the page of her magazine.

Gon pouts. “I want to see him. Do you know where he is?”

“Does anyone?”

Gon hums, considering the question. “He probably does.”

A ghost of a smile graces her face. She looks up and gives a snide scowl. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

Gon isn’t sure what to say, so he says nothing. She goes back to reading, though he can tell by the way her eyes aren’t moving that she’s watching him peripherally. Gon bites his lip and glances over his shoulder.

Apparently accepting that he isn’t going to leave, she sighs and drops the magazine down. This time, her smile is tight and annoyed. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Ging.”

***

There was a long retired sailor on Whale Island, so old that even Abe could only shrug when asked his name. He lived alone in the hills, where yellow wildflowers spilled across the forest floor like honey, and came into town when he needed to replace a failing tool or stock up on food. He had eyebrows like scraggly wire and shuffled, though he didn’t use a cane.

One lazy summer afternoon, gnats buzzing in the air, Gon stumbled upon him plucking weeds in his back garden. Compelled by nothing but curiosity, Gon pushed up his sleeves and helped. They spent a few hours in silent companionship, and at the end of it Gon was invited into the well-maintained kitchen to share a blackberry pie. Gon breathed on a spoon and managed to stick it to his cheek; the old sailor guffawed, his nose wrinkled.

A couple of years after that, Gon found his body in the woods.

At first, it looked as though he was sleeping against one of the apple trees, but the smell, the flies, and the stillness of his chest told Gon otherwise.

Bisky reminds Gon of him.

It’s her eyes that do it; soulful and heavy, despite a body that doesn’t look a day over sixteen. Even slouched, with elbows on her knees, her presence fills the air.

The lounge is chaotic. Flashing lights cut through smoke. Music blasts, and partygoers holler. Gon slips through the crowd, offering muttered apologies as he squeezes between dancers.

Wide support columns curate his view. They cut up the lounge like a warren, giving him only snippets of her form as he makes his way over. Gon ducks under an arch and jogs down the half-flight of stairs.

He slides into the seat across from her. She jolts from whatever she was thinking about.

“Bisky?”

“Gon?”

For a moment, they float in their own bubble, separate from the rest of the world.

She leans towards him, eyes wide.

They’re interrupted by a young man tripping on his own shoes. He catches himself on Gon’s shoulder and nearly tumbles into his lap. Gon helps him back to his feet, insisting that it’s not a bother as the man blushes fiercely. He scampers off.

The conflicted swirl in Bisky’s expression is gone when he sits back down.

“You’re so much like him,” she says.

Gon’s chest swells with shy pride.

***

His throat is warm and fuzzy, and his senses are enjoyably dulled. His inhibition, thin at the best of times, has been shredded like wet paper.

Bisky is either a fantastic influence or a terrible one.

She hollers and Gon grunts, his elbow straining, sweat burning down his forehead. The woman across from him narrows her eyes and pushes harder against his palm. Gon’s muscles are clenched so tightly he can hardly breathe.

The back of his hand slams into the table. There’s a roar, and people in the crowd push him by his shoulders as he catches his breath. The woman offers him a handshake and a roguish smile as a conciliatory participation prize.

“My turn, my turn,” insists Bisky, sliding into the seat after him.

The woman, graying at her temples, quirks her lips into a smirk. She stands to whispers something in Bisky’s ear, and Bisky laughs.

Gon is knocked back by the swell of the excited onlookers; he lets himself drift, and while he doesn’t see it, he sure as hell hears it when Bisky pulls off a victory.

They sit beside each other on a quiet step. Bisky scribbles out something on the back of a napkin and shoves it into his hand.

“He’s a lightweight too,” she says.

Gon groans. “‘M fine,” he lies.

Bisky can’t hide the chuckle that bounces her shoulders. “Of course you are.” She claps her hands together. “Right. Let’s go get you settled, young man.”

The true face of the headquarters is nothing like the monotony from earlier.

Every hallway is decorated in a different style. One is lined from floor to ceiling with wooden masks, whose eyes seem to follow them. Another is snow white, with the silhouettes of deer somehow moving across the wall.

Bisky has to drag him along by the wrist; Gon keeps wandering off to gander.

Her apartment is luxurious. The ceilings are high, and from them hang ornate chandeliers. The carpet is thick between his toes, and the paint on the walls looks new. He can only stay for the night, she says, because she’s leaving in the morning and the place will be turned over to someone else.

Gon curls up on the couch and she brings him a glass of water, a pillow, and a fond ruffle of his hair.

The night wasn’t what he was hoping for. He’s disappointed he didn’t get to meet Ging, even if he had a fun time. All Bisky knows is that he’s off on some special assignment and planning to come back soon. It’s enough for Gon, though.

He’s waited his whole life. He can wait a little longer.

Chapter 2.

Gon stops outside the restaurant and triple checks the napkin. He’s supposed to meet with the friend of a friend of a friend.

