#anyway it's certainly been several days at the very least

[warlordfelwinter]

fiver, internally: *desperately trying to remember the last time he took a bath*

[yinyuedijun]

TOKYO VICE | part 1

You knew that if you agreed to move in with Suo, you'd be setting yourself up for a life without autonomy. You also knew that these alarming behaviours were all signs that he desperately needed therapy to process his master’s untimely death. Living with a man in constant grief, who refused to talk about his trauma unless he was making up a lie related to the nation of China, was probably not a good decision. Doubly so when this man was clearly paranoid about losing you, and triply so when he was a high-ranking member of a violent syndicate. Unfortunately for you, you rarely made good decisions. (Or: After joining the yakuza, Suo develops the concerning habit of controlling every facet of your life. This is somehow less worrying to you than your uncontrollable lust around him.)

8.7k words. suo x fem reader. deeply unserious yakuza au. yandere suo (not abusive and reader is into it), dark comedy, a little angst, smut. warnings: borderline sex work, off-screen criminal violence. nsft – no actual smut in this chapter, but there are still graphic discussions of sex. mdni. thank you to @sleepyqinfei for beta reading and to @/cafekitsune for the banner!

sequel to sincerity and this sakura/reader wip

part 2 here

You’re not exactly sure why you and Suo have never fucked.

It’s certainly strange, given that you're pretty sure that Suo has expressed at least passing interest in you over the years, and you have felt a lot of interest in him. (By ‘interest’, you mean that you feel an insatiable lust around him that you fight to ignore on a daily basis.) You can't exactly pinpoint why nothing has ever happened despite this mutual attraction, especially given your profession and indifferent feelings toward casual sex.

You can think of a number of probable reasons, which are separate from those you classify as stupid reasons. The latter class comprises silly concerns like a fear of rejection, fear of abandonment, fear of not being pretty enough, fear of not being good enough, et cetera. All very juvenile feelings—insecurities that you had in your teenage years, the days in which Suo ran around Makochi as a delinquent while you worked an honest job at a bar. (It was a girls’ bar in the red light district, but that's neither here nor there.) Your circumstances have since changed, and those anxieties have since faded. None of them have any material consequence for your current life, so you don't see any point in thinking about them.

The stupid reasons, then, definitely don't have anything to do with why you've never fucked Suo. But you can think of a few, more concrete reasons that may explain it. For one, Suo has been your friend since childhood and it’s generally a bad idea to have sex with your long-time friends. He was also your roommate for a while and it’s an even messier idea to have sex with your roommates. And now, in your adulthood, he’s your landlord in addition to being your boss, which makes him the worst possible person you could have sex with. You could lose both your home and your livelihood if things go south—both severe, material consequences that should theoretically keep your lust at bay.

Also, he's also a member of the yakuza.

Now, strictly speaking—you're not really opposed to having sex with violent criminals. It’s definitely not a good idea, but you don't usually have good ideas anyway. But for the past several years, you’ve been pissed at Suo for joining the yakuza in the first place, which actually does keep your blatant attraction to him in check. You simply dry up when you think too hard about all the feelings of betrayal.

When Suo was on the cusp of graduating from Furin and thinking about his future, you’d grabbed him by the collar and made him promise not to join the yakuza. They constantly tried to recruit from Bofurin, and they especially wanted Sakura, Suo, and Sugishita. You were adamant about chasing them off from Suo and Sakura whenever they approached—you had no need to worry about Sugishita, as Umemiya had already said he shouldn't talk to them, so there was no chance he was going to—and you begged Suo over and over not to join. Delinquency was fine, but a crime syndicate was something else altogether.

Suo seemed serious about it when he said he'd listen to you. He even applied to colleges, talked about maybe becoming a teacher and eventually supporting you so you could stop working in the mizu shobai industry. Back then, he often teased you by saying that you should marry him and be his housewife (or he could be your trophy husband, if you so wished). You thought he was joking, but with the way he always talked about his life after his degree, you wondered if he would seriously suggest it.

Of course, it was most likely just teasing, and you were fine with that. You were simply excited that he'd found a career that would make him happy. Nirei had also been accepted to university at that point, and even Sakura had an honest job lined up on Keisei Street. The future had looked bright for everyone.

Then Suo’s master died, and he lost his fucking mind.

The two of you buried Suo’s master in a Chinese funeral. He had never had children of his own, having satisfied his paternal instincts by picking up strays, and he didn't have much in the way of family in Japan either, so you and Suo performed the shou ling yourselves. One person kept a constant vigil over his body while the other searched on Google for what arrangements should be made next. After all, while Suo’s master had immersed his foremost disciple in his culture, he had never taught Suo any funerary customs. He hadn't thought there would be a need.

Suo didn't cry nearly as much as you, but he was probably in more pain. Your master had trained you a little bit when you were a kid, and he'd taken you in for a while after your parents kicked you out, so of course you were gutted. But he had practically raised Suo, so it was naturally worse for him. More shattering.

You often think about the first night you decided you'd sleep with him in the same futon because he was crying so much. He insisted he was fine, but he didn't complain when you got under the sheets with him and started thumbing away his tears. When you took off his eyepatch, you found, to your astonishment, that he was crying from his missing eye as well. Both of you thought the tear ducts had been destroyed in either the accident or the enucleation, but it appeared that not even that prior trauma could mask his grief over this one.

Nevertheless, by the time of the funeral procession, Suo had stopped crying.

“Master supported us and taught us to stand on our own two feet,” he said as the joss paper burned. He took your hand in his and smiled. “So it'll be fine. We’ll be okay on our own. I'll make sure of it.”

At the time, you had found this very comforting. You didn’t think too much of it, as you had a bad habit of relying on Suo for your emotional stability. His master had raised him to be an emotionally intelligent person, so it had been fine, even though you had a track record of reckless decisions. He’d still exercised endless patience with you. He never once got angry with you, nor did he ever force you to do what he felt was the right thing. Instead, he gently redirected your self-damaging behaviours—not so different from the martial art that he practised.

He disapproved of the run-down and lonely conditions of your apartment, so he spent a great deal of time there and helped make it into a proper home. He didn't like how dangerous your job at the girls’ bar was, so he walked you to and from work every night until you never left without him. He worried when you started having sex with your customers, especially when you began having nervous breakdowns over it (you were, after all, still a teenager and really only interested in having romantic vanilla sex with Suo), so he staged an intervention with Nirei and Sakura. In this way, Suo convinced you that you were loved and protected and didn't need to do something you hated so much. They would get you out if you felt trapped. And you didn't feel trapped, per se, so you left on your own—but it was still only because of them. You promised them afterwards that you'd never do it again.

This was Suo’s brand of kindness as a teenager. He always taught people, guided them away from harm rather than steering them—a behaviour he’d mimicked from your master. Your master, in general, had defined all of Suo’s values and his way of living, which was honest and gentle and conscientious. It was one where he used his abilities to protect the weak and care for his friends. He even kept his spiteful and alarmingly violent tendencies under control, though sometimes he slipped when fighting genuine assholes. But he still tried. He tried because he strived to be as kind as his master—who represented everything that Suo wanted to be in his adult life.

Thus, the death of Suo’s master meant the death of his principles. It changed the kind of man that Suo wanted to be. You don't want to say that he became a worse person, but he absolutely became a worse person.

He especially became a worse person with you.

As it turned out, Suo’s idea of making sure that the two of you would be fine on your own was, well, not really fine. It wasn’t that he became cruel to you, per se. It was more that whenever he saw a problem with your behaviour, his approaches to redirecting it became—put as nicely as possible—heavy-handed.

After your master’s death, you got a job at a high end, yakuza-owned club. Two weeks later, Suo broke his promise to you and joined the yakuza. So I can stay close to you, he explained gently, wiping away your tears as you cried hysterically, but you're convinced to this day that he did it partly out of spite. So a few years later, when you started having sex with your customers again and he tried to stop you, you decided to spite him back. I need to stay on top of the rankings, you'd explained dispassionately. The mamasan said it's fine, and the manager doesn't care. He even thinks it's good for business.

Suo’s response was to simply become the owner of your club.

This move was very extreme, but also very effective. Any customer who so much as brushed against you on the premises was instantly thrown out, and the mamasan started watching you like a hawk to make sure you weren’t going to any love hotels after work. Douhan were off-limits. For the first time since your teens, you became completely celibate—not only because of your new workplace circumstances, but because you simply didn't want to find out what Suo would do if you got together with a man he despised (and he despised every man you dated).

His most absurd play was when he became concerned about your living conditions again. Your latest apartment was too plain, too small, and the area was too dangerous. It didn't even have a shower, and the other tenants behaved concerningly toward you when you went to the bathhouse at night. But the rent was cheap, and it was still an upgrade from your last place, so you shrugged it off when Suo suggested that you move. Even when someone tried to accost you at night, you were nonchalant about it. You kicked the shit out of them in a fight and continued your routine unbothered.

The next month, Suo bought a luxury penthouse and suggested you move in with him.

His offer (command) came with conditions. One of the bigger ones was that you'd let him accompany you out at night if you ever needed to run errands in dangerous places. Or—nevermind, actually. He should really just accompany you everywhere at night. Maybe during the day too. And—ah, there was no way you'd be going to work alone, nor coming back by yourself—you were now always to be driven by someone in his organisation, if he wasn't available himself. Rent was a point of contention, when you asked about it: you wanted to pay at market rate, and he insisted that there was no need to pay at all. He ended up proposing a highly discounted price, which would give you ample financial freedom, but questionable financial independence.

These were insane terms. You knew that if you agreed, you'd be setting yourself up for a life without autonomy. You also knew that these behaviours were all signs that Suo desperately needed therapy to process his master’s untimely death. Living with a man in constant grief, who refused to talk about his trauma unless he was making up a lie related to the nation of China, was probably not a good idea. Doubly so when this man was clearly paranoid about losing you, and triply so when he was a high-ranking member of a violent syndicate. Case in point—he was likely connected to the brutal accident that later befell the man who tried to assault you.

“I'm not sure what you're implying, but at least he didn't die,” Suo said cheerfully when you confronted him about it. Which really meant: At least I decided not to kill him. This was a flag bigger and redder than any other you've ever known, and you consider yourself an expert in red flags. You knew you should run in the other direction.

So naturally, you put your arms around him, tenderly said, I'm sorry I've been worrying you, and then you moved in the next day.

While Suo treats you with endless patience, you have personal limits to the patience that you exercise with him. Specifically, your patience with how he treats you.

You don't mind the lack of social freedom, nor the lack of personal freedom, nor the lack of freedom of movement. You also don't mind living with a man full of intractable trauma surrounding the death of every parental figure in his life; in fact, you'd rather be by his side than not, if he needs to cope with something so painful. And anyway, your friendship is otherwise unchanged if you ignore the heavy restrictions he's imposed on every facet of your life. So that's all fine.

But the celibate lifestyle that he's cornered you into? You simply aren't built for it. Holy shit, do you need to get laid.

Nearly two years without sex has brought you close to another nervous breakdown (there have been few better sources of entertainment or validation in your life), and worst of all, it has made your profound lust for Suo incredibly hard to ignore. Waking up every morning to him in a towel, his hair still wet from the shower and his broad silhouette exposed, tests the absolute limits of your self-control. The contours of his lean and muscled form are distracting enough; coupled with the vivid colours and lines of his irezumi, the sight of him becomes maddening. It is a horrible thing to be exposed to when you haven't gotten any dick nor strap in over a year. It gives you thoughts about him that are overtly sexual, which is bad, as you have materially consequential reasons for not wanting to fuck Suo.

Things with him must absolutely stay platonic. But with sexual frustration like yours, being platonic with him means that you need to get erotic with someone else. A boyfriend or girlfriend is out of the question; you don't want to be responsible for yet another brutal accident. So you instead decide to quit your job at his club and start working on Keisei Street. At least this way, you can start fucking your customers again.

It’s a perfect plan. Suo’s oyabun is very indulgent toward him, and everyone else in the family respects him too. He consequently has a tight grip on his organisation and the territory they control, despite his relatively young age. Not a single person is ever to touch Keisei Street—largely because Sakura is part of Roppo-Ichiza, and Suo is nearly as weird about Sakura as he is about you. Plus, many of his other fellow Furin alumni are in the gang as well. If Suo’s men ever started fucking with people on Keisei Street, it would not only have grave implications for gang relations—it would be personally upsetting for Suo. This means you can fuck all the Keisei Street customers you want, and not get a single one of them threatened or killed.

A pretty brilliant idea, if you do say so yourself.

Suo’s expression doesn't change when you break the news to him. He delicately places his teacup—custom-made from Yixing, just like the matching clay teapot—down on the mahogany tabletop, and he looks at you with a calm smile.

“Come again?”

“I'm quitting my job at Red Dragon,” you repeat. “I already gave the mamasan my resignation.”

“And she accepted it?” Suo asks, in a tone that is so carefully nonchalant that you know it means he is actually furious with her. “How interesting,” he muses. “What brought this on?”

“I've found a better paying opportunity on Keisei Street.”

“I'll give you a raise,” he says easily.

“A raise?” You cock a brow. “The pay is mostly commission-based at Red Dragon. You know that.”

“Then it would be unwise to leave. You have a loyal customer base at Red Dragon. All very rich, and”—his smile grows sharp—“very polite.”

Polite. An interesting word. It actually means: None of them will ever proposition or harass you because they know they'll be maimed if they do. An easy thought to use to your advantage.

“It's loyal but it's small. Everyone who's anyone in this part of town thinks that we’re married. Do you know how hard it is to pull new customers in when they're scared shitless of my yakuza husband? And anyway”—you frown, trying to look as pathetic as possible—“I'm lonely.”

Suo stares. He looks surprised, possibly because you absorb every minute of his free time with silly conversation, new restaurants, and skiing trips. (He likes snow, so you ask for these trips more for him to relax than anything else.) You also text him frequently on days he's working, and he very diligently replies, even if he's in the middle of something like a raid or a hit or brokering a massive deal. Suo still very strictly keeps to his rule of never touching his phone when in conversation with other people—unless he needs to text you.

So his suspicion is fair. Suo is very attentive and doesn't allow you much opportunity for loneliness. In turn, you’ve always been very happy spending time with him, even when it's only him.

“Lonely?” he repeats. “Are you, now?”

“Yes. You work so much,” you complain, which is not a lie, “and I don't have any friends to spend time with when you're gone.”

“You have friends from work.”

“No, I have competition at work. The hostesses are so cutthroat about rankings, they hate me. And each other.”

“You like Shuuhei and Hanzo,” he points out, referring to his men who most frequently chauffeur you.

“Yeah, they're friendly, and they're very funny. I like them, but I can't be their friend.” Suo stares at you, nonplussed, so you spell it out: “They're too scared of you to get close to me. What if it looks like they're trying to fuck the boss’ wife?”

“Hm…” Suo studies you, looking thoughtful. Perhaps for the first time, he's contemplating the consequences of restricting your freedoms and marking you as his. That is to say—maybe he's finally realising that you have no friends and no life.

The beads of his earrings glimmer as he tilts his head at you and frowns. Suo almost looks innocent with that confused face of his. “And how would working on Keisei Street help?” he asks.

“Because all our old friends are there!” you exclaim. “Sakura’s in Roppo-Ichiza now so he’ll definitely be coming by all the clubs. Tsubaki too. And Nirei and Kiryu visit them quite often—and even Tsugeura does sometimes, even though clubbing isn't one of his virtues.” You grab onto his arm, pull yourself close, and give him your most disarming, pleading expression. “Please, Suo?”

“Hm.” He strokes your cheek and looks at you fondly, in the way that one would do with an adorable and slightly annoying kitten. “I don’t think so. It’s not very safe there.”

He isn't wrong. Not only are you untouchable on his turf because of your association to him, Suo has also just crushed all the han-gure and petty criminals in his territory with brutal efficiency. His part of the red light district is, quite ironically, one of the safest places in the city, and certainly safer than Keisei Street.

But undeterred, you point out, “Shuuhei and Hanzo can still drive me there and back if you want. But I don't think it's necessary. Do you really think Sakura would let anything happen to me?”

This is the true brilliance of your plan: capitalising on the fact that Suo is as nearly as weird about Sakura as he is about you. He pauses as soon as you bring up the point, and you can practically see the gears turning. “Well, if it's him…”

“I even texted him about it. Look—here!” You whip out your phone, receipts ready. The corner of Suo's mouth lifts at your obviously rehearsed pitch. “He says he'd make sure I'm taken care of. And he says it'd be nice because he misses seeing us. Can you believe it—Sakura actually admitted that he misses us! Typed it with his own two hands and pressed send! I bet he was super embarrassed about it.”

“Huh. He even used a sticker. I've never seen him do that.” Suo smiles as he reads through the chat. He looks like his old self. You suddenly feel a little wistful, and also a lot bad. This started as a ploy to get laid, but it’s made you realise that you really do miss your friends—and Suo probably does too.

“If I worked on Keisei Street, then you would have plenty of reason to visit,” you point out, feeling somewhat tender.

“I guess that's true,” Suo says. Your heart aches a little bit at the look he gives you. It's a platonic ache, of course. Or at the very least, it isn't an erotic one. It doesn't really make you want to have sex with him anyway. But if you could lean forward and press your lips to his—platonically—then you definitely would.

Suo's civilian friendships are complicated by his double life. Quite unusually for yakuza, Suo’s syndicate insists on using pseudonyms and false histories to avoid anti-yakuza laws, on the off-chance that the police decide to do their jobs and actually enforce those laws someday. Lying for comedy is one of Suo’s greatest passions, so he was happy to manufacture an absurd backstory: his name is Yanzhao, and he learned kung fu in a Shaolin Temple before moving to Hong Kong and working for the triads. He wears the eyepatch because he lost his eye in an altercation with the cops, which he won. By the way, you're his criminally beautiful wife who he met in Macau. The two of you had to leave for Japan since he killed a police officer and now he's wanted by the governments of both China and Hong Kong. Also, he's a very devoted husband, so if anyone lays a hand on you, he’ll kill them too.

Somehow, everyone has bought into this story. Every criminal organisation in the red light district now fears a high-ranking yakuza known as Yanzhao, who is easily recognizable by his eyepatch and tassel earrings, and who is also homicidally obsessed with his beautiful wife.

In some ways, his infamy is convenient. No one wants to fuck with Suo, or with you by extension. But it also poses some issues: Suo has to keep a low profile in areas controlled by rival organisations, or else he might be ambushed. It also means he cannot easily go out and see his old friends. Even though he always masquerades as a civvie when he does, wearing stud earrings and a glass eye, it's still a little risky—especially since he likes to visit the strongest member of Roppo-Ichiza. While Roppo-Ichiza aren’t yakuza, they're still han-gure, so some of its more criminally entangled members might recognize him anyway.

But Sakura himself, bless him, has not put two and two together and figured out that Suo Hayato and Gui Yanzhao are the same person. This is partly because Suo lies very convincingly about his fictional career in the tea industry, but you think it's also because Sakura is so gullible it's endearing.

I use the glass eye now because it's better for networking, Suo had explained before Sakura could interrogate him too much, his voice too smooth and too quick for the other man to get in a word edgewise. My business partners find the eyepatch too silly. The tassel earrings too. By the way, would you like some Baimudan tea? I thought of you when I smelled it—I know you like fragrant things—so I picked some up for you on my last visit to China. I was there for business a couple of weeks ago.

He, of course, neglected to mention that said business involved meeting with the 14K triad.

Despite the enormity of Suo's omission (lie), Sakura is none the wiser whenever he meets with you. He thinks you're just a regular hostess who has freedom of movement and various other human rights, and that Suo’s just a regular guy who isn’t homicidally obsessed with you (a detail of Suo's fabricated life story that is unfortunately grounded in reality). All this to say, Sakura doesn't think twice about mentioning the fact that you have a routine of going to love hotels after work.

Suo, as always, remains calm in the face of unsettling information. He sets down his tea (just tea, without shochu), and politely says, “Pardon?” He's once again using the nonchalant kind of tone that suggests mortal danger.

“She's always going to love hotels after her shifts.” Sakura is frowning at you, pink but scowling. “I thought you said you were done with that stuff. You promised us you wouldn't do it anymore. Suo—are you really okay with this?”

On the one hand, you find it exceptionally sweet that Sakura, after all this time, remembers your promise and wishes to hold you to it. He was so worried about you when you started having those nervous breakdowns as a teenager, and he probably still is. On the other hand, you're shitting bricks at the fact that Suo is now aware of your activities. Because sure, he likely won't fuck with Keisei Street—but you realise, as he stares at you, that you can't be certain of this. After all, your fake yakuza husband has very real homicidal urges.

“Um,” you say. “It's just business.”

“Business,” Suo repeats.

“You don't have to do that stuff to keep good business,” Sakura grouses, unaware of Suo’s carefully suppressed rage. “You're real popular already.”

“Are you?” Suo asks, looking right at you.

“I mean—I told you the pay would be better, right?” you reply, voice oddly high and nervous, and this is when Sakura notices that something is wrong.

“Oh,” Sakura says, looking between the two of you. “Suo, you didn't know?”

“I didn't,” he says. “Actually, she told me specifically that she wasn't going to do that if she worked here.” He turns to you, still smiling. “That's the only reason why I allowed this at all, remember?”

