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marlynnofmany · 4 months ago

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One More Earth Animal -- Part Two

(Part One is here)

Fernando Hwan Tengku-Jones was expecting a cat. His friend on the colony world had said they were sending one that somebody’d left behind — poor thing! —and Fern couldn’t wait to give it a good home. He’d already cat-proofed his quarters as best he could. Fragile things were put away, his reading lamp was secured to the bedside table, and he’d grabbed a few cardboard boxes from the recycle stash that would make good hidey-holes. A litter box should be available somewhere in this space station’s commerce sector — he’d been here before. He could check after the drop-off. As much as he would have liked to get that set up first, he wasn’t in charge of the schedule.

His Frillian crewmates were curious about the companion animal that the captain was allowing him to bring onboard. He’d spent the last half of the trip telling them every story about cats he could think of. Each of them rippled their frills in patient disinterest, but he didn’t mind. They’d be won over by the adorable kitty soon enough.

When the ship docked at their usual berth, Fern did his part in helping unload the usual shipment. The specialty maintenance shop here always ordered the same stuff at this time of the rotation. Everything was normal. But then Fern got to dash off to meet another ship, and he was more excited than he’d been in a long time.

He called ahead, and was told to meet at the cargo bay door. When he arrived, he saw that this ship was unloading boxes as well. He didn’t see any logos anywhere, and the boxes weren’t even all the same kind, plus the crew wasn’t wearing uniforms.

Looks like one of those freelance setups, he thought while he patiently waited at a distance. That always sounded like such an unreliable way to make a living. But at least they get to travel to interesting places. Where there are cats!

When the crew finished handing the motley assortment of boxes off to a motley assortment of customers, the one with the tablet waved him over. This was a cute little lizard who probably wouldn’t want to be described that way. As yellow as a very serious banana. She called into the ship for somebody else to come out, and Fern was delighted to see another human carrying a cat-sized cage.

“Hello!” the other human said, waving her free hand. “I have something important to tell you about your new friend here.”

Fern was immediately worried. “Is it injured? Or pregnant?” His captain had approved a single animal, not a litter.

“Thankfully, no!” she replied, setting down the cage with the front turned away from him. “First of all, he’s perfectly healthy and perfectly tame. And he’s been fixed. But most importantly, his stink gland has been removed.”

“His what?” Fern thought of his aunt’s cat who had stunk up the house by scent-marking the walls. Wasn’t that just pee, not a gland?

“Congratulations,” the other human said. “You are the proud owner of a non-spraying skunk.”

“A what?” Fern said on reflex, processing her words.

She lifted the cage and turned it so he could see inside. “This is the friendliest little snuggle buddy, and he likes being brushed.”

Fern stared. A very fluffy skunk stared back. While most of his brain was still circling in shock, the thought surfaced that the animal really did seem tame: not threatening to spray even though its gland had been removed. Theoretically.

He asked, “You’re sure it’s completely de-stinked?”

“Yes.” The other human nodded. “Our medscanner is top-notch. And I spent a lot of time with him on the trip here; I’m certain he was hand-raised as a pet. No idea how the poor guy ended up in the middle of nowhere, but he more than deserves a loving home. Think you can give him that?”

Fern’s heart twinged, and he shook himself. “Yes, absolutely. Did he come with a name?”

The other human smiled. “Nope! That’s up to you. I’ve been calling him Fluffy, but that’s just a placeholder.”

“Seems pretty accurate,” Fern said, gazing through the bars.

The yellow lizard stepped forward with the digital paperwork. Fern signed for the skunk, his thoughts in a whirl.

“If you’re already set up with cat food, good news: skunks will eat that,” the other human told him. “They’re omnivores, so this guy will eat a lot of the same stuff you do, just try to keep it as close to nature as you can out in space: plain and not overly processed. He’ll love peanut butter and chicken eggs if you can get them. Oh, and keep him away from the usual list of Crazy Human Toxic Foods! No chocolate, onions, garlic, or caffeine. Or hot peppers, though that’s more unpleasant than poisonous for him.”

“Right,” Fern said, handing the tablet back. “Good to know; thank you.”

“Sure thing! I hope you guys have a long and happy life together.” She presented him with the cage and gave his uniform a look. “Merchant ship, right?”

“Talented Toolmakers, of Frillian Pride,” Fern recited automatically as he accepted the armload of skunk. “I got hired when the route changed to spend more time in human territory. But then it changed back, and I haven’t seen much from home lately.”

“Well this guy’s glad to have you,” the other human said. The lizard was already walking back into the ship. “We have to rush off to another delivery, but good luck! Skunks can get into places they shouldn’t, and claw things open that a cat wouldn’t be able to, so keep him away from the engine room.”

“Got it!” Fern waved goodbye as the other human trotted back onto her ship. While the bay doors closed, Fern took careful steps back toward his own.

He expected his crewmates to react in alarm at the news that his cat was a skunk … but he’d forgotten that they were unfamiliar with Earth animals.

“If it can’t make that smell, and it isn’t going to bite anyone, then I don’t see a problem,” the captain said. “Just keep it in your quarters while it gets settled in. You can bring it out under supervision later.”

“It really is as fluffy as you said,” remarked the engineer.

“What does it eat?” asked the pilot.

Fern replied, “A lot of the same things I do.”

“That’s convenient!” the pilot said. The others agreed.

And that was that. Fern took the skunk into his quarters, let it waddle around and sniff everything, then fed it a messy plate of cat food. He put a folded hand towel in the cage and gently stuffed the skunk back in so he could run off to buy a litter box without worrying about what it would do while he was gone.

He splurged on a fancy litter box with a covered top and an auto-scooper, designed for ship’s cats. When he set it up and opened the cage, the skunk went right for it, which was a relief.

Probably a relief for him too, Fern thought. He’s been in that cage a while.

The captain announced that they were taking off. Fern settled down to socialize with his new pet, confident that he wouldn’t be needed for a while yet. Their route was predictable, after all, and this next part involved a lot of empty space before they reached the warehouse.

A lot of empty space, and pirates.

Human ones according to the intercom, which just made the whole thing more insulting. This was NOT the taste of home he’d been missing. The captain’s announcement held a lot of profanity, and Fern could see why. It was bad enough to be shaken down when they had cargo they could be reimbursed for, but right now their hold was empty. And the pirates wouldn’t accept that.

They’ll want our own tools, Fern thought, looking around his quarters. And food, and fuel, and… His gaze fell on the skunk nosing about his bookshelf.

And fuck them.

He lunged for the intercom button. “Captain, if you’re sure they’re human, I have an idea.”

Several minutes later, the pirate ship locked onto the merchant vessel, and clamped an adapter over the airlock. Pirates gathered, ready to board, armed with guns and knives and vicious grins.

Those grins evaporated when the first pirate looked through the airlock porthole at what waited for them on the other side.

One lone human, wearing a breather helmet and carrying a fluffy, agitated skunk.

The pirates detached immediately and took off with enough thrust to rock the ship.

The pilot got the merchant vessel back on course, while the captain sang praises over the intercom, and Fern brought Fluffy the Fearsome back to his room for some well-earned brushing.