Bisky’s words swam over his pounding head during breakfast. He isn’t sure whether he’s meeting with a thirty-something martial arts instructor or a guy his age with a buzz cut. Either way, he isn’t looking forward to it.

The other key detail that he missed was what job he was applying for, exactly.

He pokes his head inside. The restaurant is empty; not one of the three round chairs has a guest, and there’s no one behind the counter.

The walls are yellow stucco and the splashboard behind the workspace is functional black diamond plate. There’s a chandelier with tacky plastic jewels that reflect spots of light onto the walls and ceiling. The melamine tables are worn and chipped, and the chairs have awkwardly low backs.

It is, Gon thinks, the least welcoming restaurant he has ever had the misfortune of visiting.

There’s a bang in the back room and Gon jumps. The door swings open. A man with a willowy build and unruly blonde hair stalks up to the counter, tying his striped apron behind his back.

“Can I help you,” he sighs venomously, as though he would rather swallow spiders than even consider doing so.

“Bisky sent me,” says Gon.

The man’s nose wrinkles with disgust and he rolls his eyes. “Great.”

Gon rubs his hand along the back of his head and passes over her note. The man holds the napkin out at arms length before pulling glasses from his pocket. He mouths the words as he reads them, and Gon taps his fingers on the empty glass display case as he waits for him to finish.

“Bisky didn’t tell me what KP stood for but—”

“Kurapika. Me. My name.”

“Oh.”

Kurapika sets the paper down and pulls his glasses back like a headband. His hair is tucked, revealing dazzling ruby red earrings.

“Who are you.”

“Gon Freecss. I came here looking for my dad, but—”

“Gon, I want you to know, from the bottom of my heart, that I do not care. What do you know about running?”

“Um, I’m fast, I think? I’ve never really raced anyone though, so—”

“Okay.” Kurapika chuckles a little, his eyes sliding closed and his smile genuine for the first time. Gon squirms, certain that he’s stepped over one of those invisible lines that everyone else can see. “Go tell Bisky not to waste my time.”

Gon’s heart plummets. “I’m a fast learner.”

Kurapika stares at him unflinchingly.

“Also Bisky just left this morning, so I can’t do that.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence. Kurapika stares through him, his eyes glassy and his mouth pressed flat, before untying his apron and hanging it up on a hook beside the fridge.

“You’re from outside the city.”

Gon tilts his head, wondering how Kurapika could tell.

“You’re never going to know it as well as someone who’s grown up here.”

“I’m good at—”

Kurapika holds up a finger, turning on his heels. His smile curls sharper. Kurapika shapes his words carefully, like Gon is a rabbit he’s leading into a snare. “How long did it take you to get to the Hunter’s Association headquarters?”

Gon winces. “A couple days.”

Kurapika holds out his relaxed hands, palms flat. “That’s only a seventeen minute trip from here if you know the way, Gon.”

Gon gasps. The pieces click into place, and he relishes in the rush of having figured out the test.

“No it isn’t.”

Kurapika bites his tongue. “Yes, it is.”

“It only took me twelve.”

Kurapika freezes. His eyes open wide, but he recovers quickly into a slightly less confident scowl. “You said it took you days, Gon.”

Gon nods avidly. “Yeah, the first time. Then when I came back it was only twenty minutes because I knew to use the tunnels way below everything. And then I was bored because the restaurant was closed for the night, so I went back and forth a few times.”

“And you shaved it down to twelve minutes?”

Gon beams. “Yup! It only really works one way, though. There’s this place where the boards are really close between the buildings and you can hop down and it saves you from having to do”—Gon demonstrates with his hands—“the hook thing.”

“Show me.”

***

Kurapika stands with him on the top board and shakes his head slowly. Gon can’t wipe the smile off his face. He points at the grated metal, only seven feet below.

“It’s—”

“Twelve minutes. It’s actually twelve minutes.” Kurapika licks his lips and puts his hands on his hips. He stares at the path below like he doesn’t believe it.

Maybe it wasn’t a test. Either way, Gon’s pretty sure he passed.

With practiced grace, Kurapika holds out a hand. Gon shakes it firmly. Kurapika’s teeth grind and he pulls away, clenching and unclenching his fingers.

Gon rocks back and forth from his toes to his heels. “I said I was a fast learner, didn’t I?”

“You did, you did, you absolutely did,” says Kurapika, his voice dazed. “I take it back. No guarantees, but I can try to find you something.”

Gon hollers at the victory. Someone far above shouts down at him to be quiet. Gon apologizes.

“So what now?” he asks.

For the first time, Kurapika’s smile is softened by fondness. “Try to learn the area around the restaurant as best you can. Do you have a phone?”

Gon passes it over and Kurapika presses a few buttons before tapping their backs together.

“I’ll call when I know one way or another.” He stills and rubs his thumb over his lips. “Do you have a place to stay?”