A chill travels down your spine. You did, in fact, commit to a perpetually sexless lifestyle in order to be granted some semblance of freedom: Of course I won't sleep with any customers, you'd said. You know I don't really like doing that anyway. I promise I'll behave! I’ll be out of the clubs and right back home. Sakura said he’d make sure I’ll get to a cab safely after the bar closes and everything!

“Um,” you say again, but this time you have no follow-up.

“Wait,” Sakura demands, “what do you mean by ‘allowed her’? What, do you need to give her permission to work now or something?”

Suo smiles disarmingly at Sakura. Without missing a beat, he says, “Generally no. But we’re dating now, which complicates what she’s allowed to do with other men at her job.”

Sakura spits out his drink. You choke on your spit.

“I… um?!” Sakura’s staring at you, so you quickly recover. This is a mortifying lie, but it's better than Sakura finding out just how batshit Suo has become since his school days. “I thought we were going to keep that a secret, dear?”

“Ah, you're right. Sorry, I got too excited.” Suo gives you an endeared look before turning to Sakura. “We were going to keep it to ourselves unless we got serious about it. But we've been talking about marriage lately, so I thought it was fine to mention.”

“...”

You’re going to have an aneurysm. Why does every cover that Suo comes up with involve a marital relationship between the two of you?!

“Oh… holy shit.” Sakura’s expression is complicated—somehow, more complicated than yours, even though you’re the one getting cornered into a fake engagement. It's unbelievable how shy he still is about this kind of thing. Maybe it’s just particularly embarrassing since he's known you two for so long, you reason. Regardless, he remembers his social cues enough to say, “Congrats, guys. That's great. That's really great.”

Suo gazes fondly at you across the table. “We were thinking you could be our best man,” he adds, and you consider violently kicking his leg.

“O-oh. Uh, yeah! Sure! But what about Nirei?”

“Rather than having a maid of honour,” you say reflexively, used to lying through your teeth for Suo, “we’d like him to be our best man as well.”

“Oh. That makes sense.” Thrown off guard, Sakura completely forgets about the love hotel business. He whips out his phone. “When were you thinking of having your wedding? I'll put it in my calendar.”

“I’m not sure.” Suo turns to you. “What were we thinking again, dear?”

You're going to die. You're going to die and it's a good thing because if you survive this embarrassment, your future will be bleak. As soon as Nirei finds out about this, he’ll want to start helping you with wedding planning, and then it would just be too awkward to cancel things. You’ll have to enter a fake marriage with Suo, which will be completely sexless, because even with a vow of everlasting love, there are still too many concrete and materially consequential reasons for not sleeping with him.

Condemning yourself to a lifetime of sexual frustration, you reply, “I think we were talking about a summer wedding.”

The drive home is awkward.

Hanzo and Shuuhei pick the two of you up. Suo mentioned that he wanted to talk to you and you alone, so they bring the Rolls Royce with the privacy suite. The two of them are entirely cut off from you thanks to the soundproofing, which traps you with Suo, who’s drinking a bottle of oolong tea as the two of you sit in complete silence. You think he's waiting for you to squirm—which you do.

You stay like that for five, agonising minutes before Suo finally says, “So you're sleeping with your customers.”

You swallow. “Yes.”

“For business?”

“Yes.”

“How much do you make?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“How much do you get paid for a single night of work, including gifts that your customers give you in exchange for sleeping with them?”

You're halfway through citing your earnings when you realise where he's going with this.

“So you make less than you did at Red Dragon,” Suo concludes, “and you're very smart with your money, so I know you know that, and you probably went into this knowing that you'd end up at a net loss.” He turns to you, gives you a look so sharp that it almost scares you. All made worse by his civilian disguise, which makes him feel unfamiliar. His glass eye shines strangely in the light, and his scar tissue is hidden by the makeup you helped apply. You wish he'd taken it all off before having this conversation.

“So,” he says, “what’s the real reason you changed jobs?”

Already knowing that he’ll figure you out sooner or later, you admit, “I just wanted to start having sex again.”

Suo blinks. “You… what?”

“I wanted to have sex with people,” you repeat. “I hadn't been touched for nearly two years, okay? I needed to get laid or else I'd go insane.” You cross your arms and look away, suddenly feeling petulant. “I'm sure you've noticed that our arrangement makes it impossible for me to see people.”

He doesn't answer, because of course he's noticed. He’d designed his house rules with precisely this intent. If he accompanies you everywhere you go, then you can't exactly go on dates, and you definitely can't meet people for sex. Not unless you feel like having Suo watch as some anonymous guy fucks you, and you don't. As hot as the idea is, it’s definitely not platonic behaviour, and it would probably trigger the whole homicidal obsession thing.

“Do you like it?” Suo asks, startling you. You look at him, confused.

“What?”

“Do you enjoy having sex with your customers?” he asks. His voice and gaze are even. Unrelenting. “Does it make you happy?”

You stare at him, a deer caught in headlights. You didn't expect Suo to actually care about whether you enjoyed it or not, and you didn't really expect to care yourself either. But truthfully, you hated it. You simply weren't feeling it with most of your customers and avoided intercourse with all but one. Then in that one case you let someone earnestly fuck you, it was a complete letdown. Possibly the worst sex you'd ever had. You spent the whole time watching the clock, wondering how long it would take, and it turned out that your hookup had remarkable stamina but absolutely no technique. To pass the time, and in an attempt to feel something, you tried to imagine it was someone else who was inside you. You cycled through a whole list of people, including all of your exes, a few of your past customers, every single member of BTS, and then—finally, inevitably—your long-time friend, roommate, and landlord.

To your complete horror, when you imagined that it was Suo who had you folded in half, his cock so deep inside you that you could feel it in your throat, you came so hard that you drenched the sheets.

You lay there afterward as your customer showered, alone in the bed. Normally you'd be getting dressed at that point, but you were too distracted. You kept thinking about what it would feel like to be held by Suo after having your guts rearranged by him—embraced tenderly like you know he would do with you, kissing him platonically like you've always wanted to do with him—and you realised that you didn’t actually want to have sex with anyone else. Despite all your life experience, sexual experience, and job experience—in that moment, you felt like a lonely nineteen year old girl who wanted nothing more than to have romantic, vanilla sex with her best friend, but who was instead having impersonal, disappointing sex with various salarymen.

This was a feeling so disgusting that you’ve decided to never tell anyone at any cost.

“Yeah, it's fine. I guess I like it.” You pretend to study your nails. “Sometimes I cum, which is all I really want.”

Suo keeps staring at you. “That’s it?” he asks, voice measured and careful. You raise a brow, playing dumb.

“What do you mean?”

“That's all you want? Just to get off?”

You gaze out the window, trying not to look at his lips.

“Yes, that's all.”

No matter how batshit Suo gets, he always maintains a certain kindness and maturity in how he handles conflict with you. It's a lesson that he learned from his master, which has perhaps been distorted over time, but remains important to him nevertheless.

If you do something upsetting, Suo is never forceful about getting you to act differently. Sure, he has fucked up ways of either getting you to behave or making you understand the consequences of your actions, and perhaps he has his manipulative moments. It was probably not a good thing that he coaxed you into indefinite house arrest, for instance. But he never threatens you, and he never hits you, and he never disrespects you. In fact, more than anything, he makes it a point to never let you feel like you aren't loved.

So when Suo abandons you after that conversation in the Rolls Royce, you lose your fucking mind.

Suo doesn’t come home in the days following that evening, without any note nor explanation. For the first time in years, he stops replying to your texts. Your immediate thought is that he's been gravely injured or perhaps even killed, which sends you into a panicked spiral. But every one of his men who's come by to check on you has implied otherwise—but I'm not allowed to tell you anything else, anesan, I’m sorry, they all say. And when you realise that Suo is actually fine and he's just playing a fucked up mind game with you, one that makes you feel distinctly unloved, you feel simultaneously heartbroken and apoplectic. The man is not allowed to corner you into de facto imprisonment and then just fucking leave. In fact, if he tries, you might imprison him.

You spend a few days sitting at home and crying over this, as well as torturing yourself by thinking about useless things (fear of rejection, fear of abandonment, et cetera). But eventually, you get tired of wallowing in self-inflicted misery, and you decide to just track your fake husband down. His men have been adamant about not letting you out of their sight—presumably so you don’t fuck any more of your customers, because Suo can be spiteful like that—so you have to be strategic about your plan to find him.

You decide to do it during work. You tap out in the middle of a shift, feigning illness, so nobody bats an eye when you put on the most shapeless hoodie you own and throw on a face mask. Your chauffeurs (handlers) don't notice as you sneak off—and for the first time in years, you walk through the red light district all alone.

It feels strange not to be protected, and even stranger not to be surveilled. You marvel at the unfamiliar experience of complete freedom, and at the possibility of being able to run off and disappear if you so wished. But you don't, of course. Not only do you care too deeply for Suo to abandon him, you're also pretty sure he has your driver’s licence and ID card locked up somewhere. At least you haven't been able to find them, and Suo was oddly evasive about it when you asked. (I haven't seen them, he'd said, but I don't think you’d need either of those things immediately, anyway, do you? And you nodded in response, because it was true that you liked being his passenger princess too much to care about your licence.)

So rather than bolting for the subway, you head straight to your old workplace. The gleaming doors of Red Dragon welcome you as you cross its threshold, and you're greeted immediately by the scent of luxury colognes and expensive cigars—both evoking a strange nostalgia in you. Even the click of your heels against the marble floor feels familiar. You realise that you've missed the place despite its cutthroat culture and its owner’s authoritarian control over you, which you suppose isn't surprising. This club was more or less your home for years and, thanks to said owner, was the safest place you've ever worked.

And being that you feel you've returned to your very safe home, you don't expect it when you're abruptly stopped by the bouncer.

“Can I help you?” he asks, his arm in your way. You don't recognize him, but you see the edges of his irezumi peeking out from the rolled-up cuffs of his shirt.

“Yeah, actually,” you say. “I'm looking for Gui Yanzhao. Is he here right now?”

The bouncer—or chinpira, you guess—bristles.

“You're looking for who?”

“Yanzhao?” you say impatiently. “Eyepatch, tassel earrings? Owner of the club? Probably your boss?”

The bouncer steps forward and reaches for something in his pocket, which makes you suddenly nervous, and also makes you realise that in a hoodie and a face mask, you ordinarily wouldn't be allowed in this club, let alone into the room of its yakuza owner. You're so used to VIP treatment here that you simply forgot.

You take a step back. “Um. I think there's been a misunderstanding.” You lower your face mask, which doesn't help as you've never met this man, and he must be new. You’ll need to complain to Suo about his onboarding process later, if you aren't killed before you can find him.

It turns out that this yakuza rookie has a knife in his pocket, which is not the worst thing he could have been carrying, but is also not the best. You're getting ready to run in the other direction when a more senior member of the gang comes by. He gives you a startled look, which then turns alarmed when he sees his younger brother’s knife.

“Anesan!” he yells hurriedly, and he snatches the chinpira’s knife straight from his hand. His lunge for the weapon turns into a hurried bow. He pulls his colleague—whose face has turned very white in a very short amount of time—into an even deeper one. They look on the verge of prostrating.

“Oh, Yamashita. Hi! Is this guy new?”

“Yes! My sincerest apologies for my younger brother’s idiocy, and his insolence in raising a weapon at you.” There's a sheen of sweat on the back of his neck. “If you would like him to atone, then he would be more than happy to—”

“No, that's fine. I'd really like him to keep all his fingers.” If you have to see a rookie cut off his pinkie today, you think you might actually change your mind on running away. Fuck your documents—Suo can keep them. Surely life without proof of identity can't be that hard. “By the way,” you say, trying to change the topic before Yamashita can suggest alternative acts of atonement, “have you seen my husband?”

Yamashita hesitates at your question, looks conflicted. You feel a little bad for him, and for every other gang member who needs to worry about accidentally offending Suo. You watch him sweat for a full ten seconds before he says, “You can follow me. But anesan, you might find it unpleasant upstairs. I can find someone to drive you home instead, if you'd like.”

You give him a funny look. This was your workplace for a very long time—you can’t think of many things that would happen here that might seriously upset you. “What, is he cheating on me?” you guess.

“What? No! Aniki would never!” Yamashita seems genuinely shocked at the suggestion. “He's crazy about you!”

“Then I'm sure he’ll be happy to see me,” you say, although given that he's ignored your texts for four days straight, you aren't so sure. Regardless, this seems to be good enough reasoning for Yamashita, and you’re taken to the top floor of Red Dragon. You ponder the whole time, on the elevator ride up, just what exactly Suo’s been up to that's made Yamashita this nervous about letting you see him.

Then the door opens, and you’re given your answer in the form of several body bags—all cleanly zipped up and conscientiously laid out in front of the elevators in a single, neat row. A sight that is significantly worse than a rookie cutting off his pinkie finger.

“Oh,” you say faintly. You try not to throw up. “So this is why he hasn't been home.”

“Exactly!” Yamashita replies, beaming. “See, anesan, I told you. He'd never cheat on you!”

Suo is in the lounge of the top floor, which has been cleared of both civilians and corpses for the night. He's sitting on one of the couches, leaning back with his one eye closed, as if asleep. The golden tassels of his earrings are draped over the expensive leather of his seat, intertwined with his dark hair. A cup of tea sits in front of him, steaming. Even this far away, you recognize it by the scent alone: jasmine, probably from Longjing. One of the most expensive blends he has, and that which he saves for days he’s stressed, though he never admits it when he is.

The sight of him would almost look tranquil, except for all the blood on his knuckles and his cuffs.

Off to the side, two of his younger brothers are chatting away. One is pouring cups of some doubtlessly expensive liquor, and the other is smoking a cigar. There's karaage on the table too. You recognize all of this as part of a ritual that some of the guys like to do after a hit or a shootout, not dissimilar to getting ramen or McDonald’s after going to a club.

You catch a bit of their conversation as you approach. One of them holds up the liquor bottle (Isojiman sake, you now recognise from your girls’ bar days, one of the rarer bottles costing around nine million yen) and asks Suo if he wants to join. “No thanks,” he says predictably, “I'm on a diet.” Then he turns and looks right at you—startling you, because you had thought you were being fairly quiet—and gives you a smile so genuine that it reminds you of his Furin days. “Would my beautiful wife like to drink for me, though?”

“No thanks,” you reply, “but your beautiful wife would like to talk to you.”

The two guys clear out to give you some privacy. You’re left alone with Suo, feeling awkward after several days of resenting him for no reason. (You’d rather die than go to therapy, but the whole fear of abandonment thing is probably something you should start addressing.) You don't even know where you want to sit. Eventually, you settle for placing yourself next to him, which is a decision that Suo quickly overturns by pulling you into his lap.

A flutter erupts in your stomach as he settles you on top of him. This physiological reaction is absurd, as not even ten minutes ago, you were trying not to throw up at the line of corpses in front of the elevator. It should also scare you somewhat that Suo’s hands—delicately adjusting your body—are still covered in blood. But truthfully, you can't help but be happy when he makes you feel so loved.

You take one of the napkins on the table and start wiping at his knuckles. Tenderly, in case they're bruised or skinned.

“You didn't call or come home,” you start.

“I thought it would be too dangerous.”

You frown, thinking of all the bodies outside. “Was this a rival organisation?”

“No. They were ours.” He sighs. “A succession conflict. There are a few people who don't like how I'll run things if I take over.”

You nod. Suo is very old-fashioned in his ideals about the yakuza, which you think is an imprint of his master’s influence, and something that appeals to his current ‘father’. He values chivalry. He likes protecting the weak. His filial devotion to his deceased master has now extended to every member of his yakuza family, especially his oyassan. He’s almost certainly the top candidate for taking over after the oyabun dies, but being that part of his old-fashioned principles excludes lucrative projects such as sex trafficking, you suppose it’s natural that some people in his organisation would prefer him dead rather than in charge.

“You’ve never ghosted me during violent conflicts before though,” you say. “I was worried that something happened to you. Or that you were upset with me.”

Suo’s hand drops to your waist, pulling you a little closer.

“They knew where we live. They tried to get to you, you know.” Your eyes widen in alarm, so he cups your face with a palm. His thumb glides along your cheek, and your response is almost Pavlovian: your heart rate immediately slows at the comfort of his touch. “It’s fine. They won't bother you ever again.” The cheerful smile returns. “And if anyone else ever does, I'll handle them too.”

Your heart swells. Enthusiastic pledges of murder are not a healthy sign of affection, but after so much loneliness—whether from the past several days, or the years before that, you aren't sure—you can't find it in yourself to be disturbed. You feel and sound painfully fond when you reply, “I know.”

Suo’s expression dims a little then. “I thought you'd like the space anyway.”

“What?” You give him a confused look. You have never once given him any indication that you want even an inch of space from him. You'd crawl into his ribcage if you could. “Why would you think that?”

“I thought you felt suffocated. You left my club just so you could have sex with other people.” You blink, lingering on his wording. Other people. He continues before you can ask about it, sighing, “You didn't even ask me who I'd give permission to touch you. You just went ahead and decided on your own.”

“...”

You try not to look disturbed. Suo’s apparent wish to control your sexual decisions is news to you, and somehow more alarming than the murder pledge. And even worse—you immediately clench in response to his words. The thought of Suo dictating who does and doesn't get to touch your cunt is… well, your mind is heading in a distinctly non-platonic direction.

Trying to ignore the heat in between your thighs (but at the same time encouraging it), you ask: “Who would you have been, um, okay with touching me?”

“Sakura or Nirei,” he says immediately. “Though only Sakura would be interested.”

“What.” You gape at him, all arousal forgotten. “Bullshit. He would never.”

“Yes, he would.” Suo tilts his head. “Haven't you noticed?”

“I don't think there's anything to notice? And also—he’s so shy, I don't think he'd ever agree even if he were interested!” You give him a bewildered look. “He couldn't even look at us when we said we were getting married, he was so embarrassed!”

“Embarrassed?” Suo stares at you, an amused glint in his eye. “Is that what you thought was going on?”

“Was there anything else?”

He studies you for a moment, clearly entertained but not explaining why. “Well—it’s fine,” he says. “It doesn't matter for now. Especially since he's helping us plan a wedding and all.”

You make a face. “I still can't believe that's the cover you went for.”

“Are you upset with it?” he asks smoothly, and you huff and say yes, but from his sly look, you think he knows it's a lie.

Naturally, you deflect before he can further interrogate you. “So, given that you are now my fiancé, am I no longer allowed to work on Keisei Street and see customers after my shifts?”

You don’t expect it when Suo says, “No, you can.”

You stare. “What?”

“You can keep seeing customers if you'd like. You said it makes you happy, so why would I stop you?” Suo’s brow furrows, his usual calm replaced with concern. “Do you really think I do the things I do to make you miserable?”

Guilt gnaws at your heart. He looks so disappointed. “No,” you tell him. “I just thought it'd make you miserable that I was sleeping with people without your permission.” It is partly why you hid it from him in the first place, after all. You don't like to see him sad—you’re still haunted by the deep grief he was in, after your master died—and also, his misery tends to bring bodily harm to other people these days.

Cognizant of both concerns, you ask, “You’re really okay with me sleeping with my customers? I can stop, if you want.”

“No, it’s fine. I still don't like it, but you can continue for now if you want.”

Suo’s mouth curls—not in a gentle way, as has been his expression since seeing you walk in, but in a way that sets off your flight or fight response.

“I'm sure we’ll reach a mutual understanding soon enough.”

END PART 1

thank you genuinely if you read all that because this is a deranged au and I still can't believe I wrote it sldfkjsldfkj. please do let me know if you enjoyed my yandere suo delusions. sorry there was no smut in this chapter. I promise there is a ton in the next one (probably too much... lol. it's a 10k chapter and literally half of those words are about orgasm denial sldfkjalskdjdf). it's completely written and I hope to edit and have it up by next week!

also here is glossary of terms and world building notes if you are interested!

tagging @kweenkatsuki-fics !! <3

[berryunho]

THE ANSWER: XXVIII

Kim Hongjoong doesn’t like the word ‘cult.’ He prefers ‘sect.’ pairing: ateez x fem reader genre: cult au, thriller, angst check warnings on AO3

← previous || next → || masterlist chapter word count: 14,305 chapter warnings: alcohol consumption

Your month drags on. Despite the heightened activity around the farm, nothing much changes in your day-to-day schedule. You wake up at the same time, listen to Hongjoong ramble for the same amount of time, eat the same meals with the same people, and eventually sleep at the same time. Even book club is monotonous, barely even happening— but that might have more to do with the fact that Seonghwa (who conducts most of your lessons) seems even less enthused about having to spend an hour talking to you than you are. 

Which is strange— ish. Not that you expected much different from him, but you had thought that… or, well, at least, you weren’t feeling such a burning hatred for him anymore, so, maybe… 

But that’s silly. Of course Seonghwa still doesn’t give a rat's ass about you, why would he? All you’ve ever done is be a pain in his side. Even when he’s… comforted you in the past… its been to relieve his own discomfort or guilty conscious, not to actually help you. Probably.

You truly have no idea. Seonghwa is an enigma. 

In a way, though, you’re glad that he’s at least mostly off your case. Maybe due to your slight mental breakdown after seeing the… thing… Seonghwa seems to be less eager to poke fun at you. Not nice by any standards, but he’s certainly less devious around you. 