The next time that particular merchant ship passed through the area, it had a large emblem of a skunk pasted next to the company logo.

~~~

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book.

Shared early on Patreon! There’s even a free tier to get them on the same day as the rest of the world.

The sequel novel is in progress (and will include characters from these stories. I hadn’t thought all of them up when I wrote the first book, but they’re too much fun to leave out of the second).

#somebody wanted to see the guy's reaction #and I couldn't pass that up #there is one swear word in this story #it's not where you think #skunks #in spaaace #humans are weird #and so are our pets #haso #hfy #eiad #humans are space orcs #my writing #The Token Human #and friends

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jeonginsleftcheek · 5 months ago

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The sun to me

Chapter I. The Seed. Part II.

pairing: hwang hyunjin x afab!reader

word count: 1.2k

chapter summary: a glimpse into the world of y/n, the florist and the dreamer.

warnings: tw for brief description of terminal illness and death of reader's mother

~ Masterlist for the series

~ next part

💐 Daffodil - rebirth and new beginnings.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Your alarm sounds off and you grunt, hand searching blindly for your phone to turn off the shrill sound.

"Shut up."- you mutter as it rings annoyingly and loudly next to your head before you crack one eye open and finally locate the culprit.

You manage to turn off the alarm, blinking a few times before your eyes travel to your window. Warm sunlight barely peeks through your curtains, casting a glow on your face, reflecting the sparkle in your eyes.

You turn your head away, it's too early to stare into so much light and you stretch your limbs, letting out a little noise of satisfaction.

It's going to be a slow morning at your flower shop, you know it because no one has birthdays, weddings, funerals or anniversaries today.

You know Barbara will probably arrive at 9:00 am sharp to buy a new bouquet for her cats even though they could care less but it makes her happy, and making people happy is what makes you happy.

You've always loved flowers, ever since you were a little child, your mother was always in her garden, her gentle hands careful with the stems, careful with the seed, always dirtied with the precious soil.

Always on her knees, working and working away around her flowers, that most of the time you were sure she loved them more than she loved you.

She taught you everything, the symbolism of every flower was etched in your mind, as you would lay your head on your pillow, she'd sit next to you and tell you stories about flowers before you'd drift off into dreamland.

You kept a little flower diary, complete with dried flowers from the garden and the ones you'd find outside, their symbolism written next to them with the most beautiful calligraphy your little hands could come up with.

As you grew taller, the collection of dried flowers grew bigger, your mother grew older and fell sick, too weak to spend time working her life away in her garden.

The flowers withered and so did she, there was nothing you could do as you watched her being lowered into the soil she loved so much, a flower bed made just for her frail body to decompose under.

You didn't cry that day, not even the next day or that week.

You cried when you stepped into the garden, seeing half of the flowers she so carefully nurtured withering away. You were mad, mad at her for leaving you, mad at the universe taking her away from you.

You were mad at the stupid flowers for getting so much of her attention and love.

But you knew nothing else except them, wanting to honor your mother's existence, you got on your knees and worked away in your garden, your hands gentle with the stems, careful with the seed, dirtied with the precious soil stained with your tears.

You opened up a flower shop on the island, the first and only one, making it also a great investement as it became your livelihood.

The flowers were all you knew, but in a way, you felt like they knew you too. Like they spoke to you with some intricate secret language that only you understood.

The bell on the door chimes just as you were spraying your yellow roses with water, humming along to the music playing lightly in the background, lost in thought.

"Good morning, y/n!"- Barbara chirps happily as she walked into your flower shop, 9 am sharp as she always does.

She smiles brightly, her red dress flowing around her chubby frame, patterned with sunflowers, the symbolism of happiness.

That's what she always was to you and everyone else, at least on the outside. Always smiling, her eyes big and sparkly as she talked about all seven of her cats.

Today, it's Muffin's turn, cat number five, he made a mess in her kitchen today, knocking over one of Barbara's potted plants. She even had pictures to show you as proof. You chuckle along as she shows the video of said cat, staring at her like there was nothing wrong, after completely messing up her marble counter.

She asks for a new bouquet, this time it's orange and purple zinnias, of course on your recommendation since you took the time to always do research, even when it comes to flowers that might be poisonous to pets.

Your hands are careful and gentle as you arrange the zinnias together, as Barbara keeps talking your ear off.

"Oh, did you hear?"- the tone of her voice shifts suddenly, becoming eager and suggestive.

Here comes the gossip part, Barbara knows everyone's business on this island, and she butts into it but no one holds it against her, knowing that for a 50 year old woman with seven cats, she's probably just a lonely soul.

"Hear what?"- you ask absentmindedly, grabbing some orange paper to wrap the flowers with it.

"Apparently some celebrity is coming to stay on the island."- she says as if that's somehow gonna save her from her loneliness.

"Oh yeah?"- you feign interest, celebrity culture was not something you cared about, you always thought all of that bling and flashes of the camera were a fake world, set up by soul-sucking people who only exist to make money.

In the eye of the public, celebrities were just puppets on strings, but any other time they were just normal human beings like everyone else.

"Yes, I don't know who it is yet, but oh, I hope it's some handsome actor!"- Barbara swoons and you chuckle, reaching the polished bouquet to her.

"I'm sure you'll find out soon."- you say as she gives you a 10, a special discount for her since she's a regular, but she always adds a few more coins.

"Oh, I'll let you know when I do."- she winks, thanking you before she leaves the shop.

You could care less about some stuck up celebrity.

Right now what needs your attention is your yellow roses so you concentrate on that, tossing out thoughts of Barbara, her cats and the mysterious celebrity.

The wind. It can be a gentle breeze, caressing your skin like a tender lover that brings comfort to your soul, it can be refreshing as it cools you down on a hot summer night, bringing some air into your parched lungs or it can be cold, cold as ice that prickles on your skin, like frostbite, chilling you deep to your very bones.

But in this case, the wind blowing through Hyunjin's hair, as he leans his hands on the railing of the ship, feels like pure and unaldulterated freedom.

The smell of the salty sea fills up his nostrils, the sunlight kisses his cheeks, he listens to the sound of the waves crashing against the hull of the ship like a passionate lover and Hyunjin wants to laugh like a maniac.

No Charlie anywhere in sight, no crooked faces, no baggies of white, no green dollar bills, no beautiful models, no emptiness.

It feels like a new beginning, a rebirth for him.

He has no plans, no deadlines, no itineraries, no maps, nothing but one suitcase and his will to recover.

Recover from the ugly cycle he threw himself in, from all the things that poison his brain, his body and his heart.

As he finally sets foot on land, dragging his suitcase behind him, he no longer feels like Hwang Hyunjin, the artist. Hwang Hyunjin, the celebrity. Hwang Hyunjin, the empty shell of a person.

He feels like someone else, someone he can't wait to discover.

✨Taglist: @moonchild9350 @janepg @velvetmoonlght @hwanghyunjinismybae @jehhskz @laylasbunbunny @porangporangmeong @jeonginslefthand @sapphirewaves @simpforleeknaur @laughatdanger @lixies-favorite-cookie @linavc @quokkacidal @thisaintredwine @m00gyu @yaorzu-blog @skzfelixlove @tajannah-price1 @puccaaak @aft2rsexs @xxkissesforchanniexx @aprilmaejune77 @lilmeowneow @stayjinnie @astrobebba @danihwang882 @kaysungshine @nchhuhi @1810cl @chartrucewhore @babigriin @jisuperboard @alisonyus

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iliketangerines · 8 months ago

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hii it's the anon whom requested the cat!hybrid reader from last time :p

since it was hybrid reader, maybe hybrid Shang Tsung as well? specifically, he's half snake now after a failed potion (or spell, whichever works) and he just breeds his gf reader? maybe also with a little bit of obsessed shang tsung bc I have some thoughts after reading that obsessed shang tsung fic..

take ur time with this, prolly ain't gonna be my last time requesting (and sorry if I'm requesting Shang Tsung a lot it's just that he's lacking fanfics 😞 I have some very inappropriate thoughts abt him that I need to share)

wrapped around him

a/n: writing this, i feel like my writing style has changed since i've come back

pairing: snake hybrid!shang tsung x afab!reader

warnings: nsfw (MDNI), pussy eating, breeding kink, not proofread

Shang Tsung observed the snake tail slithering behind him, a beautiful shade of yellow mottled with some darker parts, and he tilted his head at his newfound appendage

he had drank a botched potion, thinking that it would work, and he was in agonizing pain as he felt his bones rearrange and his flesh meld and stretch

but then the ache had finally faded away, and Shang Tsung could properly admire his newfound addition

it was beautiful, elegant, almost terrifying, and the sorcerer wondered what other changed to his body that the potion had made

he slithered over to the mirror nearby, which had taken an embarrassingly long time with how he had to retrain his muscles to slither rather than walk

but it was worth it as he looked at his body, looking at how his face had changed

his arms had remained unchanged, but on his face…two new slits were now on his face, one on each side of his face that extended from the edge of his mouth to the edge of his face

his eyes were no longer pupils but slitted, like a snakes, and Shang Tsung opened his mouth, finding his fangs much longer than he remembered

but, Shang Tsung opened his mouth even more, and well, his mouth horrifyingly opened even larger, almost like his jaw had come off its hinge

he could see in the periphery how longer fangs popped out from the top of his mouth and sprayed a clear liquid, and then Shang Tsung closed his mouth to a normal amount to observe his tongue

it was forked, but he found he could smell much more if he stuck his tongue out into the air

an odd change, but not an unwelcome one…yet

Shang Tsung crossed his arms, drumming his fingers against his arm as he thought of the cons and pros of the entire situation

he wouldn’t be able to go out in public like this and gather his materials, but he felt stronger, faster, energetic

he supposed he would have to go back to his old ways of finding his materials in the forest, but then again, working with Sindel meant having to appear in court

he would have to transform back soon: he was due for a meeting with the Empress sometime next month

slithering back to the potions table, he’s struck with the thought of you, somewhere upstairs sleeping on the bed or sitting at the table and reading

how would you take his new transformation?

and suddenly Shang Tsung felt nervous

he valued your opinion, one of the few that he did, and he was devoted to you as you were devoted to him

he supposed you would have to his transformed state at some point, and if you would accept his changed body, he was sure

struggling to slither up the stairs, Shang Tsung found you absent from the living room, and so he figured you were still laying in bed, perhaps reading an ancient scroll

he made his way to the bedroom door and opened it slowly, and there you were, sitting on the bed with a cup of something and a scroll he had found for you to translate

you look up at the door with a glare before you realize it’s Shang Tsung, a smile coming over your face as you ask him if he was done for the day

he blinks and not quite, before swinging the door open to show his predicament

your eyes widen in surprise before you start laughing, full on slamming your fist in the sheets and nearly spilling your drink in your other hand

Shang Tsung scowls at your amusement, but it was a bit amusing considering how he was supposed to be a talented sorcerer and still managed to muck up a potion

eventually, your laughs die down into giggle, and you finally step out of the bed, revealing the soft expanse of your legs

you walk over to him, peeking over his shoulder to observe the rest of his tail, and you touch his torso where the skin and the scales blend together, sending a shiver up Shang Tsung’s spine

your observations are slow and deliberate as you walk up and down the length of his tail to observe the length and the pattern and the color

after a while, you stand in front of Shang Tsung, and you tell him the look suits him

the sorcerer chuckles and says for you not to get used to it because he would have to change back soon enough to meet with the court

you pout at him playfully before shrugging your shoulders and crawling back into bed and beckoning him to lay underneath the warm sheets and sun with you

he obliges and curls up around you, his tail wrapping around the two of you as you translated the ancient scroll in your hand and sipped on your morning drink

he would be rid of his tail soon enough, so he might as well enjoy it

well, that’s what Shang Tsung thought except no matter how many times he brewed the potion, it bubbled and fell flat or bubbled over and caused a mess in the labs