***

“It’s temporary.”

Gon leans against the wall and bites his lip. It’s the first true residential area he’s visited. Kurapika had to tap his phone on a screen to slide open the front gate.

The hallway has tiled vinyl flooring, and the mounted lights are soft. The main corridor branches off like a fractal, what must have once been a wide open space subdivided into a maze of small apartments. It’s nicer than most of the places Gon has been so far, which is to say that there are no suspiciously dark stains on bare concrete.

Across the narrow hallway the door to apartment forty-five opens. A boy with short black hair, not much younger than Gon himself, steps out, carrying a handful of empty bags.

“Like hell it’ll be temporary, Kurapika.”

The boy’s eyes widen and Gon mirrors the look.

“Just a few days. He doesn’t have anywhere—”

“Why can’t you take him in?”

With a polite wave the boy runs off down the hallway, favoring his right leg.

“Because my place is—”

There’s a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Fine.”

Kurapika leans out, a smug smile lighting up his face. “Come on in.”

The apartment is a long, narrow room. There’s a kitchen at the very back with mismatched stools. Closer, the walls are lined with cubbies full of plastic totes. There’s a low circular table between them, and one of the boxes is open on the ground beside it, folders spread out chaotically.

Next there’s an unmade bed that juts out from the wall, right beside the door to what Gon presumes is the washroom. Across from the bed is a couch, sandwiched on either side by a bookshelf and a dresser.

The man beside Kurapika is, somehow, exactly what Gon would have expected if he had only seen the room.

He’s tall but slouches, his glasses seem comically useless, and the twist of his lips is crass. His hair is dented on the side from bed head, and his button-up shirt is half untucked.

“I’m Gon, nice to meet you.” He holds out his hand with a beaming smile.

The man looks up at the ceiling in a silent prayer for patience before accepting the handshake. “Leorio.”

Gon sets his backpack down and clasps his hands behind his back. Kurapika wrings his wrists. Leorio rubs his eyes. The silence is awkward, and Gon jumps to break it.

“What are those papers?” he asks.

Leorio glances over at the table. “Records.”

“Oh. For what?”

“I’m a doctor.”

“Why?”

Leorio inhales through his nose then exhales through his mouth. His stare turns to Kurapika, who has conveniently fled to the kitchen.

Dinner is made in near silence. Gon chops the vegetables put in front of him while Kurapika and Leorio bicker in low tones over the pot on the stove. He wonders why they’re friends if they spend so much time arguing, but maybe that’s what friends are supposed to be like. Gon isn’t exactly an expert; there was only one other kid on Whale Island, and she moved away years ago for high school.

They’re eating soup, lined up on the counter stools, when Gon tries again.

“So why did you want to be a doctor?”

Leorio drops his spoon and scowls at Kurapika. “Was he being an ass earlier, or…?”

“I don’t know,” says Kurapika, covering his full mouth with a hand.

“What are you talking about?” asks Gon.

The two of them look up at him, and then to each other. Kurapika shrugs. Leorio sighs, and rubs a fleck of broth off his cheek.

“A long time ago a friend of mine got sick, but healthcare in Meteor City is expensive and shoddy, so, y’know.” Leorio twirls his hand, watch clinking. “I wanted to help.”

“Did he die?” asks Gon.

Kurapika sucks in a breath. “G—”

“Yeah,” says Leorio.

Gon bites his cheek.

He swirls his spoon in his soup, and a carrot bubbles up from the bottom. He tries to imagine what that would feel like—losing Abe was hard enough, and he’d been able to find comfort in her long life well lived. Gon’s chest unravels at the thought of losing a friend.

“I’m sorry.”

Leorio looks down. Kurapika rests a hand on his arm.

“Thank you, Gon,” says Kurapika. “Now finish your soup.”

Gon cleans the plates while Leorio digs out extra bedding from the dresser. Kurapika has left, something about needing to sleep before his next shift started.

“You’re getting the couch ‘cause I’m too tall for it,” says Leorio, trying in vain to get fitted sheets to work on couch cushions.

“Okay.”

Gon lies with his back to the room. Leorio snores, like Mito does.

Gon sleeps easy.

***

Gon flips over the work phone. It’s sturdier than his own, and designed to snap closed. He clicks it open and shut as Kurapika explains the process to him.

Again.

“Deliver the package, tap the back of your phone to theirs, if they’re the right person it’ll tell you, and if they aren’t, I’ll get an alert. Do you have any questions?”

“Nope.” Gon reaches for the cardboard box, not much larger than a slice of bread, and Kurapika slides it down the counter, out of his reach.

“I can be there in five, six if you need me armed.”

“It’ll be fine,” says Gon, stretching on his tiptoes to grab the package. He flies out before Kurapika can launch into another lecture. Lectures, Gon has discovered in the two weeks since meeting him, are something Kurapika is fond of.