Which also means that he hasn’t been prying into your personal life. Thankfully. With the secret of your escape looming over your every thought, it would be just like you to accidentally slip-up in front of Seonghwa and blow the whole thing. 

Instead, he keeps things very formal. He doesn’t put his hands on you, he doesn’t stare at your face with that scrunched-up look, he doesn’t ask questions about you or your day or San or anything else. He talks to you about The Answer and lets you leave after. 

Though the arrangement is a bit startling at first, you get used to it quickly. Hongjoong appears less and less at these meetings, not even making an appearance in the last two weeks of the month. You have no idea what he could possibly be so busy doing, but you’re not complaining. 

Over the course of the month, there were several more rituals, similar to the tune of the one that you had participated in. Luckily, you were not called to participate in any of them, and no more— and your hesitant to even give whatever happened a name, but— Guardians appear to confuse and scare the everliving fuck out of you. 

More and more, you find yourself absentmindedly reaching to touch the pins on the collar of your shirt, fiddling with them whenever your hands are free. You want to think that it has nothing to do with Hongjoong’s bullshit about the Sign protecting you… and it doesn’t! Not at all! That would be crazy! It’s just a habit. Like spinning a ring or twisting a necklace. 

… You’ll go with that, anyways. 

Occasionally, you still have nightmares about your encounter. What a horrible night that all was. Obviously, there still is nothing in you that can believe that Guardians are real. That would be silly. And insane. But it’s only natural that you’re still upset about the whole situation. Whatever had happened, it had scared the shit out of you. It affected you— it makes sense that your subconscious would be fixated on such a traumatic memory. 

Right…? Or maybe you’re still actively thinking about that night and what the fuck had happened. Could it have been what Hongjoong said? Could he be right? Or were you blitzed out on some mysterious drug and everyone else was just lying about what they saw? Could Hongjoong manage that?

He probably could. It couldn’t be that hard for him to convince the entire cult into gaslighting you into believing that they had all seen the thing, too. But San… He wouldn’t lie to you about it, right? You find that very hard to believe. 

Thinking on it, San had, of course, never outright said that he had seen the same thing as you— you had never spoken in detail with him about it… But he was disturbed enough to set your escape into motion, which must count for something. Maybe he had seen a Guardian and was terrified enough to run. 

These sorts of thoughts dominate your month. 

You had volunteered to help out with the harvest, almost pleading with San for something to do. You were sure that Wooyoung would take your help back in the kitchens, but Hongjoong denied you any opportunity that seemed to come your way. He wanted you with San, where he could see you. 

Which is stupid, in your opinion. Hongjoong has the Followers, all of whom are incredibly devoted to him; any of them would give you up in a heartbeat if they saw you trying anything that you shouldn’t. He could assign literally anyone to watch you while you did a task, and it would achieve the same thing as having San at your side. But no. You were forced to rot in your apartment, glancing over San’s shoulder to his laptop on occasion, hoping to see something that could brighten your mood (or give you more information). 

Most of the time, you watch out your window, hoping to snag another glance at Mingi. There are a few times when you can see him in the field, but the Followers make quick work of the harvest nearest the compound, and move farther and farther away as the month rolls onward. Sometimes, you swear you can see his hair in the distance, reflecting the sun so brightly. It gets harder and harder to remember why you fought. Why you were holding a grudge. Could you really blame him for having your best interests at heart?

Sure, he had been a little possessive and freaky, but, like, he was kind of telling the truth. And he was just trying to make sure that San wasn’t hurting you.

You’re probably just making excuses for him, now, as you miss his company. Here you were, a cult member, locked away in an apartment, all for him— and you don’t even have him. You can’t even speak with him freely. The irony isn’t lost on you. 

Anyways, it doesn’t come as much of a shock when Hongjoong announces that the harvest is complete. Though the month might have been one of the longest of your life, watching the field workers get farther and farther away everyday at least gave you a sense of time passing. When even their tractors were tiny specks that you could hardly see without squinting, it was clear that the work was almost finished. 

The announcement is met with much fanfare, though you’re not sure why. From what you make of it, Halloween is always the date on which the harvest celebration occurs. It shouldn’t be much of a surprise that the harvest is over, especially with the date looming so soon, but the Followers all seem overjoyed. Maybe they’re all just ready to relax after a long, toiling month. 

That said, the day itself comes much faster than you anticipated. Hongjoong made the announcement of the end of the Harvest on the 25th of the month, leaving six days between the sermon for celebration and the actual ceremony itself. 

Which left you with six days to finish your mental preparations for your escape. 

San had refined your plan over the month, including making a timeline of the night and the places you should find yourself. He took over the entire plan, which you really couldn’t be more thankful for. His knowledge of the farm and the workings of the cult provided a level of security that you would have never been able to achieve on your own. 

In essence, the plan remained the same. When the ceremonial party began at 6pm, you would have nothing to worry about… besides socializing for the next nine hours. Just follow the vibes, and you would be okay. San was sure that you would have free reign during the party, that you’d be allowed to be away from a higher-ups side once the alcohol was flowing. At three, you would meet with San near the front doors, trying to not be seen, and make your way into the woods beyond the compound, where San will have stashed your car in the days leading up to the ceremony (it was as he was telling you this that he admitted to having the keys to your car in his office this entire time). 

Despite the simplicity of the plan, you figured that it would probably work. As long as you didn’t raise any suspicions in the coming days, and as long as everything went smoothly on Halloween, there was no reason to dwell on the possibility of it failing. 

Another failed escape attempt was unlikely to be something that you would survive, you knew this. Even with Hongjoong’s delusional belief that you are someone important to him and his religion, you weren’t sure he could tolerate this level of disobedience— at the very least, it would be disastrous if you failed. At worst, you would be leading San and yourself to early graves. 

Maybe Hongjoong’s twisted dependence on you would mean that he couldn’t kill you… But you weren’t going to count on it. He had threatened your life in the past, and you were quite certain that he meant it. He would be able to reason out a way that killing you made sense, if you pissed him off enough.

So. You simply had to make sure that you did not fail. Because you didn’t want to find out what Hongjoong would do with you if you did. 

.・。.・゜✭ ⧖ ・.・ ⧖ ✫・゜・。. 

Much like the rest of the month, the few days leading up to Halloween also fly by before you can appreciate the gravity of your situation. 

Your stomach churns all morning. You chalk it up to nerves, the most obvious explanation for an upset stomach, but part of you wonders if there wasn’t something wrong with your dinner last night. 

Hongjoong announces the party to be held that evening during the morning service, like San had said that he would. You wring your hands together at San’s side, avoiding Hongjoong’s eyes. There’s a small part of you that is so sure that he would be able to figure you out entirely if he got a glimpse into your eyes. You just try to focus on the activity at hand, listening to Hongjoong with an impassive look on your face. 

You must do an alright job, as Hongjoong allows you to leave the chapel with San at the conclusion of the service. You’re even able to eat breakfast in peace, which actually does surprise you. Though Hongjoong had been exceedingly busy over the month, he still typically made time to freak you out most days. 

But San and you are able to sneak away after breakfast, back to your apartment, without a word from anyone. 

As soon as San shuts and locks the door behind him, he asks, “Are you still feeling alright? Up to this?” 

You blink across the room at him, hardly needing a moment to assure him that you very much still are ready to make your escape. You ask if he’s feeling the same way, to which he agrees. 

“Just a little nervous, I guess,” he explains, shrugging. “That’s normal, right?” 

“Of course it is.” You’re sure that San is no stranger to Hongjoong’s wrath; you don’t need to wonder why he’s nervous. Once again, you’re struck by emotion as you realize what San is doing for you, what he’s risking and what he’s giving up. 

He smiles. “What should we do, after we’re out of here?” 

You sit down on the couch, thinking through your answer, “I think we should just show up on one of my friend’s doorsteps and freak the shit out of them.” 

San laughs, rolling his eyes. “I meant more long-term, but we can do that, too.” 

Oh… Long-term. You still hadn’t broached the subject about… well, blowing the whistle on this place again, ever since San flipped out when you suggested it. You certainly still planned on doing exactly that, and you really don’t think that you need San’s approval to do so, either. Like, if you escape and just let this be, aren’t you basically an accomplice to all of the crime? 

The last thing you plan to do with your life is go to prison for Hongjoong, so you’re very much resolved in what you have to do… whether San agrees with you or not. 

“Well,” you start, “when’s the last time you saw your parents? Where did you live before you came here?” 

San sighs dramatically, making his way to sit next to you. “Sheesh, don’t remind me. They’re gonna kill me.” 

“They’ll be happy to see you, I’m sure.” You think of your own parents, who will probably also be a little upset… but hopefully mostly pleased that you’re still alive. 

San agrees with you easily enough about his parents, before adding, “Is this a bad time to mention that the Followers have been paying your rent since you went missing?” He asks, “So everything should still be there.” 

You gape at him. “Are you serious? How?” 

You know for a fact that your rent could only be paid through a pain in the ass portal with a very specific and strange ID and password. 

He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “You had the info saved in your phone… so…” 

Puzzled. You are puzzled. Why would they go to such lengths to just keep your shit in your apartment? You had long since assumed that your landlord had probably broken down the door and left your stuff on the curb. 

Well, you remind yourself, it actually hasn’t been that long. Though it feels like you’ve been on this farm for the better part of your life, it has really only been… what, two and a half months? Maybe your landlord would give you some leeway, but… no need to worry about it, you guess. 

But why would they even do that? It’s not like your rent was cheap. What would they gain from keeping your apartment intact? The illusion of life? 

That’s probably it, you realize. Just a front to make it look like you, in fact, weren’t a missing person. Part of you wants to freak out at San, realizing that he must be the person that orchestrated all of this, but you’re too far past that. If you start being mad at him for doing his job, you’re going to have to be mad about a lot of things. Things that you can look past for the fact of what he’s helping you do tonight. 

“Speaking of my phone, can I get that back?” 

San, relieved that you don’t seem mad, smiles. “I’ll grab it tonight.” 

“Can’t I have it now?” 

He hesitates at that, inclining his head in question, “any particular reason?” 

You shouldn’t need to give him a reason, so you shake your head. 

“It’s probably best to keep it where it is, in case someone goes looking for it.” 

… Ominous. Who would be looking for your phone? 

But he’s probably right. And it’s not like there would be much to do on it, anyways. You’re not going to call the cops now, not when your escape is looming closer and closer with each minute that passes. You can’t jeopardize it now. 

.・。.・゜✭ ⧖ ・.・ ⧖ ✫・゜・。. 

You’re a little surprised that dinner carries on as normal, without any extra fanfare. Though no one had mentioned one, you had kind of expected there to be another ceremony of sorts. But, no, dinner is normal. You sit with San and Wooyoung, the rest of the table almost awkwardly empty as the three of you eat in relative silence.

How is Wooyoung going to react when he wakes up tomorrow and you’re both gone? He’s going to be pissed. But, maybe, he’ll realize that you wouldn’t leave him here. Surely, after what he told you, he knows that you wouldn’t do that. You couldn’t have it in your heart to let him rot here, knowing what Hongjoong did to bend him to his will… or, at least, having an inkling of an idea. 

Before you know it, Hongjoong is standing at the head of the room, commanding the attention of the cafeteria. The room falls into a hush, no one speaks as Hongjoong starts his speech. 

“Everyone,” he addresses the room, “Loyal Followers of the Answer, it is with great joy that I officially conclude our harvest season.”

The room bursts into a polite applause, smiles shared around the tables as the Followers celebrate their leader’s message. 

“Despite a rocky start, we were very fortunate to remain safe for the duration of the month.” Hongjoong, for the first time that day, finds your eyes. “I put my thanks in the faith of our Followers, those who kept our protections strong all month long. Though it may seem that there was no danger at all, this is only thanks to their courage.” 

San reaches across the table to squeeze your hand, giving you a small smile. 

“As always, we will celebrate our safety and our bountiful harvest— which Jongho assures me will last us through the winter and beyond— tonight. Everyone of age shall participate; I do not expect anyone to hold back on anyone’s account, especially not my own. This success is as much yours as it is mine.

“Please, imbibe freely, socialize freely, celebrate your victory over evil. We start now, and we will not stop until dawn.” Hongjoong grabs his glass from the table behind him, saluting the room with it before downing the amber liquid. 

Again, the room applauds, though more raucously. Wooyoung excuses himself from your table, headed back to the kitchens. Soon after, Followers emerge with trays and trays of various specialty glassware, each filled with their respective (you assume) alcohols. Not long after, Wooyoung exits the kitchen with a rolling cart filled with, perhaps, more bottles of alcohol than you have ever seen in one place at one time (which was saying a lot, considering the bars you had frequented with Mingi in college). 

Without anyone’s encouragement, Followers begin congregating at the front of the room, helping themselves to the multitude of drinks available. You’re even surprised to see that someone brought out a case of Coke, presumably for mixing. When was the last time you saw coke? They must’ve made a run into town recently, you realize, though it couldn’t have had the same importance as when San went. 

You shrug it off. Not like it matters much, anyhow. San stands, offering his hand to you. You take it, graciously, prepared to get this night started. 

.・。.・゜✭ ⧖ ・.・ ⧖ ✫・゜・。. 

There is an attempt to pace yourself, considering that you’re going to need to be at least a little coherent later tonight, but… well… it’s been a long time. And you are well aware of the fact that you have, like, basically 10 hours. That’s enough time to get drunk and then sober, if you play your cards right. 

So play them, you do. San sticks to your side like glue for the first couple hours, watching you carefully as you put away more than your fair share of drinks. He drinks, as well, but nowhere near at the speed or quantity you do. You’re vaguely aware that you probably should slow down, but why would you, when you’re surrounded by… like, tons of dudes that would protect you, and you include Hongjoong in that count. 

By nine, you are positively drunk, blissfully unaware of the worries from the morning. What is there to worry about? You’re having the time of your life, do you even want to leave? Why would you leave? The thought makes you laugh, not surprisingly. 

You flit around the cafeteria, having lost San a while ago. Or maybe it was only a few minutes ago… It doesn’t matter. You talk to a lot of people, introducing yourself and smiling when they tell you they know who you are. It almost makes you feel a little guilty, but it mostly makes you happy. So many lovely people know your name and your face and they know that Hongjoong thinks you're so important. How amazing! Tomorrow, you probably wouldn’t be able to repeat a single one of their names, but that doesn’t matter. 

The time flies as you keep talking to new people, your mind completely distracted from the plans you have for later. You do slow down your drinking, eventually, though that’s more so due to the fact that you’re too far away from the bar table to bother going back to it than anything else. 

More than a few times, you find yourself staring at Mingi, and, more often than not, he’s staring at you, as well. Maybe he’s worried about you…? The thought makes you blush. Mingi… Oh, Mingi. He looks so handsome tonight, too. His hair is still red, still bright, and his outfit is beautifully fitted to his bulky body. Phew. You almost need to fan yourself. 

Eventually, sometime, you’re not sure what time, you end up talking with Yunho. He is clearly not even a little bit drunk, you might even say he was stone-cold sober if not for the glass in his hands. Though you thought that he hated your guts, he still seemed a little amused by your presence, a small smile on his face as he has to catch your forearm a couple times. The drunk part of you wonders if you could get away with feeling his biceps, he’s just so tall and so handsome, but even you know it would probably be wrong to feel him up. 

You couldn’t repeat a word of your conversation to anyone, not even seconds after it happened; not that you think it particularly matters. After Yunho, you find Wooyoung and Yeosang, and you can distinctly remember thanking Wooyoung for the incredible selection, but… yeah, that’s about it. 

While you’re about to go talk to Jongho, who looks like he could use some company, a hand wraps around your elbow, tugging you backwards. Not one to argue, you spin around, ready to follow whoever it is. Seonghwa stares down at you, an incredulous expression on his face. 

“Hi, Hwa,” you smile up at him, grabbing his free hand with yours. 

His expression morphs from confusion to disgust. “Do not call me that. How much have you had to drink?” 

You shrug, swinging your conjoined hands back and forth. “Enough to have a good time. What about you?” 

“Certainly less than that,” he tugs you back toward the cafeteria tables that had, apparently, been mostly moved out of the way at one point. “Trust me, you don’t want to bother Jongho tonight.” 

You hadn’t planned on bothering him, just keeping him company, but you figured that Seonghwa wouldn’t see it the same way. 

“What time is it?” You ask him, only remembering that you’re wearing a watch after the words leave your mouth. 

“10:44. Got somewhere to be?” 

“Nope,” you pop the p sound, following his lead as he ushers for you to sit down at the table. 

Time continues to fly by, though Seonghwa isn’t as good of a conversation partner as the other people you’ve been spending your time with. He also doesn’t let you drink anymore, instead insisting that you drink water, refilling your glass every time you empty it. Lame. 

As the minutes pass, though, you can feel yourself coming back to reality. You definitely aren’t sober, very far from sober, but the lights stop being bright and you stop being amused by everything that Seonghwa says and does pretty quickly. You also excuse yourself to the restroom more than a few times, though you dutifully return to the same table each time. 

The night progresses, and you find yourself making eye contact with Mingi more and more. Like, seriously, basically everytime that you happen to look at him, he’s already looking at you. Besides the one time you look over and see him engaged in conversation with Hongjoong, you appear to have his rapt attention. 

You try to look around the room for San, but there are so many Followers and it’s kind of dark and you’re still not in your right mind, so you give up pretty quickly. You have no idea what it is that he could be doing, besides preparing for your escape, so you just let it be. Better to not ask after him and then have the others asking the same questions. 

Though he had stopped you from drinking, Seonghwa had not stopped himself. He paces himself much better than you had, but he keeps drinking as the night wears on, eventually starting to open up a bit more with you. He also lets you get another drink, which you happily allow yourself, as you start to feel much too aware of your situation once more. 

“You know,” Seonghwa mutters, leaning closer to you, “this is, essentially, Hongjoong’s birthday party.”

You pull away from him, confusion evident on your face. “It’s his birthday?” 

“In a week.” He sips his drink, grimacing at the taste. “But he doesn’t make a big deal of it on the actual day, so here we are.” 

You’re actually rather surprised to hear this, and from Seonghwa no less. It’s strange that Hongjoong doesn’t want his birthday to be a huge thing considering his, you know, enormous ego and narcissism issue. Maybe he doesn’t like everyone knowing how old he is. Kind of takes away the appeal, knowing that he’s… how old is he? He can’t be much older than you, just given what you know about him and Seonghwa (who you know to be the same age). You’d ask Seonghwa, but it kind of seems like he wants you to ask, so you’re not going to. 

Instead, you sip your own drink, trying to look like you’re thoughtfully processing and tucking this information away for later. Why would you ever need to remember Hongjoong’s birthday, especially after tonight? Your stomach rolls over as you have this thought, the reminder of your plan being truly nauseating. 

“When's your birthday?” You ask instead, propping your elbow onto the table. 

Seonghwa looks momentarily taken aback, but responds easily enough, “April third.” 

“Far away, then,” you frown. Another realization hits you. “You’re older than Hongjoong.” 

He shrugs, “Believe it or not.” 

For whatever reason, this is, in fact, slightly disconcerting. 

But you ignore that feeling, opting to look around the crowded room. Hongjoong himself is mingling with Yeosang and Wooyoung, both of whom look incredibly pleased to have their leader's attention. Wooyoung is not shy with his hands, clutching the Hongjoong’s arm close to his chest as they speak. Vaguely, you wonder if he’s feeling okay. You’re still not sure how he can be so loyal to someone that apparently had him… what? Tortured? Who even knows. Stockholm syndrome is a real thing, you guess. For once, Hongjoong doesn't sense your gaze, staying completely unaware until your eyes shift away. 

Immediately, perhaps unsurprisingly, at this point, you make eye contact with Mingi. You hold it this time, tilting your head in question as if asking him if he needs something. He’s certainly acting like it, with all this staring, but he looks away from you, resuming his conversation with a Follower you haven't met before. Like everyone else, he still sports a drink in his hand, dutifully sipping it every lull. 

“Princess, can I ask you a question?” Seonghwa speaks across from you, calling your attention back to him. You incline your head in the affirmative, and he asks, “Why did it take you so long to come after him?” 

The question takes you off guard, probably for the fact that you wonder it yourself. You take another drink, looking down at the wood grain on the table. 

“Too personal? I figured.” Seonghwa takes your silence as an unwillingness to respond.

“No,” you're quick to deny him, “it's not that. I just don't know the answer.” 

As horrible as it sounds, the real answer to the question is simply… you were busy. Life happened. You didn’t have any reason to suspect that he disappeared due to malicious circumstances. Finishing university was your top priority— plenty of your friendships fell to the wayside as you wrapped up your degree. And, by the time you graduated, it didn’t seem pertinent. You always figured that, if you reached out, he would answer. Hell, his mom told you where he was, if she knew about this place, at least to some extent, you couldn’t blame yourself for not knowing what it would end up being. 

If you had known the truth, you think, you would’ve come sooner. Of course you would have. There is no universe where you let Mingi go through this terror alone… though that’s essentially what’s happened since your argument and the rift in your relationship. 

Whatever the case, it seems silly to worry about now. You're here. There were a few months where Mingi was here alone, and the idea of those few months horrifies you. Knowing that Mingi went through a Choosing ceremony without any kind of internal support system makes you feel sick… but, you have to admit, he did pretty alright. Sure, he's traumatized and changed and brainwashed, but at least he has friends and a purpose and, well, he seems happy… ish. There's nothing you could've done if you had been here earlier, so it's no use dreading on it. You still would've been kept apart, and there still would've been the same circumstances. 