even worse, he couldn’t focus on his work, the scent in the air pervading his sense and something raging building up inside of his body

it was hot and heady and something he had ignored for the better part of two weeks, but he really couldn’t manage this building feeling in his body

he slithered out of the lab and up the stairs, hissing in anger, something else that he couldn’t control about his body

he hated this feeling of the loss of control, where he couldn’t even control his damn body

Shang Tsung perks up as his tongue flicks out, tasting you in the air, and he moves as silently as he can toward the door and cracks it open

you’re not doing anything in particular, just catching up on some light reading for you, some books on translations and ancient languages

and yet, you look so enticing, the sun glinting off your hair and shining on all the right parts of your skin and god you smell so tasty right now on his tongue-

you look up from your book, seemingly able to sense his staring, and you close it, placing a bookmark in gently and placing it on the bedside table

he opens the door fully and makes his way over to you, tongue flicking out over and over again because he can’t get enough of your smell

you question if everything was okay, but he can’t seem to hear you over the buzzing in his head and how beautiful you look right now and how you would taste on his heightened senses

Shang Tsung leans down, breathing in your scent from your neck, and his tongue darts out to lick the soft skin

he moans, licking at the slight sheen of sweat you have on your skin, and you tangle your hand in his hair as you laugh and ask if he’s just feeling a little needy

the sorcerer pulls back, and you realize something’s a little off, his pupils are so wide right now and staring right at you and his grip on your shoulders are tightening

he collides his body into yours before you can even think, and he’s tearing off your clothes and ripping off his and his mouth is on yours, nearly devouring you whole

it consumes him, this sudden lust for you, and he needs you, needs to taste you, to fuck you and secure a future

never had he ever thought of something like this, perhaps he had wondered about having a family when young, but almost never again as an adult

right now, his entire body was obsessed with breeding you, seeing you round with his children and to secure his heirs and his future

he presses hurried kisses into your neck, panting like a wild animal, and he can’t stop moaning into your skin as he trails further and further down

it’s an addicting taste, but he wants a slice of your sweetest part

his tail has somehow found time to wrap around your waist, squeezing you tight, and his hands spread your thighs for him, showing off just how soaked you were for him

he can see your slick dripping onto the sheets and dives down, not wanting to waste another drop, tongue lapping furiously at your pussy

it buries in deep, prodding at the deepest parts of you, and you can’t help but let out a cry as he fucks you on his tongue, especially as it bumps against that one spot

Shang Tsung can hear your cries, your whimpers of pleasure, and by the gods, he wants more, needs to hear you crying out his name, that you belong to him

somehow, his hands spread your legs even further, and he shoves his face into your pussy, nose firmly grinding against your sensitive clit

it makes pleasure move up your spine and coil in your head, filling it with a haze, and you whine out his name, moving your hips on his face as you chase your release

you can feel it coming, with the way the pleasure builds higher and higher, and SHang Tsung knows too with the way your hips buck and legs twitch

he wants it too, and his fingers dig bruises into your soft skin as he doubles his efforts, barely breathing as he thrusts his tongue ever further into you

humming against your clit, Shang Tsung is looking for your release, and you let out a cry, pussy clenching down on his tongue and head thrown back as you cum on his face

Shang Tsung’s closes his eyes and moans at the taste of you flooding his tongue, and he laps at you, trying to get every single drop, determined to not let it go to waste

your hips are still grinding on his nose, and you hands are gripping onto the sheets desperately as you ride out the last vestiges of your orgasm

finally, you open your eyes and find Shang Tsung’s face hovering over you, staring at you with those slitted eyes of his and grinding his cock into your wet cunt

his cock, cocks?

Shang Tsung all but purrs as he leans in close to your ear and whispers in his smug voice that his body can now accommodate for two

and with that, he pushes in slowly, and you whine loudly, hands flying up from the sheets to grab onto his shoulders and dig your nails into his muscle

but he doesn’t seem to mind, watching how your chest rises and falls rapidly and how your face scrunches up in both pleasure and pain

his mouth presses against yours, catching every little sound you make for him, and one of his hands go down to rub at your clit

it helps you relax, and Shang Tsung pushes a little further, letting out a breathy groan into your mouth as he finally bottoms out

you’ve never felt so full, so fucked-out and stretched, but it’s pleasureable, the way the sting burns around the edges and mixes with the pleasure

you beg him, please, please move, you need him to fuck you

Shang Tsung gladly does so, moving his hips slowly at first and then quickening his pace until it’s the wet squelch of your pussy in the air

he has to breed you, needs it carnally, has to fuck his cum into you, and it’s all Shang Tsung can think about as his instincts kick in

it’s almost feral how he fucks into you, hand rubbing fast little circles onto your clit as he fucks you on his cocks, and you let out a cry as you cum, still sensitive from your previous one

but he doesn’t slow down, or mock you, or tease you, rather he just continues with his animalistic grunts, teeth gleaming in the sun’s beams and eyes so black you’re not sure if there’s even an iris

all too quickly, another orgasm rises up in you, and Shang Tsung pushes you over the edge over and over again, filling your senses with him and only him

the pleasure and pain stings together, and you start to cry, tears falling down your cheeks

Shang Tsung licks them up, smiling at how you’re crying, and it only spurs him on for his tail to raise up your waist so his cocks hits a different angle inside of you

it makes you see stars and moan out his name as you clench down on him and squirt, the liquid coating his torso and his skin and dripping down onto the sheets

but it’s what Shang Tsung needs as he finally groans deep and cums inside of you, thrusts sloppy and slowing as he fucks his seed into you

his hips never stop, only moving much slow than before as he watches for any singular spilled drop from your pussy

and then finally, he buries himself deep to keep you plugged with his seed, and he loosens his grip on your waist to wrap his entire tail around the two of you as he drifts off to sleep

he has a protective grip on you, head buried into your hair, and you can’t find yourself holding onto consciousness much longer either as you fall asleep as well

Shang Tsung finds the cure a few days later, and then a few months later in the forsaken island as he accrues his powers, he finds that you’re pregnant

he almost hopes that they’re half-snake

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eggyrocks · 9 months ago

Text

rot: h. iwaizumi

chapter one -> a favor

word count: 6.1k

(masterlist ; written content ; taglist)

Her apartment is a piece of shit.

Rot has set in its bones, a permanent stench of musk and mold seeped into its walls. The bathroom is perpetually wet, and pieces of the ceiling frequently chip off and fall into her coffee. And it doesn’t help that there’s half smoked cigarette buds littered everywhere or greased soaked take out containers spilling out of the trash she’s too lazy to take out. But she doesn’t have it in her to blame herself. It was shit when she got here-there was hardly any motivation for her to take care of it.

Paint chips from the window as she struggles to jerk it open, muttering curses with a lit cigarette between her lips. The landlady has given her shit before about the smell of smoke that drifts out into the halls, and now she has to muscle open the painted-shut window in order to avoid her ire. She figures the old hag just wants something to complain about. There’s years of ash yellowing the walls; if she went at it long enough with some disinfectant spray and a roll of paper towels, she’d eventually reach the original, creamy white color of the walls.

She’s not the first smoker to rent the one-bedroom. She certainly won’t be the last.

Her teeth grind together, and her hands are starting to cramp, struggling against the wood. The apartment might be a piece of shit, but it’s the only piece of shit she’s got, and she’s not about to ruin it by pissing off some temperamental old lady. If she wants the smell of smoke gone, the smell of smoke is going to be gone (and what, is she supposed to climb down three flights of stairs to smoke on the steps outside every time she wants to light up? Please).

With one final grunt, she’s able to fling the window open, nearly losing a finger as she does so. There’s no screen, and the windowsill is decorated with years’ worth of grime, dust, and bug corpses. Distaste furls on her lip, and she holds the cigarette out the window, arm suspended in the air.

The night is cool and refreshing as it floats into her humid room. It’s always nicer outside than it is in her piece of shit apartment, and if she weren’t so convinced someone in this neighborhood wouldn’t hesitate to climb through any open window they could find (third floor or not), she’d leave it open all the time.

She flicks the end of her cigarette, and ash floats from the tip down to the sidewalk below. This isn’t really what she imagined when she imagined leaving. Her nose twitches, and she brings the cigarette to her lips. Chain-smoking and picking mold off bread and trying to lure in street cats to kill off rats that make their way up from the basement.

Leaving should look different. It shouldn’t have a sickly green tint to it. It shouldn’t be this distorted.

Her liberated life had played out so nicely in her head. Leaving would be the last hard part. She had figured, naively, that once the rot was cut from her, it would be the end to it. There’d be no more problems. It would be easy to be on her own. It would be easy to take care of herself. It would be easy to live in a shit apartment and work a shit job and make shit money and live off shit food and shit coffee and shit cigarettes. It was alone on the train platform, everything she owned stuffed into a single suitcase, that she realized she was dead fucking wrong.

She’s taken to keeping track of her problems with a numbered list.

If it weren’t for the dead bugs, she’d lean out the window, try to get the window to catch her hair. She’d get a good look at the street and the people who stumble through it. But instead, her arm goes sore, and she stares at the yellow wall in front of her.

Every day since she’s been here has been the same. An embarrassingly monotonous groundhog’s day.

In the morning, she wakes up to the sound of songbirds and the dogs in the apartment below her that continuously bark at them. At night, she falls asleep to the sound of whatever is going on in the apartment is going on above her: harsh footsteps, crashes, the occasional breaking of glass. In between, her mind numbs, and she mindlessly works the shift of whatever job she’s managed to get for the week.

She’s run through more jobs than she can count (she gets fired by anyone who makes the mistake of hiring her, problem #2). The grocery store fired her after she called a customer an ugly bitch at the end of a dispute over the price of plums (rage issues, problem #6). The restaurant she served tables at stopped putting her on the schedule after she called in sick one too many Fridays in a row (habitual liar, problem #11; chronic laziness, problem #5). The babysitting gigs she just stopped showing up to (she can’t stand to be around kids, and they can’t stand to be around her, at least she doesn’t have a problem with that).

Her current employment is at a video store. That she seems to be able to manage. At least better than all the other ones she’s had. And it’s easy enough. Rent out DVDs. Collect late fees. Let your eyes gloss over whenever someone starts to run their mouth at you. Beg your managers for extra hours so you can pay all of your bills this month (problem #1, tied in pretty directly to problem #2).

A sigh escapes her. The cigarettes burns down closer to her fingers. A piece of shit apartment, and she can hardly afford it.

Her head turns, and she eyes the living room behind her, surveying the cramped kitchen and the rotting front door just beyond it. Her eyes are lingering on the dull, brass locks that keep her door in place. She thinks that she should install new ones, invest in something more secure. And it’s because she’s fixated on those locks that she sees the door rattle as someone slams their fist against it.

The noise makes her jump, and she hastily puts her cigarette out on the window, leaving it to blow away in the wind. She just a few long strides, her hand is around her doorknob, and she’s cursing the lack of a peephole and figures that’ll give her something to complain about with her landlady. She unlocks the deadbolt but lets the chain lock stay where it is. She opens the door just enough to get a look at whoever’s on the other side.

It's her neighbor. Upstairs. She blinks.

There are three things she knows about her neighbor:

His name. Iwaizumi Hajime. She’s heard his perpetual guests call it out enough to have it committed to memory, as well as the names: Mattsun, Makki, and Oikawa (see also: Shittykawa, Crappykawa, various-one-worded-insults-Kawa). But Iwaizumi is for certain the one she’s heard most, both though bouts of laughter and panic yelling.

He has a very careful routine. He’s religious about it. She can hear his footsteps as he follows the same 24-hours daily. In the morning he’s always gone by the time she wakes up. At night, he’s out smoking on the front step when she comes home. And in between-