He weaves through the buildings, secure in his bearings, slowly ascending staircase by staircase. Waiting for Dalzollene’s approval was boring, but it did give him time to familiarize himself with his surroundings.

The meeting itself is mundane. There’s a woman waiting right where expected, and when they click their phones together, they both receive a cheery green check mark.

He passes the box, she slips off into the crowd, and he returns back to Kurapika, where the next delivery is waiting.

Running, Gon discovers, is something he enjoys a lot.

It takes him a few days to conclude what, exactly, he’s carrying, but once he does it hardly bothers him. Who cares what other people want to do if it means Gon is getting paid to fly through the city?

There are three of them working out of the restaurant. He’s a runner, as is Zushi, a barrel-chested boy with stony expressions but a kind heart. Kurapika is their manager, and he reports to “the brass”, as Leorio calls them. Gon isn’t sure what “the brass” has to do with him, so he keeps to running.

There are a few regulars. The woman he met his first trip was one, as are twin boys down in the factories with equally devious grins and clothes that seem intentionally picked to set them apart. There’s a gangly teenager who always meets him behind a heart-pounding night club, and a woman who insists on double checking their tap every time.

Gon hears a new language every day, sees a new pastry behind shop windows. He meets people he never could have imagined, and every night his dreams are fed by pushed horizons. It’s like he’s twelve again; his heart soars with anticipation of adventures to come.

***

“Whale Island?”

Gon nods, slurping from his bowl of noodles. The woman across from him with a sleeve of tattoos and an impractically big septum piercing smiles warmly. She leans back in her creaky chair.

“I passed through there a summer, way back when.”

Gon bites back a pang of homesickness. “Yeah?”

She clasps her hands behind her head and smiles. “Just for a night. Beautiful place. Miss the sky.”

Gon does, too. He’ll return someday, though.

He calls Mito in the evening, and they talk for hours.

The mail system is unreliable, Kurapika says, but Gon still sends her the glass butterfly. It made him happy. He hopes it makes her happy, too.

***

Leorio, despite his big talk, lets Gon stay.

After a few months, Gon is grunting along with him and Kurapika as they maneuver a second bed into the apartment. There’s barely room to squeeze it in against the wall, and only about a foot is left between it and Leorio’s, but it’ll do.

***

When Gon runs into trouble, he’s unprepared. He breathes through his mouth and grips the edge of the cushioned table as Leorio’s fingers brush over his nose. He swallows blood, and the slick, thick feeling of it travelling down his throat almost makes him gag. Leorio sets it, and Gon can’t help but cry out. Kurapika winces, hovering over Leorio’s shoulder.

“What happened?” he asks, eyes stormy.

“I got into a fight,” says Gon. Leorio’s mouth quivers as he fights back a snicker.

Kurapika sighs and rubs his forehead with his index finger and thumb. “Yes, but what happened.”

Gon shrugs. “I was just walking.”

Call it a fight is honestly an overstatement; more accurately, Gon got his lights punched out and woke up with his face against the ground.

Kurapika insists he learn to defend himself, after that.

***

Firearms are rare in the city. The Ten Dons ban them outside of their own use; with the thin walls and shabby floors, it’s too dangerous to risk lackadaisical use, so confrontations come down to martial ability.

Gon coughs and lets his head loll back onto the springy wooden floor. His instructor—an old student of Bisky’s—pads closer.

“You’re completely uncoordinated,” says Wing.

“I’ve never done this before,” says Gon, rolling onto his hands and knees before bouncing to his feet.

“That much I could tell.”

Gon sputters a laugh and rubs the back of his head. Wing crosses his arms.

His teacher is coiled muscle, veiled by unassuming, baggy clothes. The studio is an extension of himself, with its wonky fans and chipped mirrors. Overhead, the neighbors shout each other down.

Gon takes a deep breath, wincing when his ribs ache, and resets into the stance Wing showed him. They move slowly; Wing explains every step as he’s doing it, and Gon occasionally interrupts to ask for clarification.

Two hours pass in the blink of an eye.

Gon ties his laces as Wing talks him through the studio’s schedule.

He learns, slowly, about the people he’s working for. Some of it is from Kurapika, but Kurapika is stingy, dispensing information in palatable drips. Most of it, he gathers from the people he meets.

The Nostrades are just one of the many families tied to Ritz Clan, which is just one of ten clans that operate quasi-governments throughout the city. They control a pocket on the border of the Ritz’s territory, and are infamous for the daughter’s hobby of collecting human body parts. A grim fascination, Gon thinks.

They are also, he learns, infuriatingly difficult to get the drop on. They smell weakness like bloodhounds, and many suspect Light Nostrade is trying to worm his way into the Ritz’s inner circle. How, exactly, no one can tell him. Smoke chokes out the sun, but no one can find the fire.

When Gon isn’t working, he’s exploring.