You take a look at your watch, sighing as it informs you that the time is 11:52 p.m., not nearly as late as you were hoping that it would be. 

Seonghwa huffs at your non-answer, tucking his hair away from his face to stare at you harder. “Sometimes I feel like I can hear your thoughts just from watching your expression change. Mingi wasn’t better off before you got here, if that is what you were thinking.” 

It wasn’t, but, like, that’s kind of close. 

You shake your head, sliding your drink across the table between your hands. “It’s not that I think he was better off… Just that he did alright for himself in the meantime.” 

His face twists, though you’re not sure what emotion he’s trying to convey. “Do you even remember what happened when you tried to leave?” 

Your eyes meet his. 

“He had you back for, what, two days, and then completely broke down.” Seonghwa glances back over at Mingi. “I don’t think he’s been the same since you did that.” 

“You can’t guilt trip me into forgetting my need for self-preservation,” you say, hoping your voice doesn’t betray any sense of, well, guilt. 

He rolls his eyes, looking back at you. “In case you haven’t noticed, Princess, you are very much still alive.” He mutters something else under his breath as he picks up his drink, taking quite a few consecutive swallows. 

You mirror his actions. Hopefully, you can keep it that way.

.・。.・゜✭ ⧖ ・.・ ⧖ ✫・゜・。. 

In a stroke of luck, Seonghwa let you keep drinking until you found yourself teetering between tipsy and drunk, again. He kept drinking, but he didn’t really keep entertaining you, instead wandering off to do his own socializing. You do try to keep yourself under control, though considering that it’s almost time. 

You take a look at your watch, surprised to see that it’s already 2:15. Blinking through the haze of your tipsiness, it sure seems like 2:15 is an okay time to get a move on, right? Like, surely no one will notice if you slip out now instead of in, like, twenty minutes or whenever you and San had agreed he would grab you. 

Plus, if anyone did notice, you could just say that you needed some air. It wouldn’t be hard to believe, looking at the state of you. You would quite enjoy a nice breath of fresh air. You could always come back inside if it felt like it was too early, or if you got a bad feeling. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to sneak off for just a moment. 

In a brief look around the room, you don’t find anyone paying any particular attention to yourself. In fact, you can see Hongjoong and Seonghwa engrossed in conversation, about as far away as could be. Seonghwa’s hand rests on Hongjoong’s shoulder, a demure smile on his face as he listens to Hongjoong speak. Most of the other Followers in the room all seem significantly more drunk than yourself, with hardly a person meeting your eyes for any longer than a second. 

No one will notice, you’re positive. 

As you begin your attempt to shuffle your way through the crowd toward the hall, a hand grasps your elbow, stopping you in place, for the second time that night. 

Despite the looks that he had been giving you all night, you’re still a bit surprised to see Mingi looking down at you when you spin around to see who the hand belongs to. Your plans to go get a breath of fresh air fall out the window at the sight of him. Why would you need fresh air when Mingi is standing in front of you? He has just about the same effect on you. 

At first, he doesn’t seem to have anything to say, but, if you know anything about Mingi, it’s that he yaps when he’s drunk. And he clearly is, judging from the rosy tinge of his face and the awkward smile he wears as he looks at you, a smile that sends you straight back to college. It’s as if he’s completely forgotten everything that’s happened in the past couple months, forgotten the arguments and the anger and the time that has passed. 

“Hey,” he greets you, having to raise his voice over the din of the party. 

“Hey,” you greet him in turn, politely waiting for him to continue. 

“Can I—” he stops, opting to lean his head closer to yours so that he can talk into your ear. His hand stays on your elbow, locking you in place (not that you would’ve moved away from him, anyways, being tipsy and all). “Can we talk in private?” He asks, his voice deep in a way that you had almost forgotten. 

Nodding, you allow him to retract himself and lead you away, toward the hall that you had originally been aiming for. When the door shuts behind the two of you, the party sounds fade; the two of you isolated from the rest of the world. 

Well, the two of you and a few other Followers that linger in the hall, but close enough. Mingi doesn’t seem bothered by their presence, and you really aren’t either. You’re sure that you haven’t had a truly private conversation with Mingi since before he went missing, given that he apparently seeks Hongjoong’s advice for everything. Anyways, the presence of a few stragglers doesn’t worry you. 

Mingi drops your arm, awkwardly smoothing his dress shirt. “You look nice. Pretty.” 

“Thanks,” you smile, leaning your back against the wall— partly in an effort to keep your balance.  “What did you wanna talk about?” 

He shrugs, observing the hallway like he had never seen it before. “Just wanted to talk. We haven’t talked in a looooooonnngggggggggg time.” 

Part of you wants to ask him who’s fault that is, but that would be cruel, so you don’t. “It has been a while now.” You agree instead, glancing at your watch. 2:22… which is basically 2:25, which is basically 2:30… already. Nerves wash over you again as you clench your hands in front of you. 

“If I’m being honest— and I always want to be honest with you, you know— Hongjoong said that I should talk to you because he thought it would be good for you to hear my thoughts about the situation and also because he said that he thought that you seemed bummed out that we haven’t been talking and that made me sad so I’m taking his advice and talking to you.” Mingi says after taking one deep breath, not stopping for a moment. “Also Yunho said that you still seemed kind of mad and I can’t take the thought of you being mad at me anymore so basically what I wanted to say was that I’m sorry.” 

Blinking, a pout forms on your face at his explanation. He had been worrying about you and your relationship. You could’ve reached out to him at any point in the last month, but hadn’t out of fear that he was still upset with you. And here he was, apologizing. 

“Mingi,” you wring your hands harder together, “it really isn’t important anymore. I stopped being angry a long time ago.” 

He shakes his head, closing his eyes. “It is important, (Y/n), I don’t want this to go unsaid. I’m sorry for confronting you and acting like a douchebag, I’m sorry for scaring you, I’m sorry for questioning you about San, which was absolutely none of my business, I’m sorry for yelling and fighting him and ignoring you for weeks and sending San dirty looks whenever I saw him.” He pauses. “You probably didn’t know about that last one, but, still, I’m sorry.” 

Your frown only grows deeper with each apology, your eyes starting to sting. You don’t want to cry, not when you’re sure that this night will steal plenty of tears already, but Mingi is making it hard. If you had known that he was beating himself up equally as hard as you had been, you would’ve apologized a long, long time ago. If you had known… isn’t that just the statement of your life? 

“When you were attacked at the start of the month, I was terrified.” He swallows. “I wanted to be at your side, but Hongjoong wouldn’t allow it, and I was sure that you would be pissed if you woke up and I was there, so I left. But that solitude left me a lot of time to think, to think about who you are and what you mean to me.

“You might not think of me as your best friend anymore, but I value our friendship more than anything else in my life, (Y/n). More than Hongjoong, more than The Answer, more than all of this; you are what I thank God for everyday. If something happened to you, I don’t think I would survive it.” Mingi swallows again, harder, tearing up himself. “I’m so glad that you’re here. I know you still are on the fence about Hongjoong, but I need you to trust me when I say that he loves us and he lives to make us better people.” 

Finally, you allow a few stray tears to spill onto your cheeks. Mingi’s confession is touching, truly, making your stomach do all sorts of gymnastics, but Hongjoong. How does he weasel his way into absolutely everything? Again, you’re struck by the thought that Mingi will be plagued by Hongjoong for the rest of his life. This… grip he has on Mingi won’t disappear overnight. 

Thankful for the wall behind you, considering your dizziness, you lift a hand to wipe at your cheeks before responding. “Mingi, no matter what happens or how much we fight or if I’m here or not, you’ll always be my best friend.” You smile weakly, hoping that he doesn’t read too deeply into your words. “Nothing can come between us for long.” 

Mingi wipes at his own tears, sniffling. “Can I hug you?” 

Before you can fully nod your head yes, Mingi is pulling you away from the wall and into his arms, crushing you to his chest. You’re quick to reciprocate, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist, savoring the feeling. You hadn’t been able to hug him in ages, but his arms feel just like you remember them— if not a little bit more muscled. Inhaling deeply, you rub your face against his shirt, probably ruining the crisp-ness that he had been trying to preserve. His tears wet your scalp, but you don’t mind as you only squeeze him tighter. 

The moment could not be more perfect; reconciling with Mingi fills your heart with such a certainty that you’re doing the right thing. Knowing that he isn’t upset with you, isn’t harboring any ill-will any longer reassures you that it will all be okay. He knows that you wouldn’t just leave him behind— he’ll know that you’re coming back for him (if he ever even finds out that you’ve left). 

That is, of course, ignoring the bit of his speech where he encouraged you to stay and adapt to Hongjoong, but, like, whatever. It’ll be irrelevant in a few hours, now. He’ll be thankful, eventually. 

But no moment can be perfect and last forever. 

A throat clearing from behind Mingi calls your attention back to the world. The two of you separate, though Mingi puts a hand on your cheek as you pull away, wiping away your tears with a tight smile. 

San looks behind Mingi’s shoulder, his face hard as he watches the two of you. You could almost chuckle at his jealousy, but the seriousness of the situation suddenly rises into your awareness once again. 

“I'm sorry, Mingi, you'll have to excuse us,” San says, despite the fact that Mingi hasn't acknowledged his presence. 

Mingi leans close to press a kiss to your forehead. “Thank you,” he says, quietly enough so that you're the only one who hears. 

Nodding, you untangle yourself from his arms, taking a few steps towards San before offering your hand to him. 

He takes it, offering no final remarks to Mingi as he pulls you further away from the cafeteria. Further away from Hongjoong and Seonghwa and Mingi and the rest of them. Closer to the forest and your car and freedom. 

Your heartbeat picks up in your chest again. Had you lost track of time talking with Mingi? Were you running behind? Why does it seem like San is in such a rush to get you away? It’s almost hard to keep up with his stride, your boots feeling heavier with each step that you take. 

Vaguely, you find yourself worrying over if Mingi will get in trouble for being the last one to speak to you. Surely not… How would he know what you were planning? There wouldn’t be a way for him to… unless they suspected that you had confided your plans to him. 

Which you hadn’t done, but if they were desperate enough to need a scapegoat… No. Hongjoong wouldn’t go that far. He may never even find out that you had the conversation in the first place. Mingi might mention it, but he probably wouldn’t have the opportunity to in the chaos that is sure to ensue when your absence was realized. 

They were bound to figure out what had happened easily enough; they wouldn’t have to interrogate your friends to come to the most obvious conclusion: that you and San had run away in the night, without outside help. 

Before you know it, San is opening the front door, ushering you into the night. 

As you had suspected, the cool air does feel amazing on your skin. Lacking a coat, you know that you’ll grow colder the longer that you’re outside. It’s almost November, now, the air is almost strikingly cold after the stuffiness of the cafeteria. Even the hallway had hardly felt relieving compared to this. 

Taking a few deep breaths, you allow San to continue wordlessly leading you forward. If you weren’t still rather tipsy, maybe you would question his silence. But it doesn’t bother you very much, if you’re being honest. He probably just doesn’t want to risk drawing any unnecessary attention…

He had assured you that there would be absolutely no one outside of the compound at this point in the night, though… 

But, still, he has his reasons, you’re sure. Instead of continuing to walk in front of the building, he veers dramatically to the right, walking the distance until you both turn the corner to round to the side and eventually the back.

Though you had never seen the woods at the back of the compound directly, you had known it was there. The ancient, old-growth trees loomed from behind the building, their leaves able to be seen from a far distance, even from the road. To actually be in front of them was a new sensation, a new emotion. The sight of their trunks startled you into realization.

This is real. You’re doing this. You’re running. You’re getting out of here. 

San stops at the edge of the trees, finally turning to address you in a low voice, “You still want to do this?” 

Nodding, you squeeze his hand in yours, bringing your free hand to grip your joined hands as well. 

He looks at the dirt, kicking a loose pebble at his feet. “Don’t look too hard at anything you might see in these trees, (Y/n).” 

However foreboding that is, you agree with his request, “I won’t take my eyes off of you.” 

San allows himself a small smile, squeezing your hands back. 

Whatever it is that San doesn’t want you seeing, you don’t think you ever had any hope of being able to see in the trees, anyways. It’s pitch black outside, the moon doing little to help you as you walk deeper and deeper. 

You’re almost kind of amazed that he’s able to lead you so confidently. He must not have consumed anywhere near the same quantity of alcohol as everyone else. Which actually makes quite a bit of sense, considering you hadn’t seen him very much at all following dinner. What had he been up to? Was Hongjoong not suspicious of his absence? He must’ve made something up… explained it away… 

More than a few times, you stumble over a tree root or loose brush, twigs snapping underfoot with each step that you take. San holds you steady, slowing his pace when you need it. 

After what feels like forever, but is probably more like a couple minutes, you reach a clearing. At first, you think that you spot your car right away… but then you realize that you can’t be sure. In the clearing, there’s no fewer than twenty vehicles, of all makes and models and sizes. Some look like they haven’t run in years, a thick, dusty coat over their windshields that you can even see in the dark. 

San doesn’t pause to let you take in the clearing for very long, however. He quickly pulls you along with him, between a row of cars, before you’re able to find your own. It looks just as you remember it, albeit a bit dirty. Your heart leaps as you realize what this means.

You’re at your car. Your car. It’s right here, right in front of you. You’re going to fucking get out of here. Holy shit. 

San lets go of your hand, fishing into his pocket before pulling out the keys and handing them to you. “We don’t lock the cars, but…” 

Clutching the keys in your hands, you can’t help but smile. “I can’t believe this is happening.” 

He awkwardly mirrors your smile, glancing behind you before pointing it out. You turn to look, not all that surprised to see that the clearing opens to a dirt road, leading back off into the trees. “We’ll go that way. It meets up with the main road after a couple miles.” 

Nodding, you turn back to your car, almost giddy as you approach the passenger’s side door. Gently, you pull on the handle, hoping the door doesn’t creak too loud as you do so. Thankfully, it’s no louder than normal, and you eagerly sit yourself down in the seat. San stands in the door, his hands resting on either side of the opening. “Ready, then?” He chuckles as you settle yourself into the seat, adjusting the recline to lay back. 

“Let’s go.” 

He gives you a thumbs up, pushing himself off of the car before patting at his pockets. 

His smile falls, his face paling. 

Your heart drops into your stomach, “What is it?” You ask, sitting back up. “Is something wrong?” 

San blinks, twisting to look back the way that you came. “I have to go back.” 

“What?” You almost shout, “Are you crazy? You can’t go back!” 

He shakes his head, leaning down toward you. He grips both of your shoulders tight in his hands, looking in your eyes, “It’ll be fine. I will be right back, I promise.” 

“San, no,” you gape at him, “what could possibly be so important?” 

San closes his eyes, shaking his head at your question. “It’s hard to explain, I— Just, I,” his eyes open as he squeezes you one last time before dropping your shoulders. “I’ll be back, I swear.” 

“Let me come with you,” you plead, attempting to grab one of his hands as he pulls away. “Don’t leave me here, alone, please, San.” 

Shushing you, he shakes his head again. “You’ll slow me down. I swear, (Y/n), it will be fine. I’ll see you in a minute.” 

He takes a step back, shutting the door before you can come up with a response. You’re too dumbfounded to even attempt to open the door again, too confused to try and follow. What could possibly be so important to him? What if someone finds you here? How are you going to explain that, huh? 

But the possibility of that is so remote. No one knows that you’re out here, how could they? Even if someone notices your absence at the party, they’ll just assume that you’ve retired to your room, right? And even if they feel inclined to check, that’ll take a few minutes, in which time San should return to you and get a move on. 

Still, you find it very hard to swallow your panic. 

What if this is it? What if you die because San had to go back for something that he wouldn’t even tell you about? Your breathing grows shallow with each new terrible thought that invades your mind. You can see it now, Hongjoong walking into the clearing, rage in his eyes, knife in his hands. Making you grovel and beg and plead with him only to end it right then and there, anyways. San would come back and find your still-warm body, soon to join you in death. 

You try to blink away the images that flit across your mind, realizing that your eyes burn as if you’d been crying. Your hand flies to your cheek, unsurprised to find it wet. Taking a deep breath, you do anything you can think of to distract yourself. 

The air in your car is so stale, your months old air-freshener doing little to help the dry, bitter smell. You fumble with the glove box, pulling it open while praying that there is anything in it that can distract you from the horror of the moment. 

Papers spill out as you indiscriminately pull everything out, ushering it onto your lap. You throw aside the car manuals and your outdated insurance, searching for just one thing, anything that could remind you of what you were enduring these terrors for. 

A brochure for The Bean slides out, your own face smiling from behind the coffee bar. Adam can be seen in the background. It almost makes you sick, that horrible reminder of the life that you had been forced to give up. You keep sliding the papers around, cutting your finger in your desperation. 

Sucking your paper cut into your mouth, you realize that you're not going to find anything in the glove box. You make a half hearted attempt to shove everything back inside before deciding that it's not worth it. 

Tears still pouring down your face, you reach for the driver's side sun visor, flicking it down to reveal the photos you kept in the sunglass clip. 

On top is a picture of Jungeun and yourself, embracing with your faces pressed together. You quickly slide it back, knowing for certain that you have a picture of Mingi in the stack. 

Seeing the picture will wake you up, you're certain. It will give you the courage to keep going. 

Finally, a polaroid emerges. It's the first picture you had clipped to the visor, a testament to how much time had passed before you started looking for Mingi. How had you waited so long? You pry the polaroid free, it having stuck to the metal after so long. 

Though your hands shake, you don't really need to see the photo in detail to appreciate it. Mingi stands in the center, a peace sign next to his eyes. He's not smiling, rather giving you a sour look. He wasn't pleased to be the first test subject of his gift to you. The second photo was of yourself, taken by him, you remember. The third was a selfie of the both of you. 

You don't have either of the other photos, but you have this one. Something compels you to protect the picture, to keep it on you, so you slide it into your waistline and pray that your pants don't distort it too much. 

A knock on the window almost kills you on the spot, with the way your heart leaps into your throat.

The shock of who you see through the window makes you gag. 

No sooner after seeing his face does he open the door, falling onto his knees next to the car to be eye level with you. 

Seonghwa is drunk, much more drunk than he had been when you were with him earlier, you realize this very quickly with the way his voice wavers as he asks, “What are you doing?”

You have no response. You open and close your mouth a few times, but only choked sounds of fear come out. 

He grabs your hands, holding them in your lap. ��Why are you crying? Are you leaving?” 

He sounds so sad that your heart nearly shatters. Your heart should shatter, now, knowing that escape is impossible. But you can only focus on Seonghwa, on his knees, in front of you. 

His bangs brush his eyelids. “You're leaving?” He asks again, “without me?” 

Seonghwa hiccups, frowning. The question is so absurd you can't pay any mind to it. Why would you bring Seonghwa with you? His forehead comes to rest on your thigh. 

“Seonghwa, go back to the party,” you manage to get out, clearing your throat after. 

“I can't,” he pouts, “Hongjoong is mad at me. I can't tell why.” 

You think Hongjoong always seems a little mad at Seonghwa, but you're not going to say that to him now.

“Please, Seonghwa, go.” 

He shifts his face and blinks up at you, his eyes reflecting the moonlight so prettily it almost hurts. “Come with me, then.” 

Seonghwa gets to his feet, but he doesn't release your hands. They dangle between the two of you, the height different causing yours to float up. “We can fix this. Just come with me,” he says. 

You're shaking your head before you realize it. “I can't go back. I can't do this anymore.” 

Seonghwa bites his lip, looking around. “This isn't going to end well; please,” he looks back at you, “just come back with me. I won't say anything, Hongjoong will never know, we'll both be fine. We'll be fine. Nothing has to change.” 

“I can't go back.” Your heart beats wildly in your chest, you can feel its thrum. When San returns, what will he do about Seonghwa? How will he possibly get past him? Seonghwa won't let you leave, but you have to. To what length would San go to get you free? 

You don't want Seonghwa hurt. You realize now, staring up at him, that you care about him. More than you would've ever thought you would. Who is Seonghwa if not the ultimate victim? Is he not just a reflection of yourself?

“Get in the car, Seonghwa.”

He frowns again, pouting his lower lip. “I can't leave Hongjoong.” 

“Yes, you can. Get in the car.”

You don't give a second thought to your proposition, nodding your head toward the back seat.

“I won't leave Hongjoong.” Seonghwa clarifies, dropping your hands. They smack down onto your thighs, stinging. 

You'd question him, start yelling at him if you could. But you can hardly form a coherent thought and every word feels like risking the contents of your stomach coming up. Instead, you frown, looking down at your lap rather than at his confused face. 

“You can't leave Hongjoong, either,” he says. “Even if you run, he'll find you, always. You'd come back on your own, you won't know how to live without him anymore.” He tells you this eerily flat. “Just come back with me, he doesn't have to know about this.” 

Seonghwa is speaking nonsense. Even your flurried mind understands this.

“Please.” He begs. “(Y/n), please.” 

You shake your head. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head as singular tears run down his cheeks. “I'm sorry. I tried to help you, I did.” 

Seonghwa turns away from the car as the sinking feeling in your stomach solidifies into a rock of dread. 