Whatever it is that he’s doing in that upstairs apartment, it’s none of her business. She has her ideas. She has her clues that she chooses not to see. But she won’t even let herself think about it, nevermind say it out loud. Whatever it is, she doesn’t need to know. It is not her business.

The first time she saw him, he was smoking a pack of blues on the front steps that led into their apartment building. His black jeans were worn in, and his sweatshirt had tears in the sleeves. A dark purple bruised blossomed along his jawline, fading into a lighter blue as it crept up his skin, and into a sickly yellow when it stopped under his cheekbone. The shape of it distorted when he dropped his jaw to let out smoke. She slowed in her approach at the sight of him and averted her gaze. It wasn’t any of her business.

The first time she saw him, he didn’t say anything. He just watched as she rummaged through her bag in search of her keys, careful not to brush against him as she passed him on the steps. She pretended she couldn’t feel him staring.

Her interactions with Iwaizumi Hajime, neighbor, have always been uneventful. At most, he will give her a slight nod of his chin in greeting as she approaches, but usually he just watches as she fiddles with her keys or pretends to be furiously texting, thumbs aggressively slamming against the keys (the text with no set recipient usually reading: aaaajjdewppgaa).

But even with their nothing interactions, she still would find herself thinking of him. As she popped another plastic meal into her microwave, she would think of his hands: long and veiny and cut up fingers holding up a cigarette, knuckles red and raw and forever scabbed over. When she deleted voicemails, she thought of his eyes, sharp and observant and a shade of green she finds perplexing. She thought of where he might be as she took out the trash. She started to look for the outline of him as she got closer to home.

She chalked it up to the loneliness.

The more she thought of him, the more she noticed him. His new bruises. The way his footsteps sounded late at night. How his voice rose in agitation when he spoke into the receiver of his phone, words muffled by the thin floorboards and drywall between her apartment and his. She noticed the unusual hours he kept and the way his most frequent guests always looked over their shoulders on their way out. She noticed heavy looking boxes covered in thick blankets going in and out of his place.

And she’s not stupid. It didn’t take very long for her to piece it together and resolve to stop noticing him (she can’t, as hard as she tries, and feels she knows entirely too much about him, problem #4).

She notices, now, the way his mouth is pressed into a fine line, a fresh laceration that spreads across the bridge of his nose. His expression is composed but there’s a panicked movement in his eyes, flashing over the details of her face that he can see through the crack of the door. She raises an eyebrow at him. “I need a favor,” he says, speaking directly to her for the first time, slightly out of breath and words strung together in a rush.

She blinks again.

★⋆. ࿐࿔

Her thought process is convoluted. She’s still working on justifying it to herself as she stands on the tips of her toes, trying not to shrink under his stare as her fingers clean his open wounds, the tips of them now stained with his blood.

It’s the path of least resistance, she tells herself. Really, there was no good reason or excuse to deny him, and she couldn’t exactly give him the bare faced truth of, “no, I think you’re a gunrunner and I don’t want to be involved in that shit, thanks.” And even if she did, or could come up with any other excuse to slam her door in her neighbor’s face, she figured it would be better to be on the good side of Iwaizumi Hajime, neighbor and potential arm’s dealer.

So she opened her door for him, and told herself that it’s better to be owed a favor than it is to owe one.

Hands steady, she applies a skin-toned bandage to the deep cut over his nose, an extra pad of cotton underneath it. She thinks it might need stiches, but that’s not an opinion she’s about to voice out loud to him.

She steps back and moves to wash the blood off of her hands in her kitchen sink, lathering her hands up with extra soap and running them under water so hot it turns her skin red. The water hits the sink a rusty color. Iwaizumi lingers, standing in the same spot, watching attentively as she does so. “Want a tea?” she asks as she turns off the faucet, wiping her wet hands off on the front of her jeans.

Without looking back at him, she moves about her cabinets, opening one to find her (frankly, pathetic) collection of mugs. She pulls out one with a chipped-up, knock-off version of Pikachu (a yellow rat-looking thing called “Ponkadu” with the iconic catchphrase, “ponka, ponka,”) and another with unsettling, discolored cats, knocking around a ball of orange yarn that she's fairly certain used to be red. “Ginger, if you have it,” he responds, still standing unsurely in the middle of her kitchen.

She glances at him over her shoulder. “You can sit down, if you want.”

Mechanically and awkwardly, he does so. The floorboards complain under his shifting weight and the chair squeaks as he pulls it out from under her table. It’s only quiet again when he settles back against the chair, going still. “You’re not gonna ask me what happened?” he asks.

It takes a few twists of the knob for her to finally get the flame on her stove going. She places her kettle on top of it, and rips into her tea bags. “Nope,” she answers. He gets ginger. She gets green. He gets the cats. She gets Ponkadu.

She can feel the way he watches her as she moves about the kitchen, putting a dot of honey in the bottom of her mug. He hasn’t asked her name, yet, which she figures is fair. She hasn’t asked his. And he’s probably seen it on the envelopes that get haphazardly tossed on their front steps or slipped under their front door (and he probably knows just as much about her as she does him, considering that more than half of the envelopes with her name on them have a big red stamp of “payment overdue,” or “bill enclosed”).

The kettle on the stove hisses, and she’s quick to snatch it up and pour the boiling water into each of their respective mugs. “How long do you need to stay?” she asks, not meaning to be rude, but she’s pretty sure it comes across that way anyways. She sets a timer on the oven for four minutes and turns to face him.

Iwaizumi shrugs. “Just for a bit, while things cool down,” is his uncomplicated answer.

She nods, arms wrapping around her middle as she leans against the counter, waiting for the teas to brew. There are questions she could ask that she’s sure he’s anticipating, but she doesn’t bother, she knows the answer. (Q: Why can’t you just hide out in your own apartment? A: I need the alibi. Q: Why’d you come to my apartment? A: Location convenience and believability. Q: Could I get in trouble for being involved with this? A: Probably).

Her fingers tap against her side, and her eyes are anywhere but on him. And despite reaching into the deepest, dustiest parts of her brain, she cannot think of one thing to say to him. There aren’t really any standard conversational topics to whip out when your neighbor/local arms trafficker (alleged) knocks on your door and asks if he can stay there for just a few hours, he promises, and also maybe a Band-Aid, if you have one.

It doesn’t help that she feels unbearably vulnerable with him, sitting at her dining room table (okay, it’s a kitchen table; a wobbly little thing pushed off to the side of her kitchen, but calling it a dining room table makes her feel better), looking at her, looking at her living space. She wasn’t anticipating guests, not that she ever gets any.

Everything she owns is splayed out on display for him to see. Dirty socks on the couch that she kicked off while watching late-night reruns. A stack of CD’s piling up on the ground, unopened because she doesn’t actually own a CD player. Dishes with remnants of ketchup and soy sauce and chocolate ice cream on the bottom of her sink. Loose cigarettes. Dozens of dead lighters. Mismatched furniture, curtsey of sidewalk disposals and secondhand stores. It’s a flagrant display of poverty and laziness.

Iwaizumi nods his chin towards the least offense thing he can find: the pile of CDs. “Those all yours?”

She thinks it’s a stupid question. Of course they’re hers. This is her apartment. Everything is hers. But the most complex form of conversation she could come up with to break the silence was, ‘tea?’ so she can’t really hold it against him. “Yeah,” she answers, and then adds without thinking, “got most of them from my brother,” (problem #9, she just says anything without ever thinking about it).

He stands from his creaky chair and creeps closer to the display. She holds her breath as he approaches. One wrong exhale and the entire pile will go toppling. Iwaizumi kneels down next to the pile, and his looking at the spine of them. His brow his furrowed as his eyes skim over the album names, and she’s anticipating some sort of string of critiques about her collection, or lack of. “Anything you like there?” she asks.

Iwaizumi straightens up and looks back over at her. “Gotta be honest, I don’t know any of these,” he admits, moving to sit back at his designated spot.

This makes her scoff. Her brother had started a worldwide sort of collection. Japanese synth-pop. Ethiopian jazz. Russian new wave. British post-punk. American folk. The rarer and more obscure, the better. If he could hear now that her neighbor and possible weapons dealer was stumped by his collection, he’d be overjoyed. Even if she has added a fair few of Hikaru Utada albums since she’s taken it over.

“What do you listen to then?” she asks, arms still crossed around her center, as if she’s shielding herself from him.

“Just whatever’s on the radio when I drive, I guess,” Iwaizumi answers with a shrug. “Not really a big music person, typically.”

For a moment, she tries to imagine whatever could be happening outside her door while he sits at her kitchen table, nursing a potentially broken nose and casually discussing music preferences. She gives him a nod. “That’s fair.”

Iwaizumi taps his thumb against the top of her table. She can’t read his expression. Every time she’s seen him it’s always been the same, like he’s permanently plagued by some minor annoyance that downturns his brow and pulls his lips into a slight frown. It’d be intimidating if she wasn’t so used to that kind of thing. “Wanna play something?” he asks.

Involuntarily, she scoffs. “Get me something to play ‘em with and I’ll play you whatever you want,” she snarks, and then stops. The smart smirk she had on her lips falls, and she shakes her head. “Sorry, that was rude. I don’t,” she starts, and then stops, “nothing to play ‘em on.”

The oven clock, gracious with its timing, beeps three times. She spins around on her heel, turning it off and using a spoon to fish out the tea bags. Her cheeks are red as she grabs his cat mug by the handle and walks it over to him. “Ginger,” she says, placing it down on the table in front of him. “”S hot,” she says, and then thinks, obviously.

She returns to the safe space of her kitchen counter, and grips her own hot mug around the middle, leaning against the counter and holding it up to her lips. She’s blowing away the steam that rises from it. Iwaizumi has a hand around the handle of the mug, and he’s staring down harshly at it. “So, listen, if someone asks you-“

“You were here with me all night,” she replies, and Iwaizumi looks up at her with a raised eyebrow. “You met up with me after my shift ended at around nine, and then you crashed on my couch by midnight, if I remember right. You were still sleeping in that same spot when I woke up.”

Iwaizumi’s quiet for a while. His thumbs are fiddling against the mug. She slowly sips at her tea, and when it’s too hot still, she blows at the top of it. There’s a rhythm to the way he taps his foot against her floor, deep in thought, probably trying to decide whether or not he could trust her.

He can trust her. Even if he doesn’t know it. He looks over at her with a slight scowl. “And you’ll tell that to anyone who asks?”

She can read between the lines. The anyone he’s so worried about is, undoubtedly, the cops that might come to her to verify whatever version of events he presents to them. “Yeah,” she confirms, “anyone.”

★⋆. ࿐࿔

In the following weeks, she gets three visits. Which is three more visits than she got in her first six months of living here.

When she was a kid, her dad bought her a knife, and stuffed it in the bottom of her schoolbag. “You don’t ever leave the house without a way to defend yourself, bug,” he had told her, and made sure it was properly hidden by books and crumbled homework assignments. And it’s the only thing her father has ever taught her that has the slightest bit of validity to it. She’s rummaging through her purse on her way out, double checking for her pink cannister of pepper-spray and that same little knife, when there’s another knock on the door.

Her head snaps up, and she sighs. At this rate, she’s already gonna be late for work and her sixteen-year-old manager is going to write her up if she’s more than twenty minutes late one more time and she cannot think of a single more embarrassing scenario. One hand grips onto her pepper spray, the other undoes the deadbolt. She barely opens the door, and on the other side is a grinning man.

This one she recognizes. It’s one of the men who’s always in and out of Iwaizumi’s place. Sometimes occupying the front step with him and sometimes laughing so loudly she can hear it clearly from her living room. She closes the door, undoes the chain lock, and then opens it once more. Her fingers are still tight around the pepper spray, which she thinks is fair, considering he’s got both hands behind his back. “Can I help you?” she asks, trying not to sound agitated.

He grins down at her, brightly. He’s the pretty one. “Hey, I’m Oikawa Tooru,” he greets, a natural sort of flirtation in the tone of his voice. She can’t tell if he does it on purpose or not, but she can tell form the glint in his eye that, either way, he doesn’t mean it. “Iwa’s friend.”

She nods. “Yeah, I recognize you. Listen, I don’t wanna be rude or anything, but I’m late for work, so-“

“Don’t worry about it,” he dismisses. “Just wanted to give you this gift, from Iwa, since you helped him out the other night.”