He charts his way through the ground level, where he finds the crematoriums, water treatment plants, and livestock pens. It’s dingy. The walls are caked in grime, and he finds more than a handful of bodies rotting in the stagnant water between the buildings. But it does provide the most direct routes he can find. Usually, it isn’t worth it to climb down and back up the stairs, but he notes the potential.

It’s normal for him, now, to go weeks without seeing the sun. His eyes burn when he does climb up to the roofs. He can’t tell if it’s because of the light or the pollution. Probably both.

His martial ability improves through hours of practice with Wing and hours more alone with Zushi. Zushi is an enthusiastic teacher, thrilled whenever Gon asks him to stay a little longer.

Sometimes his lessons are less like lessons, though, and more like excuses to show how good he is at trapping Gon in a headlock.

Kurapika begins splitting the risky jobs between them more evenly. Gon learns how to slide unnoticed through crowds, treating the markets and echoing apartment complexes like the forest.

Bisky does not return. Ging does not return. Kite does not return.

Gon keeps waiting.

Baise, one of the Neon Nostrade’s bodyguards, takes two weeks off to visit family. Kurapika suggests Gon fill in, and in a burst of generous optimism, Dalzollene lets him.

Standing outside a locked door for hours or shuffling awkwardly through crowds isn’t as much fun as running. It’s exhausting to have to assume the worst of everyone. Neon likes him, though, so Gon ends up spending more and more time in her entourage.

One afternoon, he has two hours to kill before the next run. He sits in the restaurant, flipping through a newspaper in a language he can’t read, frowning at the pictures. Zushi walks in and greets Kurapika formally. Kurapika grunts from his stool behind the counter, but his eyes stay glued to his phone.

“Hey, Gon.”

Zushi stands with his back straight and his mouth schooled into a professional scowl.

“Howdy,” says Gon, smiling up at him.

“Don’t even fucking start,” says Kurapika.

“Hello,” says Gon. He folds away the newspaper and drops it on the table. Zushi is robotic as he pulls out a chair and sits down.

“I was wondering if you’d like to go out. With me.”

“Sure.” Gon reaches for his jacket. “Hey Kurapika, we’re—”

Zushi waves his hands in the air, cutting Gon off. “No, like, out.”

“Yeah,” says Gon. “Sure.”

“Like a date. Together.”

Gon brows pull together. “Was I supposed to say no?”

Kurapika blurts a laugh, which is quickly cut off by his hand slapping over his mouth. Gon fidgets with the hair at the base of his skull.

Zushi’s cheeks are bright red. The colour spills up his ears and over his forehead. “You like me?” asks Zushi, voice cracking.

Gon shrugs. “The point of a date is to find out, right?”

Zushi is a wreck as they make their way to the karaoke bar.

Gon tries to get him laughing, but it’s in vain.

Zushi is cute, Gon thinks. He’s fun, and Gon likes spending time with him. Gon isn’t sure if that’s a crush, though.

The karaoke bar is loud and bright and Gon hates it upon arrival, but Zushi is a balloon ready to burst at the next morsel of air, so Gon goes along with it. There are, unsurprisingly, no versions of the songs he knows in the Whale Island dialect. Gon flounders, trying to keep up with lyrics that are close but ever so slightly off.

When it’s Zushi’s turn, he stands with white knuckles around the microphone. The words start to scroll and his cheeks puff out. There’s a tremor to his bottom lip.

“Why don’t we leave,” says Gon.

Zushi breathes a sigh of relief and agrees eagerly.

They end up tucked in the back of a donut shop, sitting across from each other.

“Sorry, that was bad,” apologizes Zushi. Again.

“It’s fine,” says Gon, flashing a smile.

“I’m not sure this was a good idea,” says Zushi, his hands rubbing each other on the table.

Gon nods his earnest agreement. “I don’t think we’d make a good couple.”

Zushi’s face falls at the confirmation, and his gaze drifts over to the wall, plastered with amateur paintings on sale. Gon’s gut twists.

“But I like spending time with you. And someday, it’ll be really funny that we went on a terrible date.”

Zushi laughs nervously. “Really bad.”

Gon beams. “The worst.”

Zushi smiles shyly and takes a sip of his coffee. He taps his fingers on the sides of his mug for a moment, looking down at the floor. “It won’t be weird?”

Gon shakes his head. “Nope, promise. Here.”

He holds out a pinky and Zushi reluctantly takes it. Gon chants as Zushi watches him with befuddled interest.

“—sealed with a kiss!”

Zushi’s face turns beet red. “No thanks,” he says, voice tight.

Gon pushes their thumbs together. “Mwah.”

“Oh.”

Zushi sighs, his shoulders sinking down in relief. Gon can’t help but snicker. Zushi reaches over and slaps his arm.

A half-hour later Zushi has recovered to his regular self.

“So, how did you end up a runner?” asks Gon, stealing crumbs off his plate.