Of course, you knew what it meant to see Seonghwa out here. There was never any chance, not after he had found you. If he knew where you were, Hongjoong did, too. Surely, he wouldn’t risk you getting away. He would drag the moment on, though. Making Seonghwa come here, making him plead with you, what sort of torture was that? What was the point? Isn’t he just going to kill you, now? 

Why is it that, when Hongjoong enters the clearing, you aren’t scared? You hardly feel anything. You knew this was coming. You knew that this would happen, didn’t you? There wasn’t any other possible ending to this night. You wanted to believe that it was possible, that you could escape, but it was futile. It was never a possibility. Even with San’s help. You knew it, deep down. 

Like Seongwha said, there is no getting away from Hongjoong. You were foolish to think that you could, and you know it, now. 

Instead of watching Hongjoong approach, you watch Seonghwa slink away. He doesn’t go far, stopping to rest his head against the roof of a car a few down from your own. You can imagine how good the cool metal must feel. 

You snivel, wiping at your eyes as Hongjoong stops in front of you, standing where San had stood, where Seonghwa kneeled. He’s silent. You don’t look up at him, instead focusing on his hands as they hang at his sides. They’re empty, though clenched into tight fists. 

“You have ignored every. Single. Opportunity. I have given you.” He emphasizes each word. “Chances I gave you to make the right decision.” 

It’s not even worth your energy to respond, is it? Obviously, you should’ve known that the various conversations you had over the night were warnings. How else would everyone manage to bring up something that would make you want to stay? And Seonghwa… 

How humiliating. 

“I’m disappointed in you.” Hongjoong says, and it’s so much worse than if he had been screaming and violent. “I thought you were starting to fit in.” 

You glance at Seonghwa, who still has his back turned to you. He seems to be shaking, but you find it hard to believe that, even in this scenario, he would cry for you. This has to be part of it, right? Part of making you feel guilty? 

Looking at him is a mistake, though. Hongjoong harshly grabs your chin, forcing you to look up at him. “Look at me when I'm speaking to you.”

You still have no idea what to say to him. It all seems so stupid, in retrospect. 

It's only as you look up at Hongjoong that you start to wonder where San is. If you asked, you'd surely get your ass handed to you. But the terrible feeling in your stomach only gets worse. What if he comes back to this scene? How will he react? Poor San, he was so desperate for you. How will he feel, with the plan destroyed? Does Hongjoong know the depth of his involvement? 

So, you break your silence. It couldn’t get much worse, could it? “Where is San?” You ask. 

Hongjoong lets go of your face, but only to bury a hand in your hair, yanking you into standing. Instinctively you bring your hands to his, crying out in pain. He only smirks, releasing his grasp on you. 

You collapse onto your knees, catching yourself with your hands at his feet. Your nice pants, they're dirty, now, you catch yourself thinking. Like that's the biggest issue right now. 

“Where is San?” He repeats your question, spitting the words out like they leave a vile taste in his mouth. 

Reduced to a heap at his feet, you can't bring yourself to look up at him. This night has turned up just as your last failure had. You're not all that surprised when Hongjoong's boot comes down on your hand, though not hard enough to hurt. “Look at me.” 

You do. From even further beneath him, he looks more Biblical than ever. 

“Who do you think told me where you were?” 

Ah. 

Of course. 

That makes sense. 

Your face contorts, though with what emotion, you’re not sure. 

You want to think that there might be an explanation, one that doesn’t involve San betraying you to a homicidal maniac, but you know that there isn’t. Instantly, you know. 

He never meant to help you. He never cared about you. He had laid a pretty trap for you, at Hongjoong’s request, and had sprung it just as planned.

And he couldn’t even be here to see the fruits of his labor. Pathetic. Your mind swims with everything you had told him, everything you confessed to him, the times you had been warned about him. You fought with Mingi over him, you defended him to Mingi. 

“Yes,” Hongjoong smiles down at you. “All of this has been planned since the day I made you live with him.” 

You nod up at him, realizing that he must want something else from you. 

“You must understand, (Y/n), that I control everything. You can’t trust in anything besides this fact.” Hongjoong kneels to meet your eye line, inadvertently crushing your hand under his foot as his weight shifts. 

Gritting your teeth, you suck in any sound of pain that threatens to escape. The last thing you plan on doing tonight is letting Hongjoong realize the depths of your pain. 

He tilts his head in question. “Do you have anything you want to say to me?” 

Even in your haze of emotions, you can hardly resist spitting a few choice curses at him. “Fuck you.” 

He grimaces, though he’s clearly not actually affected. “Not what I was thinking, Princess, but I’ll give you a pass.”

His hands are suddenly gripping into your shirt at the shoulders, yanking you onto your feet. He hardly allows you to catch yourself before he begins dragging you across the clearing, away from your car, into the trees, away from your last shred of dignity. 

There isn’t a single thing on your mind as he pulls you through the trees and eventually back around to the front of the compound. He’s groveling under his breath, probably cursing you out in any and every way that he knows how. And you deserve it. You deserve every stumble of your feet, every tear burning your cheeks, every horrible thing that Hongjoong can fling at you. 

You failed. Not only yourself, but everyone stuck here in this cult. You’ve utterly failed. No one is going to be rescued, no one is going to be saved. You cling onto Hongjoong’s blazer as he guides you to the barns, having no idea what could be waiting for you there.

Maybe this is it, huh? Maybe he has finally realized that you’re more trouble than you’re worth. For a second there, it had looked like he was going to keep you alive, but maybe not. That was probably just wishful thinking. He’s probably delivering you to Jongho, too disgusted to even deal with you himself. 

Hongjoong releases you to throw open the barn doors. You have to catch yourself on the siding to remain standing, but Hongjoong quickly returns his grip on you, hauling you further inside the barn. 

It’s the animal barn. He walks you into the center aisle, dropping you unceremoniously. You fall into a heap at his feet. Again.

You can hardly hear Hongjoong over the general animal sounds, but especially over the oinking of the pigs. “I’m going to leave you here,” he starts, glaring down at you. “When I come back, you’re going to still be in this building.”

Sniffling, you nod in agreement. 

He scoffs. “You’re lucky, (Y/n), very lucky. If you had made it even an inch down that road, what do you think would’ve happened to you? To Mingi? Haseul?”

There isn’t anything for you to say. The pigs fill the silence. 

“Selfish. Utterly, disgustingly, selfish.” Hongjoong spits. “Stay here— before you try and lure anyone else to their certain deaths.” 

With that, he turns on his heel and exits the barn, shutting the door behind him. The overhead lights remained on, but you barely even found yourself capable of caring. The dark wouldn’t make any difference. You failed.

And Hongjoong was right. You are selfish. Even though you knew the truth about San’s intentions now, you hadn’t known before. You had thought he was risking his life to help you, and you had been fine with it. What was wrong with you? Why is this just occurring to you now? Had you really been so desperate as to involve another person? What’s the matter with you? Have you no shame? No consideration? Were you such a narcissist that you would put your freedom above someone’s life?

Your heart beats rapidly in your chest as you wipe your cheeks with your hands. The sensation is calming, allowing you to take a few deep breaths as you collect your bearings. As hard as it is, you should try to keep your head on straight… there’s still no telling how the night will end, and something tells you that it’s far from over. 

One thing you know for certain, though, is that you cannot do this again. You can’t. No matter what. Something else will have to give. There is no more escape. There is no more saving yourself. How the fuck could you, after this? 

Standing, you brush your hands off on your pants. Hongjoong hadn’t said anything about not moving from the spot. Might as well look at the animals. Animals can be calming, right? Therapeutic? Maybe?

Wishful thinking. 

Your tears keep flowing, but you find your breathing to be coming back to your control. You stumble with your first step, but quickly regain your balance, tottering over to the nearest animal pen— which happens to be the pigs.

This is where you had confronted Jongho about Haneul. How long ago was that, now? That horrible confrontation lingers as you grip the metal fencing keeping the pigs in place. The bar is cooling, demanding your attention. You realize now that the air itself, though warmed by the animals' presence, is getting rather chilly, as well. 

Tugging your sleeves lower over your hands, you peer down at the animals. Some of them are sleeping, but most of them aren’t. Each sow is separated from the next, in neat, orderly rows. Last time you had seen them, there weren’t individual pens. Jongho had been feeding them in one huge, disorderly mess. It had been rather disgusting. 

You had also fought with Mingi, that day. About so many things that just seem stupid, now. What was there to even be mad about? Mingi is just Mingi. You can’t fault him for being a victim.

And the fact that he was just looking out for you, and, in fact, turned out to be absolutely correct. 

As you turn to walk to a different pen, the feeling of the polaroid at your waist recaptures your attention. Stopping in place, you fish it out of your waistline, cupping it in your hands. 

Thankfully, it doesn’t seem to be damaged. You stare down at it once more. It couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes since you had put it in your pants, and, yet, here you are. Completely changed. 

Mingi’s face frowns up at you, but your eyes catch on something outside of the photo. Your own expression melts into a frown as you lower your hands, shoving the picture back into your pants. 

Wiping your tears again, you kneel down to the ground next to the pen. 

What had caught your attention was a scrap of white, so starkly bright against the packed dirt floor of the barn. 

You reach out to grab it, suddenly overcome with an even worse feeling of dread. Your scalp goes cold, a shiver spreading across your body as you touch the… fabric. 

Fabric. 

Blinking your tears away as fast as you can manage, you pull, feeling your stomach drop as the piece grows into a cuff. Buttons and all. A white cuff. 

There’s nothing that you can do to stop yourself from thinking the thoughts that come— attacking you at nearly instantaneous moments. 

It’s Haseul’s. This is from Haseul’s shirt. What did Hongjoong say would happen? About the pigs? The pigs? Haseul? This is Haseul’s shirt? It can’t be. She’s in her room. She’s been in her room this whole time. This could belong to anyone. This could’ve been cut off of anyone’s shirt. It doesn’t have to be hers. It could be anyone’s. Why would it be hers? It isn’t possible. San said she was fine. He failed, but she was fine. Hongjoong said she was fine. Mingi said— what did he say? Did he say something? Anything? It doesn’t matter. San said—

“You shouldn’t be in here,” a familiar voice calls from behind you. 

You fall onto your butt, forgoing your pants. They were ruined, anyway. Clutching the cuff in your hand, you don’t even reply to Jongho’s warning. Your breathing is out of control, again. Each breath you take is tighter, harder, less satisfying, more panic inducing. The fabric in your hand burns with the tightness of your grip. 

Jongho grabs your shoulder. “Can you even hear me?” 

A fully-fledged sob leaves you as you look up at him. 

His eyebrows furrow in some emotion— probably disgust— as he frowns at you. “Get out of here.”

Shaking your head, you try to say even a single word about Hongjoong telling you to stay here, but you can’t get anything out. If anything, you cry harder, shaking your head back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, shutting your eyes as tightly as you can. 

This cannot be real. This can’t be happening. It can’t be Haseul’s shirt. Even if it is, it doesn’t mean that she’s—

No, you won’t even think it. You just keep shaking your head. It can’t be. It cannot be. 

Jongho’s hand leaves your shoulder.

“This is your punishment, (Y/n).” Hongjoong’s voice booms from behind you. It’s so shocking that you open your eyes, spinning around in the dirt to face him. He’s not alone. Seonghwa and San are with him, both of them looking incredibly uncomfortable. 

Seeing San doesn’t relieve you at all. Seonghwa’s face is puffy, his clothing disheveled and dirty. Neither of them look at you, instead looking at the ground in front of them. Jongho remains at your side, seemingly caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

You don’t know what Hongjoong means, though. Or, rather, your mind completely refuses to see what is in front of it until it is irrefutable. There is still hope, now. There is hope. The cuff doesn’t mean anything until Hongjoong says that it does. There is nothing in you that can accept this until… 

“Haseul is dead.” Hongjoong says. “And San killed her.” 

The wind is completely knocked out of your lungs as you fall onto your hands, heaving. 

Though you can’t see San, you can hear him. His protests are immediate, “What? Hongjoong, why would you say that? I didn’t do that. I didn’t even touch her. I swear, (Y/n), why would I lie—”

“Not to mention that he orchestrated your entire escape attempt at my request,” Hongjoong’s voice cuts through San’s pleas to be heard. 

The reminder calls you back into your body. Hongjoong had to say it in front of San, you realize, he had to make sure San knew that you knew of his betrayal. You look up at the three men in front of you as you gasp for air. The cuff lays in the dirt before you, momentarily forgotten. 

San is gaping at Hongjoong, his hands outstretched as if he was in the middle of trying to reach for you. “Are you fucking crazy?” San barely squeezes out in his apparent anger. 

“I am, in fact.” Hongjoong replies, though he doesn’t bother to address San. He smiles down at you instead, watching your facial expression change from one of despair to one of hatred. 

Your eye twitches as you stare at San, who starts to plead for you to hear him out once more. 

“I swear, (Y/n), it wasn’t like that! You heard him! He’s crazy! He only has something to gain if you don’t trust me, right? Why would I ever do that? I love you, you kno—” 

San had been crouching down to your level as he made this speech, which was probably a horrible idea. Using your hands as your leverage, you launch yourself at him, toppling him over into the dirt. 

Pinning him to the ground with your weight, you stare down at his (very surprised) face. 

It takes you all of five seconds to realize what you couldn’t in the past month. 

Hongjoong is right. Again. 

Your tears drip down onto his own face. San tries to speak, but evidently can’t think of anything to say to you. 

Hongjoong laughs at your side. 

You pull your hand back, bringing it back down and slapping San as hard as you can muster across his face. The smack rings through the barn, your hand stinging all the way up your forearm. 

San tries to clutch his cheek, but your knees keep his arms at his sides, and he instead looks up at you, stunned. 

“Say something.” You demand, finding your voice. 

He opens and closes his mouth, grasping for anything to say. “He’s lying to you— I swear it, I had nothing to do with Haseul, and I would never set you up, I would never, you can’t trust him, can’t trust anything that he says, (Y/n), really—” 

You hit him again. This time, he exclaims in pain as you feel your hand go numb. Seonghwa flinches in your peripheral vision and Hongjoong laughs once more.

“Fuck you.” You blink, more tears falling. “Fuck you.” You lean back, freeing his arms, which immediately come up to rest on your waist. “Hit me.” 

San’s face contorts, confused, “why would I hit you?” 

Absurdly, you smile. You smile wide. “Hit me. Do it.” You hit him in the chest, though lighter than you had his face. “What? Are you a coward? You can kill my best friend, but you can’t hit me?” Your voice raises, reaching a shrilling quality. “Come on! Hit me! Do anything!” 

San’s hands remain holding your waist, not moving. 

“Hit me so that I don’t fucking kill you! Hit me to show you at least think your miserable life is worth living! Hit me! Hit me! Hit me! Hi—”

“That’s really enough, (Y/n),” Seonghwa’s voice cuts in as he grabs your arm, keeping you from landing another blow to San’s chest. “You’re being childish.” 

You scoff, but it devolves into a laugh. “Childish? I’m being CHILDISH?” You wrench your hand out of Seonghwa’s grip. “Tell me, Seonghwa, please, how is someone supposed to react in this situation? What is the normal reaction? Enlighten me, please!” 

When Seonghwa doesn’t respond, you stand, turning your full attention to him. San’s hands easily slide off of you, though you remain hovering over him. He finally starts cradling his red cheeks. 

Seonghwa looms over you, his back to Hongjoong as he stares over his shoulder at you. You feel guilty for lashing out at Seonghwa, somehow, but it doesn’t stop you from fanning the flames. There’s nothing that could stop you, not in this moment, from bringing anyone else to your level. 

You make eye contact with Hongjoong, who has his arms crossed nonchalantly, an enormous smile on his face. You imagine that this night is just going peachy for him. Just how he wanted it to. Maybe, just maybe, you can ruin his fun. 

At Seonghwa’s expense. You hardly feel bad about it, though, as your eyes snap back to Seonghwa’s. 

“Without turning around, take a guess. Is Hongjoong watching you, his perfect little whore, or me, the spoiled brat who doesn’t behave?” 

Seonghwa sneers, a small laugh escaping him. Of course, he plays right into your hands. He exhales one shaky breath before grabbing your shoulders, using the grip to shove you as hard as he can, sending you falling back to the floor. You practically land on top of San, your legs resting over his waist, but you can only laugh. 

Seonghwa falls onto his knees in front of you, crawling until he can reach your legs. He grabs you by your calves, pulling you off of San until you’re practically underneath himself. You’re sure that he’s planning on strangling you, there’s a sweet little look in his eyes that tells you everything you need to know.

And you’re excited, you want him to kill you, you realize. Your laughing becomes intermixed with your sobbing as Seonghwa puts his weight on your stomach, the fury in his eyes blazing harder with each sound you make. 

Before you can truly get your way, though, San is grabbing Seonghwa by the back of his shirt, using all of his strength to pull him off of you. You hear the fabric rip as Seonghwa sprawls onto his back in front of you, and San takes the same position that Seonghwa had just had on you. 

You can’t find it in yourself to sit up, so you opt to just turn your head until you can see San. Vaguely, you can hear the sound of him hitting Seonghwa as you had just pleaded with him to do to you, and this only makes you cry harder. 

You turn your head in the opposite direction, and you’re greeted with the image of Hongjoong, still sitting contentedly. He glances down at you, but he doesn’t betray anything.

“Can’t you just kill me?” You whisper to him, hoping the others can’t hear it, “won’t you please just kill me?” 

Hongjoong frowns, then, slowly rising to his feet to come to your side. He holds his hand out, waiting for you to take it. 

You don’t at first, opting to continue looking pathetically up at him. From this angle, with the blurriness of your tears and the extreme perspective, Hongjoong really does look… ethereal. Angelic. Godly. Whatever the word is. You take his hand, allowing him to heave you into a sitting position just in time to see San land the punch that you’re sure breaks Seonghwa’s nose. 

It’s only in this moment that you realize San is screaming at Seonghwa, mostly incomprehensible phrases of anger. Seonghwa is trying to fight back, his hands clenching onto San’s shirt, slapping at his shoulders and face, thrashing underneath him, but San is too pissed to let any of it stop him. 

Hongjoong squats at your side, resting one of his knees on the floor. He doesn’t drop your hand, instead using it to pull you closer to him. He puts his face next to yours, making sure you’re watching the scene unfolding in front of you. 

“Doesn't this make you feel good? Seeing what San would do for you? Even after it’s all over?” He whispers so close that his breath tickles your ear. “It could always be like this. Everyone could love you like this.” 

Love? This is love? Your ploy to upset Hongjoong by including Seonghwa failed. If there isn’t love lost between the two of them, then what on earth about this is love?

Still, your heart skips a beat. 

You had completely forgotten (or, maybe, ignored) Jongho’s presence until Hongjoong turns to give him some sort of look that must tell him to stop whatever is going on. In the next moment, Jongho is resting a hand on San’s shoulder, barely having to pull at him to get him to cease his movements. 

Seonghwa turns his face toward you and Hongjoong, blood pouring from his nose and split lips. 

A sob escapes him, this time, before he turns to face the other direction. 

You really hadn’t meant for Seonghwa to get hurt from this. You just wanted to goad someone into giving you what you wanted, and he was easiest. You avert your eyes from him, wanting to give him the privacy he clearly desires. 

Hongjoong doesn’t care. He drops your hand, standing to go to Seonghwa. 

You look at San and Jongho. San is also sobbing, his knuckles torn to shreds in his lap. 

You don’t feel bad for him. You don’t feel anything for him. You’re sure the upset will come in the next few days. The bomb will drop, the emotions will explode, but now, in this moment, you couldn’t care less if he lived or died. 

Frankly, you couldn’t even care less about your own life. Haseul is dead. She’s dead. And she’s never coming back. You’ll never see her smile again, never text her that you’re bored at work, never hear her complain about her parents arguing again. Her parents. Her own parents. They’ll never see her again, and it’s your fault. Entirely. 

You look back at Seonghwa and Hongjoong just in time to see Seonghwa slap Hongjoong’s hand away from him, groaning as he turns his body to fully face away from his God. 

That can’t be a good sign. 

Hongjoong sighs, crossing his arms over his chest before turning on his heel to come back to you. 

Great. Just what you wanted. 

“Is she really dead?” You can’t help the question, squeezing your eyes shut as they fill with more tears. 

Hongjoong sits beside you, taking both of your hands in his this time. “She is.” 

“For how long?” You don’t open your eyes.

He takes a few seconds to answer, as if contemplating whether you should hear the truth or not. “She died the day she arrived.” 

You’re not sure if this is the best or the worst news that he could’ve given you. You’d believed lies for weeks, but at least she hadn’t been suffering the entire time, like you pictured. 

“Was it really San?” You still had a hard time believing it. Could San kill? Had you really shared a bed with him for over a month, not knowing that he had killed Haseul himself, believing that he hadn’t?

“No,” He admits, letting go of one of your hands, using his newly freed hand to rest on your cheek. You open your eyes, feeling your lips quivering with… every emotion on this goddamn planet. Anger. Fear. Sadness. Whatever. “Jongho killed her, and humanely at that. But San helped with the mess. I didn’t want it to be like this, (Y/n), I warned you.” 

And what could you say. He warned you. Very plainly. And you had disobeyed him. And look at what it cost. 

Hongjoong moves his hand away from your face, using it to wrap around you and pull you back into a hug. 

There's nothing to do anymore. Nothing to say. You cry into his shoulder, finally wrapping your own arms around him in acceptance. 