He reveals his hands to show off a box, neat and fresh from the store. It’s unwrapped, so she can see right away that it’s a silver little CD player. Portable. Battery-powered. Batteries included. She blinks. “He’s real grateful,” he says, pushes the box into her arms and giving her a wink. And he doesn’t say anything else as he turns on his heel, headed straight for the staircase that leads up to Iwaizumi’s apartment.

She places the box on the kitchen table where Iwaizumi sat, and makes sure her door is locked three times before she finally leaves for work.

The entirety of her ten-hour shift is spent thinking about it. She processes returns, and she thinks about it. She stocks shelves, and she thinks about it. She gets yelled at, and she thinks about it. What she’s going to play first. Where she’s going to keep it. How she’s going to thank him.

It makes her nervous to think about, that he got it for her. That she sarcastically suggested it, and then he did it. It makes nervous to think that he was thinking of her after he left her apartment. It makes her nervous to think that he went out of his way to buy something for her. Even if he left it up to an errand boy.

And listen, it’s not like she’s never had the money to spare to buy one of her own. At least, she could’ve bought a really cheap one, if she wanted. But in her liberated life, she’s always found that there were more pressing, demanding things that needed to be bought. Food. Phone bills. Credits at the laundromat. Cleaning supplies. Train fare. Cigarettes. Every time she passed by an electronics store and considered it, guilt gnawed at her stomach. She never needed it as bad as she needed everything else.

She clocks out a few minutes later than she was supposed to. Maybe it’s a bit much for a thank you. All she really did, at this point, was let him sit in her piece of shit apartment for a few hours and make him a mediocre cup of tea. She thinks about giving it back. She’s not going to, but she thinks about it.

Iwaizumi is where he always is when she gets off of work, smoking the same cigarettes. And instead of ignoring him via fake text or difficult-to-find keys, she stops in front of him, painfully aware of the intensity of the stare. “Thank you,” she says, and it’s all she manages to say.

Iwaizumi brings the cigarette to his lips and inhales. There’s no bruises on him today. She looks at him and doesn’t feel the need to turn her gaze. “It was a gift to thank you with,” he says through clouds of smoke, “you don’t have to thank me.”

She shrugs. “I wanted to.”

He lets out a small chuckle. “Okay, well, you’re welcome then, I guess.”

She gives him a small nod, and then takes careful steps passed up the stairs and passed Iwaizumi. It’s only once she’s twisted her key and is pushing the door open with her shoulder that he says, “Remember though, this means you’ve gotta play me whatever I want, now.”

Inexplicably, her face gets hot.

The second one comes thirteen days after that.

She’s got a layer of sweat on the back of her neck and her hair’s pushed out of her face with a bandana. The CD player sits on top of her kitchen table, playing an old scratched up copy of London Calling: her brother’s favorite. The mess got to her. She had started in the kitchen, scrubbing the burnt food off of her oven and trashing her food-poisoning level of expired leftovers.

Somehow, in the thick of it, she’s made more of a mess than she started out with. Full trash bags falling over in her living room, useless knick-knacks she’s managed to collect that would be better off in the trash, piles of clothes she plans on getting rid of (divided into two groups: ‘maybe I can sell these,’ and ‘these would be best to donate,’).

Her hand is down the drain of her bathroom sink, cleaning out the gunk and collection of her own strands of hair, protected only by a thin, yellow, rubber glove, when the knock on her door echoes around her apartment. “Fucking hell,” she grumbles, yanking her arm out of the sink, along with a clump of her hair, and carefully slides off the glove. She leaves it on the surface of the sink to be a later problem.

When she opens the door, she’s tired and out of breath, her body sore and aching. The door cracks open, halted by the chain lock, and she goes cold and rigid at the sight a police officer, standing outside of her door. “Can I help you with something?” she asks, tone not necessarily impolite, but it’s hard not to hear just how much she does not want to help. The door can stay locked.

There’s a fair few things she’s learned about cops (and lying to them) in her twenty-something years of living. Keep your distance. Don’t give them more than they need. They’re not your friend. They don’t wanna be your friend. She’s careful to keep her expression level and unbothered.

The cop starts up with his spiel. He’s sorry to bother her, ma’am, but he just has a couple questions, if you don’t mind. It shouldn’t take up too much of your time. You don’t wanna open up the door, do you?

She opts to answer any questions he might have through the thin space allowed by her chain lock. And the cop asks the questions she would expect him to ask. Where was she fifteen nights ago? Was she alone? Who was she was? For how long? Does she remember what time, exactly? Was he here the whole time? Are you sure? Are you positive?

Answers flow out of her easily, naturally. Fifteen nights ago, she was here. Like most nights. No, she wasn’t alone. Her neighbor was here. Iwaizumi. He hangs out here with her, sometimes. For how long? All night, why are you asking? What time? Exactly, she doesn’t really remember. She got off work around nine, and he fell asleep on her couch, maybe a bit after midnight? If she had say. Yeah, he was here the whole time. Yeah, she’s sure. Yeah, she’s positive. Why are you asking?

The officer thanks her, disappointed, and leaves with his head hung, disappointed. And she figures that, whatever Iwaizumi did, they were sure that he did it. And the only thing that stands between them and him, is her. She closes the door behind her and makes sure that it’s locked.

That kind of thing, it doesn’t really bother her. Her sense of morality is not dictated by written law, and she’s not going to be the one getting in the way of another person’s living, whether it’s honest or not. There are hard lines she wouldn’t cross, or help others get over. Of course. There are for everyone. But those lines aren’t in sight, so she’ll keep her mouth shut.

A shudder goes down her spine, and once the door is closed, nerves prickle at her skin. She hates talking to cops. Every time’s worse than the last. She shakes her head, trying to shrug it off, and returns to her pile of hair in the sink.

Her third visit comes three nights later, when she’s fresh from the shower, water dripping from her hair down her neck. She’s got a pint of ice cream in her hand, legs crossed on her couch as she watches reruns of Inuyasha. She presses the spoon against her tongue. They’re airing season two, but she’s only caught up halfway through season one.

She got off work a few hours ago. She’ll sleep for a few hours. And then she’ll wake up and go back to work. Then it’ll happen again. Standing on her feet for hours. Getting talked to like she’s scum by people who take video rentals too seriously. Being belittled by her boss. Making barely enough money to pay rent for her shitty apartment. It’s depressing. It’s boring. She shoves another spoonful of ice cream into her mouth to try and distract herself from it.

“Whatever you think life’s gonna be like away from here, it’s gonna be worse than you think. And I bet, when you realize that, you’re really gonna start to miss me.”

On her television, human-faced fruit falls from a demon tree. She puts her ice cream down. At least she hasn’t got to that point yet.

From above, she can hear footsteps moving. She can hear his door open, and swing shut. She can hear him stomp down the stairs. Her head is already turned in his direction when his fist raises to knock on her door.

She shifts off the couch and steps towards her door. She undoes the deadbolt. She undoes the chain lock.

Iwaizumi greets her with a smile once she opens the door. He’s wearing a t-shirt that reveals the clear definition in his arms. Her eyes linger there for a second too long before they flick up to meet his. “I owe you a favor now.”

★⋆. ࿐࿔

Iwaizumi’s not stupid. He never has been. He’s careful and deliberate and sure, in everything he does. And that’s the reason his record’s clean. It’s the reason he’s never been caught and the reason he’s been able to keep this whole thing going. He doesn’t second guess himself. He doesn’t make mistakes. He doesn’t get desperate.

With one, recent exception.

His internal reasoning: his gut tells him she’s trustworthy. He just looks at her, and he knows it. She acts like a private person, keeping to herself and minding her own business. She never has guests. She’s never given him any trouble. Never looked at him like she was scared of him. And, no, it’s not just because she’s pretty. It’s not just because he likes the smell of her fresh lemon perfume blended with the smell of her menthol cigarettes. It’s not just he wants a reason to talk to her, to knock on her door.

Iwaizumi would never do something so stupid.

She sits across from him, cross-legged on the (recently mopped, from the looks of it) floor of her living room. She is carefully studying the layout of CDs in front of her, and he is carefully studying her. The sort of messy way she lets her hair fall. The boxers she wears as shorts and the way they hug the bottoms of her thighs. The boxy shirt that hangs off her shoulders, loose and wrinkled, sporting the name of some band or movie or whatever that he’s never heard of.

Iwaizumi likes looking at her. He doesn’t act caught when she lifts her gaze to see him staring. She doesn’t blush. He wants to see her blush.

She leans forward and picks a CD. Iwaizumi tilts his head to read it. New Order. “Can I ask you a question?” he says, because, at this point, he figures that she won’t.

“Go for it,” she answers with a shrug, extracting the CD from its case with care and precision, movements delicate.

“How’d you end up here?” he asks, watching her face as she bites down on her tongue, placing the CD face down into the gift he got her. “I mean, girl like you, figure you should be enrolled in university or something.”

Her finger is firm against the play button, and the CD whizzes to life. “Girl like me,” she repeats back, though it sounds like it’s mostly mumbled to herself, a touch of bitterness to her tone. She shakes her head and looks up at Iwaizumi. “Is that the kinda question you’d answer? Honestly.”

He smirks. “Nah, I guess not.”

Music is slow to start up. It skips a bit, at first, but then it smooths out as the song progresses, evening out. Iwaizumi doesn’t look away from her. “I didn’t like it at home, so I left. This is where I ended up.”

Iwaizumi shifts, his hand reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and he fishes out a pack of cigarettes. He’s already got one in his mouth when he asks, “Mind if I smoke?”

Her response is a shake of her head, and she pushes up to stand on her feet. Iwaizumi watches her legs as she walks towards the window and, with a bit of a struggle, jerks it open. The early spring air drifts into her living room and cools it considerably. Iwaizumi lights the end of his cigarette. She grabs her own pack and an old cap to a pint of ice cream she’s been using as an ash tray before she sits back down, across from him.

She puts the cigarette to her lips, and before she can reach for her own, Iwaizumi lifts his lighter up, and the flame catches on the end of hers. She inhales, and Iwaizumi watches as her pupils dilate. “Thanks,” she says when she turns her head to let out a cloud of smoke.

“No problem,” he says, and leans back, resting his weight on the hand he places behind him. Iwaizumi jerks his chin and asks, “You gonna cash in that favor any time soon?”

“Hmm,” she muses, flicking the tip of her cigarette against the already ashy cardboard. “Think I’ll save it, for now.”

an: PHEW this was certianly a lot. flexing my writing muscles so this might not be great. right now im planning three total chapters but idk i might end up writing more and dividing the story up differently. if you've made it this far pls let me know what u think im so extremely nervous/anxious lmafo

if you enjoy please leave a like, rb, comment or ask <3

taglist: @wyrcan @thechaosoflonging @publicbathroompanic @bedeater @rottingt1tz @rintarawr @deluluforcarlos55 @ahseyy @localgaytrainwreck @cherrypieyourface @baskin-robinhoods @polish-cereal @iheartamora @ferntv @eclecticeggknightpsychic @httpakkeiji @does-directions @pinkiscool @michivrse @causenessus @cannibalsrider @cherrypieyourface @kmwife @k8nicole @oikasenpai (fill out form linked in masterlist to be added)

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu fluff #hq x reader #hq x you #hq #iwaizumi haijime x reader #iwaizumi x reader angst #iwaizumi angst #iwaizumi hajime x reader #iwaizumi x you #hq iwaizumi #iwaizumi x reader #haikyuu iwaizumi #iwaizumi hajime x yn #iwaizumi hajime #iwaizumi hajime x you

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cipheramnesia · 3 months ago

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Graft

In my rest time between one novel and the next I'm enjoying myself making a little spun sugar story about a cyberpunk pussy heist. It's meandering and heavy on imaginary slang but it's fun for me so here is the first half or third or so of it

First thing DeeDee noticed, her usual morning orgasm, or "morgasm," hadn't gone off.

She was late, and splashers crowded her A/V specs, screaming flashing neon yellow red blue promises, 10 water rat guaranteed each spin, stop here twenty percent off premium-vu, act now to get free oxy-sub, plus about fifteen past due blasters for her leg mods, dayclix, manudex upgrade, face plate, other parts. She could see a narrow sliver of her room through the MAds, and she had a scrips balance lockout from the cockout. Groaning with irritation, clawed her way off the cot to the 12-key hardline, unfolded her tongue socket and jammed the bcomp line in, clattering the set in frustration.