Zushi lifts a hand to swat him away, but Gon, ever a careful thief, escapes unscathed. Gon sticks out his tongue. Zushi gives him a stink eye before letting it go.

“I need a job while I’m training to take the Hunter exam,” he says, twisting his mug back and forth by its handle.

“Oh,” says Gon.

A plate crashes across the room. Gon springs to his feet. There’s a woman with her hands over her mouth and an embarrassed wobble in her voice as she bends down to pick up the pieces. The boy behind the counter tugs her back up by her arm, insisting she not worry about it. Reassured that no one is hurt, Gon leaves them be.

Zushi shuffles in his chair as Gon sits back down. “Your dad’s one, right? Don’t you wanna be too?”

Gon hums, a thumb on his lip. “Not really. I don’t think I have to be, so I don’t see the point of it.”

“You don’t see the point of it?”

“It’s a lot of work for perks I don’t care about.” The boozy lounge, free alcohol, and splendid apartment are not things he desires.

Zushi balks. “It’s not about the perks. It’s about being a protector of the city.”

Gon raises an eyebrow. His expression of disbelief morphs into a wince. “My dad is hardly a protector of the city.”

Zushi’s eye bulge wide. “Dude. Your dad is like, on some quest to find out what killed the last chairman. If that’s not protecting the city, I don’t know what is.”

Gon bobs his head back and forth. “Fixing the bridges? Upgrading the water mains?” He gestures vaguely towards Leorio’s practice, fourteen stories and three buildings away. “Making healthcare accessible?”

Zushi opens and closes his mouth like a fish, before snapping it shut and glowering down at his mug. His eyebrows are scrunched together like he’s trying to solve a difficult puzzle.

Gon shrugs a shoulder. “You don’t need to be a Hunter to do any of that.”

“Maybe,” says Zushi. “But I still wanna do it.” His mouth is set with determination.

Gon’s eye crinkle fondly. “For what it’s worth, if anyone should be a Hunter, it’s you.”

Zushi’s eyes flutter in shock. He sniffs and looks up at the ceiling. “Thanks, Gon.”

Chapter 3.

They issue him a firearm.

It’s coded to respond to his fingerprints and will only be activated when he’s on duty. Further precautions include a weekend of training at a facility on the other side of the city, jointly run and funded by the Ten Dons.

Gon enjoys the walk, and he enjoys the breaks from the classroom when he has nothing to do but wander around. Training is miserable, though. No one will crack a smile, and distrust leaves the air hot and sticky. By the time it’s over, he’s relieved to return home to Leorio’s cooking and loud complaining about work.

Kurapika tells him he suits it and the holster.

Gon’s face puckers at the compliment. He doesn’t like suiting something crafted to kill.

The gun has no functional affect on guard duty because nothing ever happens. Gon watches doors that stay closed and scouts streets free of danger.

In the copious, wretchedly still free time the job gives him, he begins to draw out a map of the city. He doesn’t need the guidebook, but maybe it can be a birthday present for Zushi.

At the very least, it makes his time feel less squandered.

***

Kurapika is late. Gon stands outside the locked up restaurant, rocking from the balls of his feet to his heels, humming a song Leorio’s been blasting for weeks.

Kurapika is never late.

It’s a guard night, so maybe he just forgot to meet with Gon before heading to the estate.

Gon texts, and then he calls. Nothing.

He bites his lip and scratches the back of his head. They’re going to be late at this rate.

Kurapika’s apartment is a shabby place. Gon’s shoes crunch on broken glass as he steps around buckets overflowing with water leaking from the ceiling. Kurapika can afford better, but says he doesn’t see what the point would be if he’s almost never there. (Most nights, he sleeps on the couch in Leorio’s apartment, anyway.)

Gon grabs the key tapped to the back of the mailbox and knocks as a formality before walking in. For a professional bodyguard, Kurapika is comically lax with his own security.

The room isn’t much more than a box. There’s a mattress on the floor, and a milk crate flipped over to support a microwave. Clothes, which theoretically belong in the shallow dresser, are scattered over the desk, chair, and bed.

Gon hears a scratchy moan in the bathroom.

Kurapika is doubled over the toilet. Sweat soaks through his white tank top, but he’s shivering. Hair is plastered to his forehead.

He looks up at Gon, his eyes dark and narrowed.

“Let me die,” he hisses as Gon hoists him up, slinging one of Kurapika’s arms over his shoulders. Kurapika leans heavily into Gon’s side, his free hand clasping at the fabric of Gon’s shirt.

“Leorio would cry,” says Gon, walking them towards the main room. “And he cries enough already.”

Kurapika fixes him with a sour pucker.

“Like when you sent the cat.”

Kurapika frowns and stumbles as Gon transfers him to the door frame to dig up a jacket.

“The cat picture?”

“Yeah.”

“It made him cry?”