He rocks you, there, on the ground. “It might be hard to understand now, (Y/n), but everything I do, I do for you.” 

You nod. “Please don't make me see him again.” 

Hongjoong knows who. He strokes your head, smoothing your hair, “Of course, love. Of course.” 

Though you know that this is all because of Hongjoong, you still find his words comforting, his embrace grounding. You squeeze him tighter to you, appreciating the feeling of having at least one person on your side. He’s right, he’s so right, you can’t trust anyone else, not when this is how it turns out. 

← previous || next → || masterlist

[themultifanshipper]

There aren't a lot of things that are hotter than a man winning a Formula 1 World Driver’s Championship.

Warnings: smut, PinV sex, teasing, car sex?, technically public sex?, manhandling a bit? fluff at the end

That's precisely what your boyfriend had just done, for the second year in a row, and you were horny about it. Cockiness was dripping from his frame, along with the several bottles worth of champagne he'd been sprayed with as he strutted around the paddock like a peacock.

His wet hair made him look like a drowned dog and there was nothing sexier to you than his dark eyes watching you from his perch on the top step of the podium.

The frustrating thing is, although he clearly wanted you, he wouldn't touch you at all.

The first thing he did when he got to his driver’s room was ring his dad.

There's also nothing sexier than a man that has a good relationship with his parents.

Given Fernando's insatiable sexual appetite, you assumed he would fuck you in his room after the race, but that didn't happen.

As soon as the phone call to his dad ended he went straight back out to spray everyone with champagne and be unhinged with his friends about his victory.

That's okay though, he was in the mood to celebrate, and you could certainly wait until you got home to get railed.

It was frustrating, but you managed to keep yourself in check.

But you never went home.

Fernando went out to celebrate straight from the paddock… in his race suit.

Fair enough, he had just won a championship, he deserved to party into the night.

You saw a side to him that night that you'd never seen before.

He got trashed, and I mean trashed.

You learned that night, thathe could apparently play the piano??? Since when you didn't know but there he was, still in his suit at 4 o’clock in the morning at an after-after party, god knows where, playing a goddamn piano and he wasn't even missing a single note.

By the time the two of you got on the jet home you were both drunk enough and tired enough that you passed out immediately.

The entire day was spent traveling, napping and snacking to try and regain some strength for the evening dinner plans that neither of you really remembered making.

As the time of the reservation got closer and you two felt more human again, your horniness came back full force at the sight of your WDC winner boyfriend glowing with pride and joy every time he looked at his trophy (that he'd sneakily taken with him) sitting on top of the cabinet in the corner.

But he refused to let you touch him before dinner, threatening to tie you up and leave you there if you didn't behave.

The idea was almost appealing, but you decided to be good anyway, putting on a very short dress in an attempt to rile him up a bit as revenge for making you wait so long.

He just rolled his eyes at you before following you out of the door to the car.

To be honest, you were dressed like a slut, but it was nothing compared to him.

He had decided to go to dinner in the least appropriate attire he could possibly have picked. A pair of jeans with a Renault shirt. An open Renault shirt. With nothing underneath. And a fucking shark tooth necklace.

What a prick.

It made you wet.

You swore he was doing it on purpose. Regardless, this new Fernando was making your skin prickle with arousal and you couldn't wait for him to win more championships to see how much more of a prick he would become.

You somehow got to dinner without incident, and sat down around the large table set for 12 people.

No one was there yet however, and you two laughed at how everyone was probably too hungover to be on time.

As you talked, and your eyes strayed over your boyfriend’s figure, the need between your legs grew stronger and you decided to have some fun while you were still alone.

It started with a hand innocently stroking his knee, nothing out of the ordinary.

Every time you laughed your hand went higher and higher on his thigh, and the sucker didn't even notice until your pinky rubbed at the crease of his jeans.

His leg jerked at the feeling and he gasped, so you slid your hand another couple of inches and your fingers brushed over the front of his pants.

“Stop it. We are in public!” he whisper-yelled.

You just smirked at him.

“Come on, Papi… that's never stopped you before” you purred as your thumb rubbed up and down his rapidly hardening cock through his jeans.

“Fuck, you don't know what you do to me, Nena…” he glanced around before pulling your chair closer to his and trailing a hand up the inside of your thigh.

But where he would have normally felt the wet fabric of your underwear, his fingers were met with bare skin, and he sucked in a breath before looking down.

You spread your legs for him and he groaned as his pointer finger ran through your folds, collecting some of the wetness there before lifting it to his mouth and sucking on it, dark eyes penetrating your soul as he stared at you.

“So sweet, I wonder what has got you this worked up hmm?”

You whimpered softly and were about beg for him to touch you more when he suddenly straightened up and snapped your legs shut.

Time was up, people had arrived.

Dinner was hell, but you managed to keep yourself entertained by discreetly sliding your hand under the table cloth and rubbing Fernando's softening cock to full hardness before stopping and letting him writhe in his seat while he tried to make it go down again.

Over, and over again. And every time, he flashed you increasingly menacing smiles and you knew you were in for it when you got home.

When you left the restaurant he bid goodbye to everyone and walked towards his car, where you were waiting for him with increasing excitement.

His heated gaze roamed over your curves as he approached, and he growled “get in” before climbing in himself and turning the car on.

Fernando was silent as he drove, readjusting himself periodically in his jeans.

It took you a while to realise he hadn't taken the usual route home, and was now driving through a country road you vaguely recognised from one of your first dates with him.

It lead to a hill from which there was a perfect view over the city. And the sun had just set, painting the sky a dark purple colour as the city lights started turning on.

It was breathtaking, and you were so engrossed in the sight you hadn't realised the car wasn't moving anymore, and Fernando opened your door and lifted you out of your seat.

He set you down on the hood of the car and spread your legs, sliding the pads of his fingers through your folds, and you were just as wet as you were back at the restaurant.

You gasped and grabbed his face to kiss him. He went willingly, licking into your mouth at the same time as he pushed a finger into you.

You groaned and deepened the kiss, trying to grind down on his finger but his other hand held your hips still as he added another.

Every time he hooked them upwards it sent a jolt of pleasure through your body and you shuddered, and his thumb came up to circle your clit lightly.

You moaned into his mouth as your high slowly approached, you'd been so pent up the past couple of days you knew you weren’t going to last long.

Your head tilted backwards as the pleasure crawled up your back, but just as you were about to reach bliss, he retracted his hand and you whined in distress at the sudden loss.

He chuckled, sucked his fingers clean and pulled you up to stand before turning you around and pressing you down against the hood, kicking your feet apart to make your spread your legs.

“Papi…” you whined “I need to come, please, it's been so long.. “

“But you've been a bad girl” He replied, pushing your head onto the metal surface, hips grinding against your ass. “And bad girls don’t get what they want, hermosa. You know that.”

You huffed and tried to protest but he shut you up by shoving two fingers in your mouth and leaning over you to whisper in your ear.

“You have been teasing me all night, now I'm going to take what I want, and you will take whatever I give you, understood?”

You groaned around his fingers as you heard the sound of his belt and zipper being undone.

The slide of his cock against your sopping folds made you shiver and he pushed in slowly, stretching you out deliciously around his thick length as he went in all the way to the hilt.

You let out a breath when his tip kissed your cervix, and you knew then and there you were going to be sore tomorrow.

He held your head down, forcing you to look at the view of the city lights as he started moving his hips at a bruising pace.

Your legs were shaking in no time and your moans got louder, spurring him on in his endeavour to rearrange your insides.

He leaned over you, pressing his chest against your back and he pounded into you for all he was worth as he felt your throbbing cunt clench around him, seconds away from reaching euphoria.

“Go on, hermosa. Come on my cock like a good girl”

When you did, the colours bursting behind your eyelids were better than any view could ever be, and you shook in his hold as you let out a long stuttered moan.

“I'm going to fill you up, make you all mine”

You felt the warmth of him filling you up and you moaned weakly as he wrapped his arms around your body and just held you there lovingly.

After a while the cold night air made you shiver so he pulled out and went to the boot of the car to fetch a hoodie he had stashed there because he knew you'd get cold in your skimpy outfit.

He just knew you too well.

He also quickly grabbed something from the driver’s side door before slipping it in his pocket and handing you the hoodie.

“Aww thank you baby, I love you so much” you huddled closer to him and pressed your lips to his, basking in your post-sex glow.

“I love you too” he squeezed you briefly in his arms and slid away from where he’d been leaning on the hood “in fact, I love you so much that I have a very important question for you”

He held your hand as he got down on one knee in front of you “Baby…”

You gasped, surely he wasn’t going to do this now?

But there he was, pulling the ring out of his pocket as he looked up at you with red cheeks and dopey grin.

"Love of my life, will you spend the rest of tour life with me, as my wife?”

You did your best to sound angry, but failed miserably when a smile couldn't help but overcome your face, as you shrieked at him from above.

“Fernando Alonso! How dare you propose to me when I have your cum running down my leg!”

His eyes briefly flitted to where your inner thighs were indeed slick with him and he had the audacity to look ashamed before he quickly grinned and pushed you back against the car.

He gripped your thighs and spread them roughly, licking his lips hungrily at the sight of you folds gleaming in the faint light of the city skyline.

“Let me clean you up before you give me your answer then"

[gin-juice-tonic]

So, while it's certainly not my intention to talk about pages of the bill book basically every day, it seems every time I write one post I end up thinking about something else. Here's the next something else.

This time it's these two pages. There are several things that are odd to me here. Not necessarily on their own, but when compared with the journal.

First and foremost, I want to use something that struck me here for a quick bit of doyalist analysis. (I know, I know.) Several people have said to me they didn't believe Alex had gone back and read through journal 3 again, and this could be a reason why things are so different and contradictory. But the thing is, these pages hold lines that are strikingly similar.

That top image is small, so I'm going to zoom in on what I mean. These are lines from that first book of bill page:

Here is a line from the "hiding places" page of journal 3:

and here is another line, from the page after this one:

You could argue that the thing about the caves is a plot point, and something Alex might've remembered. But part of Ford's motivation to get going to the caves so soon being the snowfall? Well, I certainly didn't remember that anyway. It's pretty a minute detail. Could its inclusion mean nothing? Maybe. But maybe not.

And if you read past my carefully placed initial highlighting, you'll also notice that lines inclusion is slightly different in the two versions.

Like I said, in journal 3, the pushing factor in getting Ford to make his trip with haste is worrying about the soon to be inclement weather.

But in the Book of Bill he mentions "little time". Why? Because of what's been written down on the previous page:

Im not going to paste the whole thing in here, because it's very heavy. But Ford has been given an express time limit by Bill.

Why then, is the snow even worth bringing up in the first place? I'm having a hard time getting the words together. But I just find it all very odd.

But the similarities between these pages and the ending of the first act of journal 3 aren't all I want to talk about. There's more differences than just the specifics of the snow line.

So, Differences:

This first one is small, but notable to me at least. On the matter of Fiddleford, here's what the Book of Bill had to say:

And here's what Journal 3 had to say:

Fiddleford being "gone" is a lot different from Fiddleford "refusing to speak" to Stanford. The former implying Ford couldn't reach out even if he wanted, the later implying he's made attempts that have failed.

And it's important to remember that the narrative is the Book of Bill pages were ripped out. Ford has written Fiddleford is missing, rips out the page, and decides upon next re-write that Fiddleford just isn't talking to him?

.

The next thing is a really big difference, and requires the addition of two more original Journal 3 pages. It also requires a new question to be asked: "Where do the two Bill pages I've shown fit within the journal?"

Here are the new pages that will be submitted into evidence added into this post:

Though I want to mainly focus on this second one,

The page where Ford's plan all starts to come together. It's worth noting this page comes before the "Hiding places" page I've shown before.

The order of events as laid out by Journal 3 are:

Ford goes to and escapes the truck stop and notices the twin motel sign, realizing he can contact Stan -> Ford lays out where he's going to hide the journals and that he's going to make the trek up to Bill's cave -> Ford fully discloses his plan to hand journal 1 off to Stan.

The Bill Book pages I've been discussing are directly after the page of Bill tormenting Ford within his mind. (Again, not going to post that page due to the subject matter). But we see that the top of the first page says "I awoke from the hallucination" so chronologically it's safe to assume there were also no non-missing pages in between them.

which means the order of events as laid out by the Book of Bill are:

Bill torments Ford within his mind -> Ford futilely searches for clues to Fiddlefords whereabouts -> Ford announces he must make his trip to the caves -> Ford realizes he must contact Stan.

The Bill book is stating "Ford came up with his plan first, and realized he needed to add Stan second."

The journal is stating "Ford was able to come up with his plan upon realizing Stan can help him."

These are very different ideas. And while it's framed in a bit of a cheesy way, I think that Journal 3's idea is very important. Despite everything stacked up against him at this point, Ford was able to keep going and come up with his plan upon realizing that he's not all alone. And specifically, working together with Stan has been the key to defeating Bill since the beginning.

If we are to take the Book of Bill's idea as truth, what of the trip to the truck stop diner and the twin motel sign? When is this supposed to have happened? Is it trying to claim it didn't at all? It's a bit silly, but I don't find it to be fake personally. Nor do I think Ford would have any reason to waste time and pages concocting a fake narrative at this point in his story. In both narratives, Bill is tormenting him every time he loses consciousness, he is exhausted from both the abuse and his general lack of sleep. He does not have time to spare.

But that's not the end.

This book of Bill page:

And this Journal page:

Are sort of paired off again, aren't they?

Supposedly, the "Should I contact S?" Bill page takes place before this journal page with the perpetual motion machine, as this page says Ford has already "Sent word to him".

Ford includes his own mini pros and cons list here, with notably more pros

There are also less cons. The idea Bill might get to Stan, or the idea Stan might destroy the portal no longer seem to be concerns.

Do the pages contradict? Well, not really aside from the order of events I've laid out. But that's sorta the thing, right?

Ultimately the two pages I've been discussing stand out to me because they're re-writes of things already in J3. Very similar except for the big hole of cutting out Ford's motel story.

Ford's supposedly on a mad 72 hour time-limit dash to make all his final arrangements to best Bill. He is at the end of his rope from the nonstop torment he's been subjected to. Does he really have both the time and the energy to be re-writing journal pages just because he didn't like them, let alone adding in entire new false narratives? And even if he does, why would he change it so that remembering Stan becomes the catalyst for his plan to outwit Bill?

[zoeykallus]

Hello Zoey

First , I wanted to tell you again that I love the stories you gave us , thank you , really , you're one of the few who can make me forget time when I'm reading 👌❤️

It's my first request so I'm sorry if it's a bit clumsy 😅

I had an idea , imagine that after a mission the reader is so tired that they took the first bunk they saw but it's not their's , how would the batchers react ? x)

Aloha!

Very happy to read this! 😊 Thank you so much!

There is a first time for everything. Don't worry, there is nothing clumsy about it. I think I got it. So pre Relationship, but with already growing yet unspoken feelings? At least that would be my guess. Let me see, this could be fun 😁🤭

The Bad Batch x Reader HCs - Sleepy Mix-Ups

__________

Warnings: None I guess/SFW/Fluff

__________

Ko-Fi (If you feel like giving me some coffee)

__________

Hunter

He almost threw his equipment at you. At the last moment, he sees you lying in his bunk and just manages to stop himself. Hunter is puzzled, raises his eyebrows questioningly and looks at you for a moment. A small smile twitches at the corners of his mouth. You look kind of cute lying there in his bunk. He sighs softly and looks around, his gaze falling on your actual bunk. He walks towards it, takes off his equipment, and even before he lies down in it, he smells it. The bedding and the pillow smell of your shampoo, your perfume, of you. A strange, warm shiver runs through his entire body. Hunter looks back over his shoulder to his own bunk, where you are slumbering blissfully. He knows the scent of you will keep him awake for a while, make him woozy. He feels a tingling restlessness under his skin, a silent longing for more of what reaches his nose, more of you. Hunter lies down anyway, the other bunks are occupied, and he doesn't want to wake you. He lies awake half the night and dreams of you await him in his sleep, some gentle, some wild. When he wakes up, his heart is beating fast, his pulse racing as if he has just experienced a pleasantly exciting adventure.

He grins a little stupidly to himself and flinches when he hears your voice. "Sorry, I must have gotten the wrong bunk last night because I was so tired." Hunter clears his throat, straightens up and says with a wink, "It's no problem" He looks nervous and a little shaky, you have no idea why, but as he leaves the room to use the refresher, you don't give it a second thought.

Echo

He stands in front of his bunk and looks down at you. He scratches his chin uncertainly with the scomp link. Echo doesn't really know what to do, he doesn't really want to wake you up, you look so peaceful and relaxed. The day has been hard and exhausting for all of you. He holds his hand over his mouth as he yawns. Tired, he rubs his eyes a moment later. His gaze wanders to your bunk and back again. Echo doesn't quite know whether he should just lie down. You've probably made a mistake out of tiredness, if he were to just lie down in your bed now, he would feel like an intruder. Even if the thought of lying on your pillow, which certainly smells like you, is incredibly tempting. Echo sighs softly, sits down on the floor next to his bunk where you are lying and leans against it. It's anything but cozy, but he's tired enough to fall asleep after a short time sitting up, his head resting halfway on the edge of the bunk. He wakes up when something brushes against his head. The blanket you covered yourself with. You move, it's early morning, you're still half asleep when you see Echo looking at you over the edge of the bunk.

You blink several times, a little startled. "Echo? What are you doing down there?" He straightens up a little awkwardly, his back aching a little from the position he's been sleeping in. He smirks wryly and says, "Well, you occupied my bed, so I had to improvise" You rub the sleep from your eyes and look around the bunk. Echo is right, this is not your bedding, not your bunk. Heat rises in your cheeks, and you stare at him. Others might be angry, but Echo just smiles at you. "Why didn't you just use my bunk?" you ask, confused. Echo shrugs, scratches the back of his head uncertainly and says, "Well, I don't know, I didn't want to just do it without being asked" You laugh softly. "But Echo, I climbed into your bed without being asked" Wrecker in the background, still half asleep himself, grins at you from his bunk, "Echo just wished you'd done it while he was in there"

Echo's eyes widen and his heart races. He feels he has been caught, but grumbles at his brother, "Would you please keep your comments to yourself?" When he looks at you again, you both smile shyly, barely able to meet each other's gaze.

Wrecker

He looks into his bunk, puzzled. Wrecker wasn't expecting this. A little unsettled, he scratches the back of his head and looks around. Everyone else is already asleep, or about to fall asleep. His huge figure stands bent over you next to the bunk you're lying in, his bunk. Normally you would probably have woken up just from the feeling of being watched, by his presence, but you're so wiped out today, probably not even a bomb would wake you up. Wrecker's bunk is bigger than the standardized bunks, because he himself is also bigger than the norm among soldiers, so you should have noticed that alone, but you didn't. He looks over to your bunk, the only one that is still empty and much smaller than he is used to. You mumble something in your sleep. A smile spreads across his face. He was actually toying with the idea of waking you up, but you look so cute, he can't bring himself to do it. Wrecker heads for your bunk, gets ready for bed, and squeezes himself in. When you wake up the next morning, it takes a moment, but you realize you're in the wrong bunk. "Oops," you mumble quietly, straighten up and look around. Everyone is still asleep.

Wrecker is lying in your bunk. He can't stretch out his legs, he's curled up like a fetus, his knees sticking out over the edge of the bunk. It looks uncomfortable, but also adorable. You slip out of bed and quietly walk over to him. You gently nudge him a few times until he opens his eyes. "Hey, big guy," you whisper to him. He blinks, finally grins at you and mumbles back, "Mornin' sweetheart" "Sorry about the bunk, I was so tired I didn't realize which bunk I was in," you say apologetically. Wrecker peels himself out of the too-small bunk and says with a shrug, "It's okay, it can happen" You are relieved that he takes it so lightly. He adds, "Your bunk is pretty tiny, but it smells damn good" You smile shyly and feel your cheeks heat up.

Tech

He almost sits down on you because he is so engrossed in his holopad. At the last moment, he realizes that his bunk is already occupied. Tech lowers the holopad and stares at you silently, as if he could wake you up with his gaze alone. His brow furrowed, he looks at his bunk and wonders how you could have mistaken it. The walls are scrawled with drawings and calculations he made at some point, it's hard to miss. Were you really that tired? He reaches out for you, but just above your arm, his hand stops, he holds it there uncertainly in the air for a while, undecided whether to wake you or not. Actually, this is his bunk, Tech thinks, you shouldn't sleep in it. But there's another thought, a feeling. Because you are sleeping in his bed, you are very close to him in a way. In the morning, his pillow will certainly smell of you. A part of him that he doesn't really understand at the moment, likes that, a lot. He stands there for a long time, the datapad in his hand, watching you. Echo whispers softly over the snoring of the others, "Why don't you go to their bunk, the staring is getting creepy" Tech blinks, startled, and turns to his brother.