Half the blasters, most of the splashers dipped. She got back audio and waist downs and rolled. "Whoooo turned my hot shots off? Who left the wallEMP off!" Micro drones winged around the room popping ad spray and sonics, a few were clamped on her with other past due notes. "Water ration overdue, water ration exceeded" circled her biomech cat ears. Swatted a two or three, fell on the wall switch to jam on the Flyswatter. DeeDee figured a couple hundred overall went pop, trailed smoke down. Ad dust everywhere from the spray. One was on her face?

"I'm not best pleased!" she said to no one, expressing her displeasure. Swept dust and drone crumbs with her feet to space clear in her studio apartment slash office slash workspace slash bedroom slash kitchen, and crashed on the deskchair, slapping dpatches along her limbs and a compstik into her faceboard. "No hotshot no swatter, noncon facejacked?" She untangled her hair from the ecb-plugs on her face tech and grabbed her digiplate because she was slumming it, pouted while the scrips and drips that got dug into her software and hardware ate the big edit to the sky.

While she was waiting around for the MAds and spamware scan [MAdaSS], she finally got to look over the C-Clamp chastity boot locked to her pelvic slot with optional NoPro (tm) insert for prostate denial. "What's this horseshit, who did I fuck last night?" DeeDee did not know what horses were, she imagined they were a kind of bird. Pinged out for her custom built EX neurosynth neovag and got fuckall, which pissed her because the whole point was fuck all.

One by one her debuggers chirped, hopped onto her palm, drawered em, and slapped her basic as fuck face of the day on. Blessed she was with pristine sight of the world, not a nagnote or payscram in sight, just vext message notes, siggies, and a small alarm bell. "Shit, better get to work!"

Shoved cargo shorts over her cock locked personal pleasure slot, work boots, tanktop ("Asparagus for President" it said, from the infamous three way sudden death vote-off of '76), and jammed her comxcon into a free arm port before she flipped the sign to open at her door. "Gosh that was close, any customers?" She looked, a khakicollar dude held up a laptop plaintive, "My browser won't-" DeeDee slammed the door, "No customers! Another perfect day, hang up." Vext notes blinked aside for serious business now. She threw her shorts off. "Time to get outta this contraptamajig."

One angle grinder, one band saw blow torch, three axes, twelve hammers, and eighteen screwdrivers later DeeDee fucked her way through one after the other, even tried to plink the code. All this pouding and plethora of penetrarive pelvic parts frustrated her to rolling her bedsheets into her crotch and grinding on the best metal chastity could buy. She drooled all over her aching synthezized nerve spots, "fuck me I can't even cum, what's wrong with the world these days?"

Vexts, vexts, she clicked the note up it said: ANSWER YOUR CALLS and >:( >:( >:( >:(

The incoming piddy was the UNKNOWN ID scrap, she dropped a spam cage on it and replied 8===D~~~ GFYS and binned it mid-[... is typing]

Fuck fuckity fuck work, DeeDee needed some downtown deep sea diving. She climbed out the window, being more reliable than stairs or elevator. Nothing worked in the damn building except gravity.

Short and sweet broke beat sidewalk street, she hit so many concrete cracks, DeeDee figured the local maternity wards had to be a massacre. A couple dozen micros blasted ad spray and sonics, she flipped a bug zapper and swept em. Ads were going old school, nanoswarms warred over wallspace in constant barage of microsensors, hurling rainbow swirls that paced over the odd window and traffic signal promising six months free tubespace per dayclix.

ANSWER YOUR CALLS RIGHT NOW 😡😡😡😡

"Oh fancy fucks spending on the megs per pixel now?" DeeDee spamcanned again (GFYS) and freeloaded on a driverless with a buncha other local goons. "Hey ratbot, you headin to the VFW too?"

"It's a coffee barrr, Draftie," he replied. DeeDee called him ratbot because he was a planned obsolescence warbot with artificial intelligence generated by a rat brain daisy chain, real preschooler level tech these days but cheap and easy at the time and twice as disposable as a human soldier. "And for the last time my name is Wendell. Wendell Crawford."

She still didn't know why he had a Boston accent, the whole city had been totalled in the second Great Mega Pileup Traffic Jam six years before the manufacturer date on his tread guards. He called her Draftie because her legal name was Draft Dodger due to a mistake in one of her prison ID cards. "C'mon, it's Morca's."

"Ignore her, babe," Bobby, ratbot's partner, tugged him a fraction of an inch away on the driverless rooftop. Legally speaking Bobby was Wendell's owner because the corporate manufacture-state that made him refused to recognize his personhood. Morca's owner, SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE, had been helping with their legal battle, but they hadn't made much progress. Total bullshit, DeeDee thought but last big corplex suit against SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE made em keep her in life support parts forever, cleared out all mines from international waters, and her entire species were considered a recognized nation encompassing all oceans on Earth. Did great things for the environment, terrible for the war business.

They hopped at the block, batted some more ad spray and DeeDee knocked some local splashers with the hotshot, enjoyed watching ratbot snap micros in half with his plastic fingers, inhuman accuracy, "Still got it babe," said Bobby, hugging his blocky arms.

They pushed through the big, rocketproofed front doors under a blinking neon "Morcha Latte" sign, inside was all plastic and vulcanized rubber with DV light and fake windows to make the warehouse sized bunker building feel cozy. SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE claimed it was stress tested up to three directs from sunburst corebuster and who was going to argue with a two storey cyborg?

The overheads churned out the latest scrape40, whatever they were listening to at the bottom of the ocean, today DeeDee thought it sounded like angry plinko machines fighting while she caught lyrics she understood in bits and pieces, "Strangle me, strangle all my life, drag us through the silt and kill in the light," or something like that. She was a regular at Morca's because she got SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE all her jailbroken subscription free parts - sourcing and scouring unclocked mods and squids was her gig anyway. She dumped her ass into a rickety old carbon fiber woven chair between the door and the juke wall. A bunch of hipsters had early adopted save to disc memory uploads but went with vinyl to capture the true soul, now they spent all day slotted into the giant juke machine with impulse fed nerve endings bathed in chemically sterilized vats of coffee.

DeeDee unzipped her shorts and capped the chastity blocker. ARE U SEEING THIS? vexted to Portland. They knew all the high mods, probably could crack her case, she thought, right before let's just say a jolt, a singing high note, transported her from crotch to sternum then dropped her cold. Half a sec from climax, she looked around the room her digiplate all 0_0 not finding a shred of note, til the second song struck her off her seat and got her writhing on the rubber. Customers at the other tables lifted cups and rekeyed their MAdaSSes to tune her out.

"Hot pants!" she yelled, "Liar pants, falsehoods and flame!" Real old gen VR heads turned in annoyance as she pirouetted through tables and rattled silverware clung to the espresso countertop. Her legs kicked about in frustration as she got edged up and dropped. "H-hey Velllma, mind if I borrow the steamer a hot sec?"

"Sure DeeDee, you know you only gotta ask hun. Want-want s-some sug- Sorry, still got that old tick." Velma was a self-operated point of sale holodrone who DeeDee had jacked, glassed, and juiced to someone more independent for handling orders at Morca's, and she'd done a recent SRS download to her visual interface.

"You're the best Vel." Few seconds later DeeDee steamed her crotch full blast trying to bust herself free or bust herself off.

ANSWER YOUR CALLS NOW OR YOU'LL NEVER CUM AGAIN, BITCH

She slipped off the espresso machine and answered from the floor with her feet still resting against the countertop. "Who are you, and what was the safe word? Last night's a blur."

"No safeword. We have your cunt. Meet at the bench, corner of Morgan Stanley Park Avenue and Kern Holding Street. Alone, one hour."

It was one thing to jailbreak, but DeeDee knew her limits and line trace was one so she snagged and bagged the pins and held a little inside sacrifice to Portland, the premier polymath polycule who surgically interconnected their brains inside a single body to share one another for life. One bit of Portland code gold and she'd be swimming in pussy. "You're on the floor, DeeDee," reminded Velma.

"This is my thinking space, hush up while I ponder the infinite." She could a couple a SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE's legs pacing, shaking the floor, could catch a word back in the beyond warehouse room where a couple cracked up Kilowais were chattering out notation and legal docstacks for Flathead Ford. The Kilowais, KBW trademarked AI, were way old corpsec, patented and trademarked download of a heavy hitter bandsaw from his day, couldn't be pirated off the base personality unless they morally agreed to void their warranty, lots in the circ. Ford was SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE's lawyer, fighting the landslide for ratbot on the orca's tab.

PORTLAND WILL SEE YOU NOW, DeeDee flixed over from the viz to the vurt. "Are you still thinking dear?" Velma asked, pointedly moving her legs to start espresso dripping, DeeDee assumed the obvious silently as penance. "How's it hanging y'all, got any hot new brains to hook into the juice party?" Loaded upside down in the polygon pleather chair, Portland ran clix and adspace in a tasteful wall scroll, kind of an art to the exploit, less brute force than DeeDee's prefs, the smooth outer chassis for Portland said "I'm punching out in a minute."

They were an individualized amalgamation of three physical brains psychosurgically visected into one another, enabled to a custom body and lifetime committed to singulamory. "I'm cock locked out, Port, listen," DeeDee shoved two fingers to her mouth and slathered her togue along them for a sensiosync to the cursed crotch clamp. Portland's digits ghosted through the stats, pulled em and vexted. "What's the damage, how much and how soon?"

"Custom work, charming darling." Portland leaned their trilateral symmetric body back, waved away the middle and spread up DeeDee's alt, nerves and all. "Fused the long way up your spinal cord. Biolocked, meat stuff. Not our forte, darling, and you couldn't afford it if it was." Portland sighed, overcome with vaporous boredom. "Even if we knew the lockout, custom viropicks run more than your last ten years income, pussycat."

"Fuck my life, stay outta my taxes, gimme something at least." DeeDee yanked her slobbered fingers out.

"It's good work, better than you're ever worth, and I'd know - I sourced half your body."

"One third but whatever."

"The good news is, you'll probably not get spinal meningitis from the lockout, just don't leave it too long." DeeDee punched out and heaved a floor heavy sigh. "Guess I really better go make that meet, or I could desperately call everyone I know and owe." After desperately calling everyone she knew, DeeDee said, >:( to the ceiling, "I guess I'm going to the meet with these mysterious pussy theives. I spent good money on that cunt too!"

"How's that search going," Velma stood between DeeDee's legs and frothed artificially thickened protein strings for someone's café au lait.

"Velma... Velma, have I been karmically centered would you say? Have the scales of justice been tipped cruelly against me, the most innocent of girls? Would you walk on me for twenty bucks?"

So Velma kicked off her shoes but not even getting used as a doormat got her off the edge, then SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE looked through her office door.

"Velma, put your shoes on, DeeDee leave your shirt off and pay Velma another twenty." The average AlTrek 4X Infrantry Multiplier AC was rusting out in uninhabitable desert to the beat of radioactive decay, major outliers were in use for specialized valet parking and the life support framework for SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE, approximately 1/3 of an orca left over from an underwater mine in a corpwar trading route blow up.

No one argues with two tons of whale who already won a fight with the government and the major corptrade conglomerate general council strapped inside another 12 odd tons of mechanized power, DeeDee tucked her shirt behind her head and hoped someone around here appreciated her tits. >:0 "These are pristine, you jackoffs, classic CW models, OEM to spec!" She shoved them in the direction of the tables, no one looked.

"Dee." Flathead beckoned, DeeDee called to the beck and slashed backwards on a metal chair. "You're keyed up to vandal, girl. Listen, need a filter swap for my client. Upgrade the whole box if you can scratch it up, figure me?"

"Square it with me, Ford, my tits still hot?" (*´_`) She leaned way in, specced the side-eye from SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE through the tanktint windows, right figure whales are mammals too.

Flathead's oily eyes under that heavybrowed custom lawframe job in his skull slid along DeeDee, back to her digital pleading @_@ and shrugged. "You know I don't do organic."

"Fuck! I'm-" She pulled her shirt down. "I'm late, I'll hustle up a nextgen, usual rate."

"Sure sure. Clean it, client says this one makes everything taste like hot dogs."

"How's she know what a hot dog tastes like even where'd she get..." DeeDee vocalled on the downlow out the side office door, left ratbot and Bobby hankin paperwork in whatever new angle Ford was playing at. Color searing eyes blasted the world round her with sound again. Splasher and flasher swarmed the Mocra doors hungrily.

DeeDee swiped onto a delivery drone blowing down the sidewalk, vanished in a cloud of disintegrating adspray and splasher dust. Clix and spinners streaked her A/V edge while she fingerbanged the tamperfree(tm) deep into the loving waiting GPS and flushed it. Kern Holding halved the ad sprays, stuck her on a halfsec blind wait to cycle over the MAdaSS.