Gon presses his lips flat.

Kurapika’s brows furrow, then his face falls into weary but fond amusement.

“I can see it.”

***

Leorio, freshly awoken from his night shift recovery, stares down a greasy Kurapika.

Kurapika pinches his lips tight, his hand still on the doorknob.

“Sit down,” Leorio sighs, grabbing Kurapika by the scruff of his tank top and pulling him back until his knees fold against Gon’s bed.

Gon drops their pill bottle haul from the bathroom cabinet beside him.

“I have to go now,” he says, shooting a worried look to Kurapika.

“Then go,” says Leorio. “I’ve got him.”

***

The Nostrade estate sits on top of the territory they control like skin on the surface of lukewarm soup. There are big glass ceilings over the ballrooms and jars of preserved body parts decorating alcoves.

Gon changes in the armory and barely swings into the front lobby before Neon and Eliza walk down the spiral staircase from the bedrooms.

“Where’s Kurapika?” asks Baise, her teeth gritted and her smile forced.

Gon twists his heel in the carpet. “Sick. We’ll be okay without him.”

Baise’s smile tightens and her eyes bulge. “You can’t make decisions like that on your own.”

“We’ll be fine,” says Gon.

Her glare is disgusted, but she drops the subject.

“Good evening,” says Gon, cheery, as Neon slides off her slippers, using Eliza’s offered arm for balance.

“Good evening Mr. Freecss,” she says, voice light and airy.

For all the time she spends out of the house, it’s rarely for her own pleasure. On nights when she’s alone, or alone as she can be, Neon is always bubbly.

They take an elevator to the theater.

It’s one of the services the Nostrade family operates. Not only do they control the drug market, but they monopolize most amenities, too, from water to light.

The elevators, old and prone to failure, are especially expensive.

Eliza and Neon chat in the balcony lobby, Baise and Gon close at their sides. There are two other high-ranking mafia members present, but Gon can’t name them or the older guards that circle them.

A young man Neon smiles brightly at is telling her disconnected facts about the theater’s architecture when Gon spots trouble.

Kurapika rubs his eyes as he makes his way over. Gon slips away to intercept him.

“What are you thinking?” he hisses, grabbing Kurapika by the elbow. Kurapika shrugs him off.

“I’m good to work. Leorio gave me medicine. I’m feeling better.”

Gon scowls his disapproval.

Kurapika’s nose is red and his eyes are puffy. His hair is damp, and Gon suspects he washed it in the sink.

“We can handle it without you.”

Kurapika doesn’t bother replying. He steps around Gon to catch up with the rest of the group.

Lights flash, and the shuffle for seats begins.

The theatre is paneled with dark wood, and the house lights are so dim that it takes minutes to adjust. There are private balconies, rows of seats, and a pit down the center of the room. The stage itself is shallow and cramped.

Beads, in long, dazzling strings, are hung along the spines of the faux dome. Every lighting effect and curtain lifts sends sparkling ripples out like waves.

Gon stands at the back of the balcony, beside the door, and Kurapika slumps beside him. From here the ballet is hidden by curtains red as dried blood, but Gon doesn’t care for it much anyway.

Eliza, Neon, and Baise sit in the front of two rows. Eliza and Neon chat idly, even as the music begins. Neon’s elaborate hairstyle bobs with every laugh. Baise taps her fingers on the armrest impatiently.

The audience settles. Before the performance, after it, and during intermission are the high risk times. Between those, it’s smooth sailing.

Gon zones out and watches the beads.

It’s twenty minutes into the performance when Neon abruptly stands, turns to face him directly, and says: “whatever you do, don’t touch your weapon.”

Gunfire.

Kurapika pushes off from the wall and nearly stumbles to the ground, but he manages to grab Eliza and yank her down as Baise does the same for Neon.

The music abruptly halts. There are screams, and the floor shakes as people run to get away.

Someone has to sweep the emergency route before they can move on. Usually, it would be Kurapika’s job.

“Wait with them,” says Gon, slipping out before he can be stopped.

Kurapika shouts, but his voice is cut off by the door closing. There’s a click as Baise locks it.

A curved hallway with creamy walls services all of the balcony seats. It’s an unbroken oval, with part of it used to access the catwalks over the stage. Gon jogs around it as it fills with a panicked crowd.

People shout and push past each other in a dash for the exits. A man stumbles to his knees, and Gon swerves to help him back to his feet.

Gon finds himself bumping into shoulders and getting in the way. It’s useless to try and fight the flow. He steps aside to the wall and lets people pass.

The shots came from inside the theatre, but Gon didn’t have a view of the seats. They could have been fired by a licensed guard, or someone might be running around with a cracked weapon. Neither possibility is good news.

He doesn’t know the target, and he doesn’t know if bystanders are injured.

Kurapika will have almost certainly reported the incident by now, so backup will be on its way. With so many unknown variables, staying put until then might be the smart decision—or, they might be in harm’s way.