He whispers back, "But this is my bunk" Echo sighs and says a little impatiently, "They were extremely tired, I'm sure it was an accident. Now just let them sleep and lie down in their bunk" Tech walks to your bunk, stares at it for a while, then finally lies down. It feels very different, strange, but somehow also pleasant. It smells good, although foreign, but at the same time familiar, because it smells like you. Lost in thought, he begins to paint the walls of the bunk with drawings and calculations. When he falls asleep, Tech still has the pen in his hand and your smell in his nose. It feels like he's falling asleep in your arms and all night long, Tech has a little smile on his lips. When he wakes up, it's still night, and you're already standing next to his bunk. "Sorry," you say quietly. Tech needs a moment to collect himself, the fog of sleep hasn't quite left him yet. "It's okay," he says just as softly, and peels himself out of bed to swap bunks back with you.

You lie down and look around in the semi-darkness. Tech has painted practically every free space. As you lie on your back, you look directly at the sketch of a podracer and a wild sequence of numbers that probably only he understands. You smile. Tech has slept in your bed and left something like his signature, somehow you are so happy about it that you want to kick your feet and squeak.

Crosshair

He is taking off his equipment, turns around and pauses in mid-motion. His brows draw together critically. There's someone lying in his bunk, you. He mutters quietly, "You're kidding me" He lets out an annoyed sigh and stares at you. The intensity of his gaze alone might even have woken you up under normal circumstances, but not today. His gaze finally moves to your bunk, which is empty at the moment, but then his eyes narrow to critical slits. Crosshair has no intention of being evicted from his bunk, accident or not. He grabs you and pushes you to the back of the bunk. Just as you open your eyes in shock and blink, trying to get your bearings, he joins you and takes part of the blanket, decently enough to keep you covered. Startled, you stare at him.

"But... what...?" He cocks a brow at you. "This is my bunk, if you want to sleep in it, fine, but I'm not swapping, so you better get used to me being close or crawl back into your own, kitten" he grumbles. Your heart is racing, you're confused and speechless, trying to untangle the situation in your mind. Just having him so close to you makes you nervous enough. But to be honest, you have no desire to go back to your own bunk. All you say is a quiet, "Okay" A smirk twitches briefly at the corner of his mouth, barely noticeable. Quietly and much more softly, in his smoky voice, he says as he closes his eyes, "Good night, Kitten"

@rintheemolion

@andyoufollowyourheart @clone-whore-99

@brynhildrmimi @kaliel2310

@misogirl828 @tech-deck

@meshla-madalene

@chxpsi

@thebahdbitch

@nahoney22 @ladykatakuri

@darkangel4121

@ttzamara

@arctrooper69

@padawancat97

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@palliateclaw

@either-madness-or-brilliance

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@hunterssecretrecipe

@heyitsaloy

@greaser-wolf

@extrahotpixels

@hated-by-me

@hunterxcrosshair

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@bebopsworld

@echos-girlfriend

@cpnt616

@dangraccoon

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@pb-jellybeans

@antishadow2021

@sleepycreativewriter

@projectdreamwalker

@1vlouds

[salemoleander]

"My teeth hurt," Martyn says.

He and Scott are on the deck, enjoying the morning sun before it has the chance to get humid; Scott is busy crafting sugarcane into paper while Martyn is (ostensibly) trying to carve a bowl.

"What, like- cavities? We've only been here for a few days, and I know you're eating the same fish and dried kelp as me." Scott pauses, holding a fresh sheaf of paper. "-and if you're not, and you've been holding sweets out on me, I'll be pissed."

Martyn huffs a laugh, then grimaces when pain shoots up through his sinuses. Ambling over to the table, he half-sits, half-leans on the back of one of their deck chairs.

"Nah, same food as you. Man, I don't know what I did. TNT to the face carry over, d'you reckon?"

He grins, and Scott blanches. Well, shit.

"Alright, what's wrong with my mouth?" Martyn asks, stress rising when Scott doesn't answer. "I've still got teeth, right?"

Scott nods sharply. He wavers on an answer for a moment before sighing. "Yeah. You've just got some new ones, seems like."

‐---------------------------------------------------------------------

The hard part of suddenly having shark teeth, Martyn quickly discovers, is that they are not particularly designed for beings with lips, and certainly not ones that talk.

He tells Scott this, nursing several sore spots on his lips and tongue.

"Have you considered talking less?"

"Oh, screw you."

Scott rolls his eyes, and they go back to sorting through chests in companionable silence. Waves gently lap against the edge of their island, while bamboo canes creak and shift. After a few minutes Scott says, "In the- last time. I remember being relieved, a bit, that even though Cleo and I chose each other-"

"Exactly the conversation I wanted to have," Martyn deadpans.

"Would you shut up? Honestly." Scott smiles, but his jaw flexes as he does and Martyn resolves to shut up and let him say this, whatever it is. At least for the next ten or fifteen seconds. Probably.

"Anyways. I was a tiny bit relieved that I was paired with Pearl, because she was human. And I'd seen how it was for BigB getting canine features and Joel getting whatever the hell from Etho, and you, y'know..."

"Rotting?"

"Eugh. Yeah." Scott looks through their fence-lattice walls and out to the water. "But Pearl didn't stay human."

Martyn raises an eyebrow. (For effect. If Scott is doing a dramatic monologue towards the ocean, Martyn at least gets to make faces, whether or not Scott sees him. Them's the rules.)

"She got kind of... wolf-y? Or more accurately, the game made her wolfy. Not like Ren, not nearly that elegant a combination."

Scott's voice is bitter, an edge to it that Martyn associates with fireworks going off too-close by. "I woke up one morning and my teeth were sharp and there were too many for my mouth. And it hurt, and the worst part was knowing this wouldn't be happening if we'd just done what the game wanted."

Blinking, Martyn says, "Oh." Brilliant. Nailed the response, there.

"I just wanted to tell you. That it might- those might be my fault, because it seems like whatever runs this game doesn't like me very much. There's a reason I set up alone out here."

Martyn- ignoring the ache from his jaw and the kernel of self-interest that tells him to get while the getting is good- scoffs. "None of that, thank you! I don't care if bloody Herobrine has it out for you, we're sticking together."

Relief washes over Scott's face. Martyn adds, "If whoever runs this circus thinks unlimited knives for teeth is a punishment, they're mad."

"Clearly! You were already enough of a menace." Released from whatever tension kept him still, Scott reaches over to flip another chest lid up and starts rifling through. "It's like trying to annoy Joel by giving him too many TNT minecarts."

Martyn snorts. "Right! Once my mouth gets the memo about where everything is now I'll be doing fine- probably better than I was before! A supernatural entity trying to tell me who I can be friends with? C'mon, nothing that stupid is busting the Mean Gills up."

He almost believes it.

[fabricated-misslieness]

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: neteyam x metkayina male reader

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: As Neteyam settles in with the Metkayina, he too falls for their golden boy and finds that they have a lot in common.

part 2 ~ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 6677

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: little angsty and existential

ᴍᴀʏʙ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: there's a part 2 coming up, pretty different from part 1, in fact i came up with part 2 before part 1. also been working on this since the tsireya fic, 3 days ago.

☾⋆☆⋆☽

His name was (y/n). Or at least, that's what Neteyam had heard, and he had heard about him a lot in his short time in Awa'atlu. He, however, hadn't gotten the chance to speak with him.

The Metkayina liked him. Even Ronal, the bitter Tsahìk that so very hated Neteyam's family, and Tonowari treated him like one of their own. Though he supposes that in Ronal's eyes, all except for the Sully's were "her own" (Neteyam was a respectful kid, raised to be, but even Ronal drew some bitter thoughts he'd never disclose).

It wasn't exactly hard to tell that he was a special person to the clan, like any part of him could be weaved into anybody's songcord.

Neteyam watched from afar as he dismounted from his ilu. As he dug his toes into the sand of the shore, several people greeted him at once. He met each one with their name and a heartfelt grin.

Neteyam once knew what it was like to be loved by everyone in his clan, once knew each of their names, once knew how long it took to greet every single one as each just had to greet him. Once, he had greeted each one just as graciously. As time flew by, it felt like another one of his duties. Now, he no longer did at all. He missed it, strangely.

Then, as you finally turn to him, your smile falls. It wasn't like most others when they saw his dark blue skin and leaner physique; your lips didn't form a scowl. Instead, you flashed him a small smile before turning away.

Somehow, it looked kinder. Neteyam didn't know how.

He didn't really need to, anyway. All he needed was to keep up the formality, greet you with a smile just like the rest, because this would be the farthest your interactions would go.

After all, as far as the Metkayina were concerned, he was a demon and you were their golden child.

☾⋆☆⋆☽

Whilst Ronal and Tonowari treated you like one of their children, your relationship with their actual children was unknown to Neteyam.

And certainly to Lo'ak.

The Sully brothers watched on as the golden child and the Tsahìk-to-be bantered.

Tsireya was to be giving them lessons on Metkayina life, but it seems she was too distracted for that. She laughed at your joke, her grin wide and mouth uncovered, and you laughed along with her. Truly, it was a sight to be hold, the gold of the Metkayina shining brightly. It was almost blinding.

As you continued down the beach, still so far from the Sully's but close enough for prying eyes, Lo'ak scoffed. Neteyam turned to his brother with confusion and began to speak, but Lo'ak beats him to it. "Do you think they're like siblings or something else?"

"Why would you care?" In truth, Neteyam knew exactly why Lo'ak cared. As the older brother he was, he just wanted to him admit it. On his end, there was a curiosity digging at his chest, but he was too polite to go digging for the truth.

Sensing his brother's underlying intentions, Lo'ak comes up with another reason. "If we're going to be living here for the rest of our lives, I think I have a reason to care."

For the rest our lives. Right. Neteyam wasn't going back. He clears his throat, a new mischief in his tone, "If you want to know so badly, ask them yourself."

"What?" Lo'ak exclaims rather loudly, catching the attention of those around him. It seems he doesn't care, though. "No way, bro!"

It catches Tsireya's attention as well and Lo'ak doesn't notice. She looks towards the two of them, her–no, Lo'ak specifically, Neteyam can tell. Her big eyes seem somewhat worried. She turns towards you, suddenly nervous, and the two of you exchange a few more words before you make your way towards them with quicker strides whilst Tsireya tags along more calmly.

Neteyam sort of knows then that Lo'ak and Tsireya will be alright.

When the two of you are close enough, Tsireya's first focus is on his brother. When he moves his gaze more towards the two of you, he finds your eyes to be on him.

You meet him with that small smile again and he feels the need to return it with his own.

"This is (y/n)." Tsireya introduces you. You give a small wave. "He has graciously offered himself today to be my assistant."

"Hold on, assistant?" You pause, putting a hand on her shoulder and veering her towards you.

"Remember, you're not supposed to be here." She replies with a kind of sass Neteyam hadn't really expected, considering the previous breathing lessons he'd gotten from her.

"But I can be," You bite back, "and I am."

She shakes her head at you and pushes your hand away from her shoulder. "Co-teacher."

"yay!"

Tsireya rolls her eyes but otherwise ignores you. "Trust me, he's a very good rider and teacher. I think you'll do well under his guidance. Follow me."

When the family makes it into the water, even the generally displeasing Ao'nung and Rotxo greet you kindly, an action that makes Lo'ak's hairy eyebrows raise with shock. Neteyam simply brushes it off as one of the things you sort of do to people.

The class starts off first with a demonstration on the positioning, done by you of course. Tsireya said that since you'd so kindly offered yourself once, you could do it again.

Afterwards, you broke off into separate one on ones.

Neteyam watched Lo'ak obviously be paired up with Tsireya, then he made sure Tuk was safely away from Ao'nung and his friends. Lastly, he wondered which one of them would teach him; although, it didn't seem like he'd have to wonder for long.

"Hello." You greet him. It's the first time you greet him verbally, let alone the first ever word you direct towards him.

He gulps, his words suddenly stuck in his throat. "Hey."

Your following interaction isn't so awkward because he doesn't have to say anything.

Neteyam follows as per your teachings. At first, it doesn't seem very different from riding his ikran, aside from the lack of death risk. Even after seeing his brother fail rather miserably, he retains some confidence.

However, all of it comes crashing down after his first try… and then his second and third. Frustration begins to build within him and you can sense it.

"Ma Neteyam," You snap your fingers and finally gain his attention, "it's alright. Nobody gets it on their first try."

He nods to himself and rolls his shoulders, preparing for another try; but you place a hand atop his where it holds the ilu. Instead of saying anything, you simply offer him a look. Your eyes are a deep blue, he notices, expressive in the way that he can tell silently that you believe in him. He looks away before he gets too lost.

He grips onto the Ilu and lowers himself over its body. He feels its breath and imitates its strength to hold onto its body tighter.

This time, he won't fail. This time, he'll impress you.

Neteyam takes a deep breath and leads the ilu into a dive.

The rush of speed feels exhilarating, it reminds him of flying on his ikran for the first time. The water surrounding him rushes past his body refreshingly like the air when he flies; but water is denser, and just like air, it tries to push him off. He grips onto the ilu tighter with both his hands and calves. Knowing that he is resisting something so strong, and well at that, feeds into his excitement. 

He feels the ilu's strength like it is his own and grips tighter, but slowly, he feels his resistance to the current slipping.

Suddenly, he thinks: he can't make a fool of himself.

So, he holds onto the grip and pulls. Despite him and Neteyam not being familiar with each other, the ilu understands and comes to a sharp stop that nearly has Neteyam falling over backwards, but he holds on.

Far away from you, Neteyam emerges with the widest grin he's worn in a long time. He raises his fist and can't help but to let out one of his cries from home. "Ìley!"

"Ìley!" His joy grows as you mimic the foreign cry in celebration with him, "Neteyam!"

☾⋆☆⋆☽

Neteyam initially thought you would leave your interactions curt and only speak with him when necessary. He did try to keep up a positive outlook, that the Metkayina would eventually come to see him and his family as part of the clan, but it seemed far off.

Whilst Tsireya stayed with them to explore the ocean, you had other duties to attend to. Eventually, you had to bid him farewell. It wasn't with an excuse, nor with a "goodbye", it was with a "see you later".

Maybe he was digging too far into simple farewells, but those words felt like a promise.

The promise, however, wouldn't be fulfilled soon; and it isn't until the day after that you finally get to talk again. Even then, the next day gave way to the eclipse, and after that, he couldn't find you.

Just as he gave up and began the walk back to his family, he encountered you accidentally.

Though he sought you out for the better half of the day, he didn't know what to do now that he had you alone. So, too awkward to say anything, he sat down on the knitted pathway above you and watched.

As expected, you notice his presence but do not turn to him yet, too preoccupied with feeding your companion.

"I'm sorry I haven't talked to you in a while, Neteyam."

"It's alright," He empathizes with the shake of his head, "you're a popular guy."

"Am I now?" You snicker.

"I haven't been here for long, but I can tell."

"I'd rather call myself busy. But truly, I'm sorry. First it was Ao'nung today wanting to explore the ocean with me, then it was Tsanten wanting to test my hunting skills again." You sigh, clearly exhausted after everything that's happened today. "You know, sometimes I think it's just an excuse to hunt with me."

Neteyam was simply content in hearing you talk, you did something that just made simple sentences so entertaining, but you turn to him and hand the conversation over. "I didn't get to talk much about it with you yesterday, so how was riding your ilu?"

"It's strangely like flying an ikran," He zones out while he collects his thoughts, "which is something I miss. I think I like it so much because it feels like I'm defying something that wants so badly the opposite. It feels like I'm fighting gravity and succeeding. You know, I found and trained my ikran. No offense, but it doesn't really feel the same when you didn't find your companion, like my ilu."

With that said, he looks to you again. You watch him with attentive eyes that made him feel so seen... It kind of makes him nervous. He looks away, embarrassed, "Sorry, I'm ranting."

"No, it's alright."

"Okay, well, um, I like the rush too. Going so fast is really fun—sorry, I'm," He shakes his head at himself, for he was being impolite. "talking too much."

"Neteyam, it's alright, really." You reassure him, wading over and placing a hand next to his. "I like listening to you."

"Oh."

It was meant to be encouragement so that he'd continue speaking without shame, but now he quiets down. Heat begins to pool in his cheeks and Neteyam wants to drench them in water, but not only would he have to get in the water with you, it would also be akin to splashing water over magma.

"Sorry, that was–Su, I'll get to you later."

"Su?" Neteyam's curiosity overpowers his awkwardness and he turns to look.

"Short for Syulang." Seeing as he was more interested in you now, you allow your ilu to get the attention she wants. She digs her mouth into your palms, vigorously searching. "Su, you already got your dinner. I don't have anything else for you."

You raise your hands in the air, showing her that they're empty. When she sees them, she almost seems to roll her eyes at you. Instead, she huffs and leaves like a toddler having a tantrum.

Out of the corner of his eye, Neteyam catches a tsurak. It looks ominous and angry, only showing its eyes above the surface. He has half the mind to point it out until you say something that catches the tsurak's attention. "Zìk, I know you're around here somewhere."

The tsurak swims over sort of begrudgingly and passively accepts your pets.

"Zìk? Like tìngäzìk?" Neteyam asks.

"Yeah, actually." You snicker, "Tìngäzìk is quite the problem. He was pretty hard to tame. Most of them are, anyway, so maybe I'm a little too on the nose. Nowadays, though," After you feed Zìk, he actually seems to be enjoying your touch; or maybe the fish is still in his mouth and he's enjoying that. "he does seem to like me. Not that I really know."

Something else interests him. "I thought only those that completed their iknimaya could tame one."

"You'd be right."

"So you have completed it? But you're so–" He cuts himself off with a cough, as he hadn't realized just how rude it'd be to say that.

"Young? Yeah, I know. Everybody loves to tell me." You brush it off with the shake of your head; it's a relief. "How about you? Have you completed it?"

"No, I've yet to complete my Uniltaron." Something in the back of his mind vaguely reminds him that the Metkayina don't have a Uniltaron. "My mom is afraid of me doing it because of how badly my father was hurt while he did it."

"Ough," You wince, "what is it?"

"Singing." Neteyam chuckles, "I don't know how my dad got hurt during that."

"The great Jake Sully, huh?" You ignore Zìk's idle gnawing at your hand and hop up to sit next to Neteyam. "Anyway, the Metkayina have a different iknimaya. When I completed the trials, I got this."

When you pull your necklace up to show him the tattoo on your chest, Neteyam gasps softly. His eyes seem glued to the sight. It's rather cute.

"It's so cool..." He subconsciously traces a finger over the ink, not realizing just how intrusive he was being. He doesn't, however, miss how soft your skin feels. The tattoo looks like a heart to him, the kind his father had taught him to be the symbol of love for the sky people. "What does it mean?"

"It means "loved by the people", it more than displays a characteristic of mine, it's also a wish for it to stay that way forever."

He purses his lips, "And "the people" are?"

"The Metkayina, of course." As if Neteyam needed another reminder that the Metkayina didn't like him. He frowns, only with enough conscience to make it small so that you may not see.

"...but I'm open to anyone's love."

If that was targeted, Neteyam chooses not to believe it.

☾⋆☆⋆☽

Neteyam never thought he'd miss home. He thought he'd always be with the Omatikaya.

Maybe this is how Kiri feels, like an outcast. He had listened to her multiple times over their life together, listened to how different she felt, and had never understood. After all, the two of them were surrounded by their people, the Omatikaya. Where their shelter in the mountains was, they were, and they were truly what home was.

But now that he lived within the Metkayina, he feels so out of place. It feels just like what Kiri described: being surrounded by her people but still feeling so different from them. The Metkayina and him were of the same species, they were all Na'vi, but at the same time, they were different. It wasn't just that either. All those people knew each other, thought themselves family, while he watched from the sidelines.

He missed home.

He's suddenly interrupted by you sitting next to him, although you don't seem intent on sitting idle for long. "Kxì, Neteyam."

"Kaltxì." He greets simply.

"Do you want to explore the ocean today?"

"Fpvìl..." He trails off, just to seem as though he was considering it. He really didn't want to do much in the ocean today, or on the shores. He felt rather dispirited. "Not really."

"Oh, well." You don't let the rejection last long. "How about the jungle, then?"

The jungle? Neteyam suddenly perks up, eyes wide and hopeful. "Can we?"

Ever since he caught a glimpse of a possible pathway within the dense tree line, he's wanted to go inside. Still, he wasn't so sure if he was really allowed to. His father would probably call it a distraction in the path of discipline, as Jake wanted to make sure his children fit in so their differences could be overlooked.

He thought you were just an excuse to go against his father's word and explore the jungle; except, you were more than that.

"Of course."

The island's jungle was nothing like that of the mainland. The trees, for one, were much more sparse; the shrubbery crowding the ground was short and the humidity was much harsher. It reminded him of home, though, and it was the closest thing he would have here.

However, the jungle was still beautiful. It was home to a variety of plants Neteyam had never seen before, and each had their own charm. There was a particular plant that resembled a giant fern, he couldn't really name it. Their stems were intertwined at the base and spread outward at the top, fading from blue to orange. Their leaves were ginormous, growing like feathers, and blue at the end. The plant's blue reminded him of the moonlight at home. Other plants, like fan-like flowers, deserved their own admiration too.

It didn't take long to reach the heart of the jungle. Even though the ocean was far, just like the people inhabiting it, the island embraced water. Wide waterfalls from the mountains and cascades all flowed into a center lake, their humidity forming rainbows anywhere he looked.

Finally, Neteyam took a seat and simply admired. You sat next to him. "I'll never get tired of this."

"You've been here before?" He asked.

"Mhm." You nodded, "Many times, actually. It's a good escape, this place, away from the people."

"I thought they loved you."

"They do, just.." You sigh, slouching slightly. "they're a bit overwhelming at times, you know?"