Didn't look half priced up over the viz, real park space and algea tanks, plastic green, trueviz rooftop boards and splashers all reigned in. Not many places scratched up enough to pay for gray but Kern and Morgan Stanely did. "Fuck where's this guy." Hustle and crowd pressed close round the bench powerbricks, all these droners worked virtual right on the walkway.

Coats slid up too personal in a curl, this guy has legs on legs and teeth like insect legs, curling open near DeeDee's whimsical cat-ear mods. "Let's private" it skittered those fine metal teeth to her mask glass, and made her go all >.<; with each word. "Whatever." She wrapped digits round multisegment hands and clasped private-public lines, perfect prophylactic for keeping conversing on the hush-hush without a fatal social disease.

"Why the cold brush, kittykat, doncha trust much," it thrummed in silk smooth inside sounds around the wire.

"Don't test my taps, snatcherino," she dropped an icicle hiss down the line. Hand in hand and out for a stroll through the walking workdead and high class bluemaroon adspray of the other side.

"Fair enough kitty, coulda had more playtime." It was wrapped up head to toe other than the segments in her hand and legs slipped in between bandages on its head. "Giving you a hot tip, fresh filter refurb, ex-corp sub and modded for ox, great deal for you. Free and install formatted."

"Real bargain bin I spec."

"No clones, no rebadge. I'll drop the pickup, all you do is courier like a good girl. No messing, no poking the drivers and wares, from your hands to the orca, and forget we talked. That's all." A ripple of excitement went through the walking workdead, furiously chattering through corp trades.

"Figure that filter's plenty safe. Figure that's why all the cloak n bullshit pussy snatching. Pure charity, no?"

"Trust, nothing's on your hands after this and you go back to nightly custom fingerbangs." Twenty insect legs curled around the cuff of its coat and withdrew.

"Might run this up a few contacts first."

"Might drop your filthy cunt in sulfuric acid if you do, clear enough."

"Distilled, fine, hit me with the deets."

Deet dusted, connect busted, DeeDee blew bowed kisses with fuck off finger flourishes while she walk backwards up an exec driverless, scuffing up the ten cent gloss on a two cent primer dip. Rolled with the high rollers through the Red Riser strip. She cut through the Whipping Whirlpool, high stakes operator she cut some autonomics for - head/body gamblers all got off on taking a chance on having their bodies wired in to fuck off enough debt to reattach their heads, double or nothing down to win a brand new model. Not a sale or soul DeeDee made, her personal opinion but no judgment. Slipped out the back door after a little slap and tickle pass through.

The back alley cut between WW and topline exec condoslugs, custom body stim tubes for a full home holistic virtual life, and the whole alley was packed with nimbyronment sentiels. Rained here so no one else got wet, wastecycle rats and sewer filters crowded up and down the black wet brick. DeeDee stepped live around the hyperaggro antipestation roachhives then out to the big blaze - adcolor burst wide round her as she hit the main road looking for drones and anthills.

No broker worth a salt shake missed out on bread crumbs and sugar crystals, and DeeDee doled em from her cargo pants pocket. Can't do acquisitions and void warranties without a big juiced net, a dropin with Guts was neg, hadda go pre-analog here full on prehistoric. Dime blaster swarmed each scrap, cheap motion sensitive, to small for spray. Rats bright and ready for fission snagged, but the bait made do and the march of Colony made its unerring path a bead of tiny black dots to DeeDee.

"Sweet sWeet sweEt bread Gluten carbo yeaSt verY Good sweet swEet yes." Couple hundred ants jeweled DeeDee's ears pretty as you please and twice as small. Colony sees all, knows all, lives everywhere, that singularly focused consciousness inside immeasurable ants. It all farmed belowground, and DeeDee got in the know when her mini-fridge busted.

No dropin, no line out, no unlink or download - just neko a horminga and her lips to Colony's ears.

#graft #intersect worlds #cyberpunk #cipheramnesia #original writing

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roboticchibitan · 4 months ago

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I am thinking of using these sun and moon Granny squares but use this fingering weight yarn I already have instead of buying worsted weight yarn to make a celestial themed Granny square Cardigan.

I dyed the blue yarn myself using Jacquard acid dyes colorway sapphire blue and I have approximately 1,470 yards of it but I don't think that's enough for a crochet Cardigan that's big enough to fit me. Crochet takes more yarn than knitting and I'm not even sure I could knit a Cardigan big enough for me out of it either. Unfooooortunately, this was one of my first dye experiments and I'm not 100% sure I took notes. I will have to check.

The yellow all I have is this half a skein of what I think is Madelinetosh Merino light in colorway Candlewick. Idk i've had it for literally a decade. But I think it'll be enough because I don't plan on having moons or suns on every square. I'm planning on alternating between four small squares sewn together where two are plain blue and two are patterned, and one big Granny square. I would draw what I mean but I am too tired to do that right now.

It took all of my self control to not buy the pattern today. It's only $5.25 CAD which is like $3.97USD/€3.65. But my gf got fired so I'm trying to keep frivolous spending to a minimum. I considered asking if a fiber arts mutual would buy it for me but honestly what they all SHOULD be doing is spraying me like a naughty cat whenever I talk about starting a new project before winter holiday gifts are done.

#man looking at the madelinetosh website is DANGEROUS #they have a colorway called kenergy and it's RIGHT up my alley #madelinetosh merino light is my absolute favorite yarn line. it's single ply and SO squishy #celestial cardigan #v's fiber arts tag #single ply yarn my beloved

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 1 year ago

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To the Other Side

Spontaneous fic I decided to write because I want to witness Fellow and Rollo interact (outside of fan art) 💕 I took a lot of inspiration from The Other Side and The Greatest Show from the same musical, and this fan comic and this fan art.

There’s just something so fun about Fellow’s happy, playful vibes mingling with Rollo being deadly serious and hateful 😂

***SPOILER WARNING: Glorious Masquerade and Stage in Playful Land!!!***

Imagine this…

The nearby town was the only reprieve Rollo had from Night Raven College. Magic was school-sanctioned (in theory), but the rule did little to curb the spells fired off in spontaneous spats between classes, pranks, resolving minor inconveniences, and—this made his lip curl the most—for fun. He turned the other cheek in the presence of instructors, chided classmates when catching them in the act, and vented his anger in private.

Soon, he told himself. Soon, this loathsome school exchange program would be over, and Night Raven College put behind him. But one man can only take so much sin before his patience threatened to give, irritation spilling over his carefully constructed walls.

Out here, a bus ride away from campus, he was free from those vile villains, however fleeting it was. The air cleaner, his mind clearer, as he breathed in the salt-kissed, balmy air. Waves lapping against the pier, the town’s comfortable hum as time rolled by, a soothing song.

He looked out at the waters, blue tipped with the white of sunshine dappling a painting. It was alive, yet at peace with the world. Knew its place.

Rollo's eyes drift shut, and he allowed the sea to envelop him. Quiet, calming, completely—

“Oya? Oya oya oyaaaaa?"

An exaggerated drawl invaded his ears. It was an unfamiliar man’s voice, slick with overly honeyed friendliness.

“You there, sir!” he called out. “Might I have a moment of your time?”

Ignore him, Rollo coached himself. He is not referring to you. There are many people in the town he could be accosting.

The crack of a clap on his shoulder suggested otherwise.

Rollo’s tranquility splintered and shattered, like glass dropped. His eyes snapped open again, alert and irritated.

A man had emerged on his left, and a small boy on his right. They stood too close for comfort, and seemed to be leering at him. From up, from down, encasing him in a web of excited stares.

The man had ginger hair in a widow's peak, the rest swept aside to make way for sharp eyes. His suit was fine at a glance, olive vest and neat cravat, violet coat with golden details and tassels cinched over it—but upon closer inspection, there was a hole in the pinkie finger of his long white gloves, and a miscellaneous diamond patchwork of patterns running down his trousers.

Something about him screamed “showman". Perhaps it was the jaunty half cape that hung off his left shoulder or the knee-high spats over shoes that clicked loudly, calling attention to him, with each step. Maybe it was the sparkle-studded top hat upon his head, nestled between two twitching ears, or the cheery flicker of his bushy tail, or the cane in hand, topped with a golden fox. (... Rollo suspected it was his boldness, the sheer audacity to insert himself where he wasn’t needed.)

The boy with the showman was a cat beastman, shorter and disposition shyer. His hair was a red-brown rat's nest even clamped under a smaller, brightly colored top hat, his fur just as unkempt. The only thing that seemed to fit on his slight frame is a lilac shirt and a small bow tie. His mustard yellow jacket looked as though it has had its body sheared in half, then the fabric stuck back onto the oversized sleeves, the pants attached to his overalls saggy and patched up with the wrong patterns. Even his boots were wrong—untied—and socks mismatched.

He blinked at Rollo through eyes that sloped downward, his expression lax. His mouth was steady beneath a spray of dark freckles. The boy held onto a comedically large hammer, hands still trapped in his enormous sleeves as he gripped its handle.

Suspicious, Rollo concluded. They are highly suspicious individuals.

“… May I help you?” he asked, not out of kindness but as a courtesy.

“Ohoh!!” The man grinned broadly. “That composed stride! That stern, solitary gaze! Those extravagant robes! So sensible, so conventional. There’s no doubt in my mind! You, my good man, must hail from THE Noble Bell College!”

Rollo’s mouth was quickly forming a frown. A fan of flattery he was not. "What of it?”

The stranger chuckled, the coy hand on Rollo's shoulder not budging. The warmth of it made his skin crawl in spite of the layers of fabric separating them. "You've come a long way from the Shaftlands then! Tell me, how do you find Sage's Island? Is it everything you’ve dreamed it to be—or, dare I say, more?”

“I was beginning to enjoy it, right up until you and your companion happened upon me,” Rollo grumbled, jerking his shoulder away from the stranger’s touch. “I do not have many opportunities to steal away into town.”

“You have my humblest of apologies!” The man bowed deeply. It took a few seconds of lag, but the boy clumsily followed suit. “Gidel and I, we’re the curious sort, you see! We come across many wary souls on our own travels, and we want to get to know them. Isn’t that right, Giddie?”

Gidel nodded eagerly.

The fox beastman stuck out a hand, taking Rollo’s before he was given the chance to reciprocate or decline. He shook firmly, with enough strength to rattle around Rollo’s bones. “Fellow Honest’s the name! And you, my esteemed gentleman?”

“Rollo Flamme.” His reply was curt, intended to cut the conversation short with its bluntness. He tried to sidestep the man, but failed as Fellow slid to block him.

“Rollo—may I call you that? Great, greeat!!” he gushed, again not pausing for a “no” to potentially slip in. “From just a glance, I can tell you’re an upstanding, diligent student. You’ve been hitting the books so hard, you’ve barely gotten in a wink of sleep!”

Rollo’s mouth pinched. It was not an uncommon comment for him to hear, but he wasn’t the least bit delighted to have it spun as a compliment either.

“You poor, poor boy! You must be a nervous wreck!” Fellow sighed, sympathetically stroking the back of one of Rollo’s hands with his own. The student shuddered and pulled away with a slight glare. Rather than taking note of the displeasure, Fellow brightened, snapping his fingers. “That’s it! You are a nervous wreck!! We must diagnose this case at once.”

To Rollo’s bewilderment, Fellow produced a pair of spectacles from his breast pocket and slipped them onto his face. Gidel whipped out a notebook and a pencil from his overalls, poised to take notes.

“Let’s have a look at you!”

Fellow circled the dazed Rollo, poking and prodding at the boy’s lean frame with the butt of his cane. It bit into his ribs, his cheek, his thighs, as Fellow rattled off nonsensical phrases, Gidel reverently scrawling them down. Rollo swatted at the fox as if dispelling a pesky bug—but Fellow was too fast, too slippery, to land a clean hit on.

He at last stepped back, snatching up the notes from Gidel. (Rollo caught a brief glimpse of the writing—it was nothing close to what could pass as language.)

Fellow raked a hand through his hair as he seriously took in the report of scribbles. With each passing second, his features increasingly crinkled with concern. "Oh me, oh my, oh dear!! Alas, it's just as I suspected!"

"... What?"

The glasses and the notepad were promptly discarded. Props made meaningless now that their purpose was fulfilled.

Fellow snaked an arm around Rollo. Firmer this time, not something to be shaken off. "You, my boy, are allergic! To this drudgery! This cage, these walls!" He wildly gestured with his cane to their surroundings. "This life you're trapped in! You're stressed, depressed, mad, sad, miserable, all of the above!"

Each adjective thrown out drew Rollo's brows closer and closer together until there was no hiding his grimace. “I do not appreciate the unwarranted judgments being made of my character.”