Gon rubs his temples. There isn’t an obvious answer. Combined with Neon’s ominous warning—if anything working for the Nostrades has taught him, it’s to listen to her warnings—he doesn’t know what to do.

The crowd is thinning and being still increases his visibility, so Gon moves on. When he reaches the heavy curtain separating backstage from the audience, he draws it back without hesitation.

No one.

There are big stage lights, carts full of props, and painted set pieces.

Gon passes by the door out to the catwalks. A bucket of fake snow is tipped over beside it.

His phone rings. Kurapika. Gon snaps it closed.

On the other side of the next curtain, the hallway is empty. The silence is eerie, dropping over him like a shroud.

Gon has never seen it still like this before. The unfamiliarity, the warping of space he knows into something he does not, sets his teeth on edge.

Usually, he appreciates the gentle curve. In hand-to-hand combat, seeing your opponent when they’re still far away can minimize conflict. But once firearms are introduced, it just means that every step could be the one that put Gon in the line of a bullet.

His hands shake from the adrenaline pumping through his system, and he walks on the balls of his feet, as though he’s barefoot in the forest.

There’s a thump ahead.

A chill runs down Gon’s spine. His nostrils flare. He inches his hand closer to his lapel.

Someone is around the bend.

A man appears. He takes a step forward, graceful as a sylph, and not a sound is made when his foot falls. The tilt of his sharp shoulders is predatory, like a cat coiling to spring. Dangerous and…

Beautiful.

His eyes are sapphires, and the curve of his lips is soft. His suit is tailored perfectly to his form. The braid over his shoulder is white as crisp ocean foam.

Gon can hardly breathe.

“Who are you,” asks the man. He pops the knuckles of one hand with his thumb.

A fleck of blood drops.

Gon grinds his teeth together, mind racing.

“Are you choosing to get involved or not?” he asks, bored and impatient.

“Your buttons are done up wrong,” says Gon, pointing to the man’s jacket.

The man’s eyes widen in what is either shock or disbelief. And then he glances down.

Gon closes the distance with a leap and slams his knuckles into the man’s solar plexus.

His feet are swept out from under him and he’s slammed against the wall, toes dangling. The detached coldness in the man’s eyes is gone, replaced by hot fury.

“What the he—“

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

The intensity in the air evaporates away.

The man’s mouth is slack. His eyes narrow into a squint, searching Gon’s with naked bewilderment.

Gon holds his breath.

The man lowers him so that his toes can touch the ground.

“You could have,” says Gon.

“Because—you—who does that?”

Gon hums thoughtfully, and loses his fight against the smile trying to curl his lips.

“So you were curious, too.”

The man blinks, then closes his eyes and gives a long, shaky sigh. With a gentle shove, he lets go of Gon entirely and backs up, like an archer relaxing his bow string.

“Just tell me who you are,” says the man, leaning against the wall on the other side of the hallway.

“Gon.”

The man stares at him with a mix of horror and confusion.

A moment of silence passes. Gon pats his hips, unsure of where to put his hands.

“Do you have a death wish, Gon?”

“That’s not fair.”

The man’s eyes flutter and he gasps a shocked laugh.

“What?”

“I told you my name, you tell me yours.”

The man purses his lips. He leans his head against the wall and looks up, as if the light moldings will give him answers.

For a few seconds, Gon doesn’t think he’s going to answer.

“Killua.”

Killua.

“Nice to meet you, Killua.”

Casually leaned back, he doesn’t seem nearly as dangerous. Still beautiful, though.

“You’re weird, you know that?” says Killua, his voice raspy.

“I’m not sure you’re one to talk.”

Killua sniffs a laugh. “Takes one to know one, I guess.”

Gon laughs.

Killua’s eyes shoot wide as saucers.

“What?” he asks, tilting his head.

Gon shakes his head and waves his hands placatingly. “Nothing, just funny.”

Killua scowls. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not laughing at you,” says Gon.

Killua raises an eyebrow. “Sure.”

There’s the click of a door opening further down the hallway. Gon’s head swivels.

Backup, probably. That, or a peeved Kurapika on his way to shout Gon down the second they’re out of Neon’s earshot.

Killua stands with his hand on the frame of an open door.

Gon stumbles back a step, taken aback by the dramatic movement.

For a moment their eyes meet, and something in the air shifts. It’s a comfort and a bone deep knowing so strong that Gon’s heart aches.

“Will I see you again?” he asks, hands floating uselessly.

Killua runs a hand through his hair. His eyebrows furrow, and he sucks in a breath as though to speak.

And then like a switch flicking, his eyes glaze over with the same detachment from earlier. “No, and it would be better if you forgot you ever did.”

And then he’s gone.

#hunter x hunter #hxh #killua zoldyck #gon freccs #killugon #fanfic #submission

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