"You see! My hunch was right!" Fellow flicked at a corner of Rollo's frown. It deepened. "There's only one cure for what you have: a vacation! And luckily for you, I have exactly what you need right here…!”

Reaching into his sleeve, Fellow retrieved a single ticket, sandwiched between two lithe fingers. The sepia image of an amusement park wreathed in flags was frames in crimson, blue, and gold. Admit One, trumpeted the ticket, to Playful Land.

“It just so happens that I, Fellow-sama, am the manager to the fabled amusement park of wonder, hopes, and dreams... Playful Land! Have you heard of it? It's a magical place with a plethora of rides, games, song and dance! Why, there's even a big stage where any member of the audience can be a rising star! The food, all free and ample!! You can gorge yourself on fun!! Doesn't that sound like a swell dream?"

Rollo deadpanned. "If by 'dream', you mean dreadful. To encourage casting aside one's inhibitions to indulge in all manner of vices... Your establishment is no paradise. It is a den of depravity, hell masquerading as heaven.”

"Eh?"

The strong hostility seemed to throw Fellow for a loop, gave him pause. He fumbled for a moment before finding his words again.

"My, my! Your allergies are worse than I thought...! Every kid needs to kick back one in a while, and you most of all! Since we're such good friends now, I would be more than happy to gift this prized ticket, good only for tomorrow, to you free of charge!" He winked, giving a theatrical twirl of his cane. Stars and sparkles exuded out from it. A small charm, a harmless trick. "No need to thank me!"

Rollo's eyes flashed, instant recognition setting him on edge. Similar items infested the City of Flowers every Topsy Turvy Day—enchanted handkerchiefs, tambourines infused with meager magic.

Disgust roiled through him.

"We have no such friendship," Rollo snippily corrected him. Is this man delusional? "Furthermore, tomorrow is a school day. It wouldn't do to miss it in favor of gallivanting."

“Now, now, I insist!!” Fellow pressed. “Please accept this ticket and take a load off, enjoy yourself. Live a little, laugh a little! The last thing I would want is for you to miss out on this once in a lifetime opportunity!! Skipping a single day of school wouldn't be too harmful for a star-studded scholar like yourself."

His gaze flicked to Gidel. The two shared a keen glint, a subtle signal, then broke out into a show, a flurry of tap dancing along the pier.

"Trade in your typical for somethin' magical!” Fellow cried with the tip of his top hat. “Where it’s covered in all the colored lights!! Where the runaways are runnin’ the night!”

Gidel fished out a party popper from under his own headwear. When he tugged on its string, crackles filled the air, the popper letting loose a shower of glittering particles. Fellow belted out a hearty laugh, swinging his cane to catch confetti.

"Come on to the theater!!” he urged—mostly likely reciting some park motto, Rollo ventured. “In Playful Land... Life is Fun!!"

Fellow struck a pose with his arms thrust out, punctuating the performance. Gidel was less dexterous, and settled for an awkward approximation of the same pose.

Expectant for applause.

“… Charming display,” Rollo remarked dryly. He picked out a limp streamer from his hair. With a huff, he blew the remaining confetti off of him. “However, only a blithering fool would accept such a dubious offer. Is that what you take me for, Mr. Honest? A blithering fool?”

Fellow recoiled, his ears flattening, and his bravado faltering. Gidel glanced at the older man, soulful eyes full of worry.

"You must have fantasized about a day off before! Don't you want to get away and forget about your work and worries? Don’t you crave freedom?”

"No."

"What of the desire to chase thrills? To see and to experience what few others have before, or to relive a childhood you've perhaps never had? Don't you want to cut loose? Go crazy? Party all day?"

"Never."

"How about stardom? Play a different role? Have you a longing to stand upon a grand stage, hundreds of thousands of adoring fans applauding your passionate performances?"

"Not once."

His patience wore thin like a braided rope down to its final connecting threads. Rollo tapped a finger against his folded arms. "Are you finished? I tire of my precious time being wasted. If you will kindly excuse me."

He turned back toward the town. Rollo was a few steps along a shop-lined street when, suddenly, the odd duo reappeared. They skidded to a panting stop before Rollo, walling off his path. Well, more Fellow than Gidel.

A look of annoyance ripped across the fox’s face. “HOLD ON!! What kind of person plays hard to get and then walks away from a conversation like that?! Would it kill you to stop and just listen to me, you bra…”

Fellow petered off midsentence and backpedaled, smoothing out his spite into a smile. "...aaave soul! I've yet to meet someone as assertive and as self-assured as you are.” He reached out and brushed off an invisible fleck of dust from Rollo’s robes. Simpering. “You're a man that knows exactly what he wants!”

Rollo bristled. He hadn't missed the sudden shift in his chummy behavior. All the more reason to suspect them. They’re very clearly up to something.

"Yes, yes, I can see it now!" Fellow continued, stroking his chin in contemplation. "What you seek is not amusement! You’re longing—no, aching—for something far greater, more ambitious!"

He leaned into Rollo's ear, cupping a hand to it. Gidel came from the other side, staring up curiously. Fellow’s voice dropping to a sultry whisper. "Power, perhaps? The magical kind, even.”

Rollo visibly stiffened.

“Oh, have I got your attention?” The curve of Fellow’s mouth cocked, going crooked. A triumphant smirk. “You’re interested, I know it! Buried in those bones of yours, there's an ache, a thirst, for knowledge that you can't ignore!"

The fox wiggled a finger, his words rapt with wonder. “Playful Land is the product of maaany wise and talented mages! If you pay us a visit, you might be able to learn a thing or two from observing how we run the show. It's a valuable learning opportunity for a student of an arcane academy! How about it, kid? This surely is a deal you wouldn't want to pass up!!"

There was no indication of any feeling in Rollo's face. His eyes had glazed over, as though haunted, a veil shrouding his vision. He stared at Fellow as though he were a distant phantom.

Spin, spin. Fellow's cane did a little dance of its own. "Think of it: the fire, the freedom, the flood of magic. Blinding and outshining anything that you could know!"

Fire.

Rollo blinked. The veil lifted, and the man was rudely roused from an awake slumber. Neutrality replaced with a kindling emotion, sparse embers that did not yet know they would converge into flames. "... What did you say?"

"Everything you could ever want. Everything you could ever need," Fellow tapped the waiting ticket, "is here right in front of you. This is where dreams are made, where the impossible comes true: Playful Land. This is where you want to be—"

The fire flared, bile rising from his throat. Beneath his skin, blood came to a rapid boil. Hot, screeching, an intense fever pitch. The heat like a knife slashing through strings.

Hands lashed out, fervently seizing Fellow's arms. Rollo clutched onto him, a desperate parishioner to a priest preaching at the pulpit. But there was no such blind devotion in his expression, only something wild, untamable, twisted.

“What did you say?!” Rollo hissed, low and dangerous. Threatening.

Gidel jumped and skittered behind Fellow, hiding himself from view. The fox's hand found its way to Gidel's back to support the trembling boy.

"You've been mouthing off for quite some time, and I've been far more patient than you deserve." Rollo cut to the mustard yellow sleeve clinging to Fellow's leg. "You have a child with you. Refrain from spouting such ridiculous vulgarities in front of them.”

“Wh-What…!!”

“Is this the game you play?” Rollo’s grip tightened. Voice hoarse, a pained shudder threading through it. “Tempting children with the promise of whimsy and fun, encouraging them to be intoxicated by magic...!"

While you stand by, doing nothing.

An untimely demise by magic, a fate he knew all too well.

Consumed alive in a hellish inferno. Only a curtain of smoke and ash remaining. Slipping through his grasp when he was standing right there.

Brother...

Hot tears stung his eyes—but they dissipated near instantaneously, staved off by his burning fury. Anger and upset rapidly overtaking him.

Not again. He would not stand for it to happen, would not surrender. This, he swore, with a resolute breath, and cried out with all of his seething soul.

"Hmph! I thought you witless before, but it seems you are not a clown," Rollo spat. "You are the entire circus."

Fellow gave a light, cumbrous chuckle—but his eyes narrowed. Gone was his cheer, his merrymaking. What remained was serious, astute. "... Hey now, that's a scary face you're making. Is this really how you want to spend your days? Let's lighten up a little."

A bitter scoff sounded.

“Continue this farce, and I will not stop at raking you across the coals," Rollo warned darkly. Fire licked his fingertips, close to bursting free. "I will show you just how scary I can be. The righteous flames of judgment are cleansing. They will purge all sin, reducing the wicked to mere specks of ash."

He released Fellow with a slight shove. The older man fell back a few steps, finding his balance again when Gidel pushed him upright with a silent grunt.

“If you understand, then I will be on my way. Good day to you.”

With the path cleared, Rollo stormed right by them. Robes billowing in a passing sea breeze and austere face to the town, he almost looked the part of a hero emerging triumphant from battle.

Back to his everyday life, the same side as always.

Fellow gaped after the boy’s retreating figure. At the prey slipping away from every carefully placed trap he and Gidel had laid out for him.

"Well, I never...!!" he groused. A fresh, foul mood ripe like a rain cloud over his head, Fellow discarded his smile for a sneer. "HIIIIIIE~ What was up with that arrogant brat?!”

Gidel shrugged, his comedically large sleeves flopping as he threw his hands up.

"Damn it!!" The curse was out before Fellow could cut it off. "Next time I see that guy, I'll teach him a lesson for looking down on us!"

He angrily kicked at a soda can on the ground—abandoned by a wayward townsperson. With a CRUNCH, the can launched into a nearby lamp post, ricocheting off its base and bouncing back. The can connected with Fellow's kneecap. He yelped and seized his injury, trying to contain the pain.

Eyes blown open in alarm, Gidel rushed to him. The boy was waved off, Fellow's whimpers eventually dying down.

"My sulking worried you? … You're seriously too good for this cruddy world, Gidel," Fellow muttered, shaking his head. He ruffled the cat beastman’s mane of hair, the roughness of it grazing the unguarded pinkie poking out from his one damaged glove. "Never change, got that?“

Gidel bobbed up and down in agreement.

“Good.” Fellow drew himself up and adjusted his jacket. “Tch. Kids these days sure are spoiled rotten. You promise them the world and they still blow you off."

His thoughts settled on the boy from before. The remarks they had traded, the resistance the target had put up.

I thought a bit of magic would help loosen the kid up—but Life is Fun didn’t work on him, Fellow mused. I cast it so many times too. Between my magic and charisma, they usually cave so easily.

Yet Rollo had regarded him like a man possessed, had regarded him with such hatred. The mad, tormented look in his face. An iron barrier against the fluttery, champagne laced lull of his spell.

"... Must be somethin' wrong with him," Fellow concluded. All kinds of fucked up in the head and in the heart. "Yup, that's gotta be it! This Fellow-sama's way too cool to be outdone by any old student.”

Again, Gidel nodded enthusiastically.

“It’s alright, there’s bound to be flops! We’ll have to pick out our next mark much more cautiously.” Fellow shaded his eyes and squinted. “Let’s see…"

Gidel trailed after his gaze. Combing through a crowd for easy pickings was child’s play for Fellow, but the young boy struggled to hone in on the monotony of minute details. Little nervous tics and hesitations, chinks in armor to exploit. They were present, but Gidel’s eyes were like a broken camera. Zooming in, then out, blurring, never able to fully focus.

His attention strayed, slowly meandering back back to the piers. The sea was a simple thing compared to the town—natural, unrestrained. So easy to understand.

“Maybe that one… no, no, that would never work,” Fellow mumbles to himself. “They’re in too large of a group to comfortably break through. The girl over there? Tsk, the parents are hovering, can’t risk that…”

His eyes ran along the bustling town and along the docks. Like fingers along book spines or piano keys, a quick, light caress. Effortless.

Then he came to a full stop.

Did a double take.

And stared.

Hard.

There, lazily parked by the piers, was a small gang of boys, each dressed in the same smart black blazer and trousers, vests and armbands an assortment of colors. Tucked into their breast pockets were fountain pens topped off with magestones. Their style, those emblems, famous.

Fellow smacked Gidel’s back, snapping the boy to attention.

“Look alive, Giddie! You see that?” He pointed with his cane. “Those uniforms are…!”

His face lit up with understanding. Mouth ajar, eyes wide, brows raised.

“We’re in luck today!” Fellow snickered. He tugged on Gidel’s sleeve, yanking the youth to him. “Hurry, let’s get in front of them! We’ll cut them off, pretend as though we’ve bumped into them by accident. Then, we pounce…!!”

Gidel lifted his hammer—a cheer.

The duo scampered down the street, hearts drumming in their chests and adrenaline pumping. In that moment, they brimmed with all the hope and the excitement that Rollo had failed to exhibit. They were children racing to a dream destination, fools wishing upon stars.

Elsewhere in the town, someone sneezed.

Rollo pressed his handkerchief to his nose, retreating further into his robes. “… The weather suddenly took a turn for the worse. What an ominous omen.”

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