"Oh, yeah." He chuckles at the thought. He hadn't experienced it in what felt like a long time now; it was only a couple weeks in reality. He missed it, as annoying as it was at times.

"You do?" You ask, somewhat shocked.

"My father is Jake Sully." He said, as if it explained it all. It didn't, though, so he continued. "Everybody wanted to know what he was doing; and then, he was Olo'eyktan and I was, in turn, "prince". Everybody wanted to know what I was doing. Everybody wanted to talk to me and everybody had something to say."

"It's the same for me." You stretch your toes in the water and lean further back along the lake's shore. Neteyam hears a couple joints crack. "Ah, it's nice being on your own sometimes."

"But it doesn't feel the same once you've been alone for too long."

"How do you mean?" You ask, confusion spread throughout your face.

"You're not content." He fiddles with his fingers absentmindedly, picking at the lines on his hands. "People have filled every minute of your life, so when they're gone, you feel as though something is missing."

He wasn't really making sense to you. "But you're not alone."

"I'm not." He affirms, "But I'm not with friends or family, either. The Metkayina don't like me."

"Hey, I like you." Butterflies spread throughout his chest, prod at his nerves like they want to escape. He tries his best to ignore them.

"I know." He doesn't–well, hadn't–but he says it anyway. "So then, what about the others?" They think I have demon blood.

"You're right." You purse your lips.

Great, he was making you sad.

"You know what?" You suddenly stand with a renewed vigor. "Let's just forget about it all. Let's forget about other people and just explore, huh, 'Teyam?"

You wear the widest grin–that he thinks looks real pretty on your face–and offer him a hand which he takes immediately. With his hand in yours, you pull him to his feet with such strength he almost tips forward. Instead of making fun of him for it, you laugh and he can't help but join in.

"Come on, let me show you my favorite place."

Before you could show him many more of your other "favorite" places, the eclipse came down and you had to come home. That night, at the pods, you leave him with another promise, that you'll show him the rest.

☾⋆☆⋆☽

You step off your ilu, greeting several people. Neteyam learned the other day it was sort of a routine for you.

As you walk from waist-deep in the ocean back to the shore, you swing your wet hair from behind your shoulder. You gather it in your hands and ring it out. Like a small waterfall, salt water spills from your hair and returns to the ocean. You swing your hair back over your shoulder and run a hand through your hair to push back the stray hairs from your face.

Neteyam finds himself a little mesmerized, but he snaps out of it when his brother speaks up.

"Look at him." Lo'ak grumbles, his chin resting boredly on his palm. "The Metkayina's perfect "little" boy."

Neteyam laughs inwardly. Right, his brother still wasn't sure whether you and Tsireya were promised to one another or not. He would've told him, but it was a bit funny seeing him be so jealous. "So you are admitting he's perfect?"

"If everyone's saying it, does it matter if I say it too?" Lo'ak argues.

"Eh," Neteyam shrugs, shaking his head side to side in a "more or less" motion. "I do think so. That means that you think he's prefect too."

"Well, he isn't." He huffs.

"Mhm." After beating his brother in the argument, Neteyam turns back to you. You're much closer now, but still a few ways off, and you're still saying hello to people. Just seeing you do it feels tiring. At least it gives him more time to admire you.

Your necklace hangs low below your neck, its bead arrangement falling tragically over your tattoo and covering the main attraction. Still, the image of it is ingrained in his mind. The symbol of a heart really suited you.

When, finally, you're close enough, you give him a wave. Lo'ak thinks it's more directed towards the two of you, so he begrudgingly waves too. In that moment, his brother reminds him of your tsurak Zìk, but his thoughts are interrupted when you call to him.

"Ma Neteyam, you ready yet?!"

He only shoots you a thumbs up, for many people were already staring at the two of you and he didn't want to attract more attention, even though they'd begun to be more indifferent towards him.

"What does he mean ready?" Lo'ak's eyebrows furrow. He turns to his brother like he's a traitor.

"Sorry, bro, can't say." Neteyam simply replies, though he really can, he just loved to confuse his brother and see his hairy brows knitted together. He stands from his spot next to Lo'ak, readying to leave with you.

"I'm your brother, what could there possibly be that you can't say to me?"

"A lot of things." Neteyam finally turns away from Lo'ak entirely, leaving him to gape and catch bugs in his mouth.

"Let's go." You grin at Neteyam. In contrast, even though you see Lo'ak's weird expression, you only regard him with a small wave. "See ya, Lo'ak."

Far from his brother, Neteyam finally turns his head to give him a little shit-eating grin. Lo'ak only mouths to him words so rushed he can barely read them, You're falling for the golden boy??

And to that, and his brother, he proudly says yes. To himself, however, he doesn't quite know.

☾⋆☆⋆☽

"Have you ever been up there?" Neteyam points, ambitiously, to the top of the highest mountain. It was merely the size of his thumb from here, but he knew that meant it would be so much bigger once he got close to it.

Honestly, what did he expect you to say? "No. That is at least a 3 day journey."

"I can make it an hour." He replies confidently. Oh, he was absolutely counting on you saying no.

"How?" You ask, falling into his plan.

Neteyam simply smirks and calls for his ikran. The call is nothing like you've ever heard before. Within a matter of minutes, she stands before you, posed majestically atop her claws. She was larger than most ilu and her skin was a beautiful green.

You'd only seen banshees during the Sully family's arrival to Awa'atlu. Needless to say, you were amazed.

"Hey girl." He takes her head in both his hands, petting her cheeks with his thumbs. She screeches positively. "I missed you too."

"Woah." You approach slowly.

In comparison to ilu, banshees seemed very intimidating; and ilu, harmless. Perhaps, in that way, banshees were more similar to skimwings. Though, skimwings tended to keep their antagonistic behavior against those that they weren't bonded with. If the same held up with banshees, you were about to find out.

Neteyam senses your hesitance and extends a hand towards you. "Don't worry. She won't bite."

You gulp, "Y'sure?"

"Loved by the people but not by animals?" He tries to rile you up. He understood why you were apprehensive, but he didn't think someone like you–talented in just about anything–would have doubts about approaching an ikran.

"Animals and Na'vi are different, Neteyam." Still, you push on and offer the ikran a hand. She sniffs it first before turning back to Neteyam. Seems she's more interested in catching up with him than you, which is a relief because now you don't have to worry about dying.

Neteyam hops onto her neck, forming the bond. He beckons for you to follow. "Just sit down behind me and make sure to hold on, tight."

You follow his command and wrap your hands around his waist. Suddenly, he freezes, even though this is what he'd instructed you to do. To pass his misspeak off, he hooks one of your wrists above the other to tighten the hold, although it takes a toll on his nerves.

He clears his throat and declares, "Alright, we're off."

His ikran was new at carrying two people at once, not counting Tuk's little weight, but he knew she had the power to hold strong; and that, she did. She handled the two of you just like normal, and for that he'd make sure to thank her with treats.

"This is so cool."

Neteyam thinks it's a crime that you're not screaming yet, so he pats his ikran at the base of her wing and tells her to go faster.

He, of course, remains passive. This kind of speed, this environment, it's something he loves; but mostly, it was something he was used to.

You, on the other hand, "Wooo! This exactly like you described! I've never been so high before!"

He chuckles at your enthusiasm, "How does the wind feel?"

"Like it bites!" You laugh excitedly, daring to even stick a hand up and feel the air push it back. "Feels so refreshing, though!"

Having your affirmation, Neteyam decides to dive. "Alright, get ready."

"For?"

He doesn't reply, as your surprise would be spoiled and that was the fun of it. Instead, he leans forward, leaving you to do the same in anticipation. It's only a matter of seconds before the ikran dives.

"PELA'ANG NETEYAM!"

Your arms around his waist squeeze around him tighter, and he only thinks about it for a second. Your reaction, he finds more entertaining, even if you do scream in his ear.

The dive feels like you're riding on the back of a throwing spear, cutting through the air towards its destination. The air screams into your ears like a warning, its fight against your body like a constant geyser.

"Teyam–" You call. He doesn't respond. "Neteyam! Pull up!"

At the rate you were going at, you were going to crash into the lake, and today was not the day you wanted to return to Eywa.

"Scared?"

"'Course I am!"

Perhaps it was your sudden fear of heights or his experience, but he still felt as though there was plenty of time left. Neteyam laughs at your nerves, but to your benefit, he pulls up before he usually would.

"Phew." Your head falls onto his back. You're exhausted of his antics.

"How was it?" Neteyam asks innocently, like he wasn't just about to possibly cause your death.

"I thought we were going up to the mountain." You grumble.

"Oh, we are, just..." He doesn't actually have an excuse, not that he feels like needs one. "I mean, that was funny, wasn't it?"

"To you."

☾⋆☆⋆☽

Neteyam made good on his promise and you arrived at the mountain within the hour. But, because of your many duties–communal breakfast, hunting, meaningless conversations–it was going to be night soon.

You only had so much time, but you sat not doing much of anything anyway. The peak of the mountain was hardly anything worth exploring. It wasn't so big and only inhabited plants that dared to grow high. What the peak really offered was a view.

"Can hardly see the pods from here." You remark, sitting on a fallen log behind him.

"Yep." Neteyam sits on the cliff, boldly swinging his legs over the edge. He was less looking at Awa'atlu and more at the jungle. "This place is very blue."

The tips of the giant ferns were blue, and they faced up towards the sky. The heart of the jungle was a large lake, and Neteyam learned up here that the tree line surrounding it wasn't so long. Apart from the vague blob of a shape the large clearing drew, there wasn't much else worth admiring. So he turns his gaze up, towards the other islands.

"Does every island have a village?" Neteyam asks, gesturing towards the many islands he could see. There were enough to fill from Awa'atlu to the horizon.

"There's only so many major villages on the larger islands, but yes. There's at least one Na'vi on every single one of those islands... mmph, well," You chuckle, "maybe not that one." You point towards one barely the size of one of your necklace's beads.

Neteyam doesn't reply, so the conversation naturally stops there. He turns his gaze towards something else, the empty space without islands. The ocean was blue, and so was the sky, and it felt like a monotony; but also, the ocean was a deep blue, like him, and the sky lighter, like you. Maybe that meant something.

"How do you handle being so perfect?"

"What?"

"I mean," Neteyam turns to you and holds your gaze, "you're the youngest hunter yet still very competent."

You shake your head with a sigh, "I'm not perfect, Neteyam."

"But the people think otherwise." He stands only to sit next to you. "They love you."

"They don't love me because I do all these great things. They don't love me for being a good warrior or a good hunter, not for taming a tsurak or for being able to throw spears well." You scoot closer to him. He hates seeing that frown on your face. "They love me because of who I am."

In other words, "They see you."

"Yes."

That's how the Omatikaya saw him. Not for being the son of his father or his mother, and not for the duties he fought hard to uphold; they saw him, and ironically, he only realizes after leaving them. Would the Metkayina ever see him the same way?

As the sun and the moon lined up for the eclipse signifying night time, the conversation comes to a stop. It was something that happened daily, and to you, something you'd grown used to. Neteyam, too, had grown used to it, but he was sure that if it stopped, he'd miss it.

"We should head down."

"Yeah."

Neither of you move.

When the last of the daylight leaves, and the moons take over, Neteyam looks down again becomes something catches his attention. "Woah."

Many things glowed purple under the moonlight: the tips of the ferns, specks in the lake, and specks in the village. They were a wonderful sight, flickering vividly under the moonlight like another set of stars. His gaze found the moving lights of the village, likely large groups of Na'vi coming together for dinner. They come from the bright seawall terraces, blend in with the long lines of luminescent fish within the water, then emerge again at the beach; because as important as whatever they were doing was, being with their people for something as simple as eating was more important.

The Metkayina would never be Omatikaya, they would never be the people he grew up with, but he could find solace in them still; for they were all Na'vi.

He would just have to prove it to them first.

☾⋆☆⋆☽

Neteyam dips his hand in the water. The salt stings a little against his bruised knuckles, but he ignores it. He cups a good amount of water and brings it to his lips. The wound on those sting too, but it's nothing compared to the pain he felt when he actually received the injury. 'Sides, he's felt worse pains from covering up for Lo'ak plenty of times before. This was nothing.

He pulls his hand away from his lips and observes it. Blood runs down his fingers. It's crimson and thick, much the same as his bond with Lo'ak. He'd done it several times before, and he'd do it again, to stand with his brother; because if not him, who else did he have?

"Neteyam!" Back from a hunt, like always.

Wiya, he didn't want you to seem like this, but if he hid himself from you, you'd be even more suspicious.

He cups a larger amount of water and wipes his face again, hoping to get rid of all the blood staining his skin. He rubs with his hands, but when they part from his face, you're squat next to him curiously.

Neteyam suddenly stands, forcing you to stand too.

Though he had made it up in his mind that he couldn't hide his injuries from you, he's nervous of the outcome. You'd be curious, you'd ask, he'd tell you, and you'd come in defense of your brothers.

So, he looks away from you, though unfortunately you're on his right, the side of his lips that got split.

"What happened to you?"

He purses his lips, his hands balling up into fists at his sides. So much for this friendship, he thinks.

When Neteyam doesn't respond, you take the other side of his jaw between your thumb and forefinger, gently pulling him to look at you.

Before he turned his head to you, his gaze had been downcast, and that translated to when you moved it. He catches a glimpse of your tattoo, loved by the people. It only solidifies the outcome in his head.

"Neteyam." You say, your voice stern with him for the first time. "Who did this to you?"

It's not something he likes, that tone, especially coming from you, but he obeys your silent pleads to explain. "Ao'nung.. and his friends called Kiri a freak. They mocked Lo'ak. Called us all "not real Na'vi". Lo'ak picked a fight with them and I had to back him up."

You're silent for a long time, instead of spewing your anger at him. Anticipation builds up in his chest as he awaits your response, but it doesn't come. Curiously, he allows himself to look up at you and catch your eyes.

Angry. You were angry. But you don't look, not at him, you look towards the ocean.

"(y/n)?"

"Ao'nung just left for a hunt." Your hand leaves his jaw as you part from him, "I can catch up, teach him a lesson."

You only take a few steps, each laced with a heavy intent, before he stops you. He's quick to step in front of you, taking one of your hands in his as another precaution. "You really don't have to. I already taught him a lesson when I punched him, and Lo'ak went to go apologize already."

"Apologize?" You ask. He can hear the absolute shock in your voice. "For standing up against his insults?"

Neteyam nods slowly, knowing that it's not fair either. "Yes."

"Who told him to apologize? Because if there's anything I know about Lo'ak, it's that–"

"My father." He says before you can waste your breath. He knows that, after hearing that it's Jake that commanded his son to "make peace" with his own bullies, you won't stand against him. Because the mighty Jake Sully knew better.

But some things, he doesn't know for sure. "Even your father doesn't defend you?" A nasty scowl grows on your lips. That knowledge provokes you even more. You begin your furious march again, unbothered by his hand.

"(y/n)." He gives a harsh tug.

"Neteyam." Your sudden stop causes you to stomp on the sand. Its grains kick up explosively in the air like a reflection of your anger. "I have to defend you."

"If you do that, your tattoo's wish won't be fulfilled!" He protests, throwing his free hand up into the air. "(y/n), if they see you coming in defense of a demon, they're going to be pissed."

"A demon?" You step closer to him, shaking your head solemnly. "You're not a demon."

"They think otherwise..." He mutters, looking away.

"I have to show them what I see." You put a warm hand on his cheek and Neteyam feels as though it dwarfs his face; it doesn't help the spreading warmth on his cheeks either. "Neteyam, I see you."

His heart hammers within his chest like it'll burst. He doesn't know what to say. "I–"

"Physically, you may be different, but you and me, we are the same. We are Na'vi. You don't deserve the way they're treating you." Everything you said, it's all he wanted to hear. "Oel ngati kameie, ma Neteyam."

He dared, because he couldn't help it, to place a kiss on your lips. It's only a peck, but it brings joy to your eyes.

"You see me, so you know that I am capable of showing the Metkayina that my family and I are not different. I can come in defense of myself, as I did against Ao'nung. Oel ngati kameie, ma (y/n), " He saw you. A boy so kind, a boy that loved him so much, that he was willing to sacrifice what everybody thought of him just to love him. But it wasn't something that he wanted. "but I don't need your help. You don't need to give away everything just for me."

"But nothing's stopping me from doing so."

"That is precisely why I need you to trust me." He pushes your necklace away and places his hand above your tattoo. "Because you may know what I deserve, but I know too that you don't deserve to lose everything. Okay?"

And though it pains you so, you will do what he asks. You bring his hand up and press a kiss to his aching knuckles. "Okay."

[solarmorrigan]

For the fanfic mash-up prompt list, what about 2. Historical and 73. Stranded due to inclement weather?

Me, a history minor, upon reading this prompt: I've never learned anything about any period in history ever in my life

But! After drawing a blank for a while, we've got some vaguely Great Depression-era Steddie

Fanfiction Trope Mashup: 1. Historical AU + 73. Stranded Due to Inclement Weather

cw: brief assumed infidelity (not actually, though)

-

The drifter is handsome, beneath the smudges of road dust he’s picked up from traveling; his long hair is tied back from his face, revealing a soft mouth, high cheekbones, and eyes you could get lost in. He’s carrying a guitar on his back and not much else. He isn’t dressed nearly warm enough for the weather as it is, and certainly not for the snow that the heavy clouds above are threatening.

Steve already knows he’s going to invite him in.

“I don’t give handouts,” Steve says, mostly for himself, so he can pretend he isn’t a soft touch.

“I’m not asking for a handout,” the drifter says. “I’m more than happy to work for a meal.”

Steve pauses, like he’s thinking. There isn’t much left to the Harrington farm these days; they really only have the house, the barn, and enough land to keep some livestock – mostly chickens. (Robin loves the chickens; when they eat one, she makes sure they thank it by name, which Steve personally thinks is weird, but whatever helps her part more easily with them, he guesses.) The chores don’t take long, usually, but with Robin gone for the week, visiting her mother a few towns over, there are still a few things that need doing.

“Guess I could use a hand,” Steve says, and the drifter smiles at him, bright and dimpled, and Steve can practically hear Robin tutting at him – such a sucker for a pretty face.

At least the imaginary Robin in his head is easier to dismiss.

The drifter—“Eddie,” he introduces himself with a firm, calloused handshake—stores his guitar in the kitchen and gets to work helping Steve around the farm (such as it is). He doesn’t seem to have much familiarity with farmwork specifically, but he’s a hard worker and a good listener, and he slots in right alongside Steve with surprising ease.

He’s a bit of a talker – a storyteller, more like, spinning all kinds of yarns about his travels, half of which Steve is sure can’t be true, but which have him hooked anyway. Eddie seems to like him that way: his attention so focused on Eddie that he almost forgets what he’s doing several times throughout the day.

The hours fly by; the wind gets stronger, and you can almost taste the snow on it. Steve gives the animals one last check, makes sure everything is ready to weather a storm should it come, and then he and Eddie hurry inside the house. Steve cooks while Eddie washes up, and they eat sitting at the kitchen table like Steve and Robin usually do; there’s no one to impress by sitting in the overwrought dining room that had always intimidated Steve as a kid.

Snow is falling thick and fast by the time they finish eating.

“I’m not enough of a bastard to send you back out in that,” Steve says, twitching the curtains aside to look at the way little drifts have already started to collect against the fenceposts. “You’re welcome to stay, if you want.”

“Well, I’m not enough of an idiot to turn you down,” Eddie replies, sending Steve a sly grin. “Anything you want me to do around the house to earn a bed for the night?”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he nods towards the living room. “Keep me company by the fire for a while?”

It’s a bit of a gamble – if Steve’s read Eddie wrong, this could end very badly, but Steve doesn’t think he has. He’s always been good at gauging a person’s interest, and he’s certain he’d caught Eddie’s eyes wandering more than once when he thought Steve wasn’t paying attention.

Eddie spends a long moment regarding Steve. “I’ll do you one better,” he finally says, and reaches for his guitar.

Eddie’s voice is rough and low, not always in key, but sincere and achingly soulful. He plays like he was born with a guitar in his hands, pulling music from it a hundred times better than anything Steve’s ever heard on the radio. If he’d been distracted by Eddie before, he’s absolutely enraptured now. He doesn’t even realize he’s been steadily drifting closer to him on the sofa until their knees are brushing.

“It’s getting late,” Eddie says, glancing towards the clock on the mantle. “Am I going to bunk in the barn?”

Steve shakes his head. “I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable in the house.”

“Sure.” Eddie’s grin is slow-spreading as he watches Steve. “It’s pretty cozy down here by the fireplace. Sofa’s nice.”

“I could make you up a bed on the sofa.” Steve nods. “Or – there’s plenty of room in my bed, upstairs. Much cozier up there.”

Eddie’s grin is positively wolfish now. “You’d have me in your marriage bed?” he teases, and Steve shakes his head.

“My wife and I don’t share a bed,” he says (this is largely true, except when they have unavoidable overnight visitors, or when it’s very cold).

“No?” Eddie asks.

“We have an understanding,” Steve replies.

“Do you, now?” Eddie still looks like he isn’t quite sure whether to laugh or to eat Steve alive, but Steve only nods.

“She doesn’t mind if I have the occasional man around, and in return, I don’t mind if she has the occasional lady,” he explains softly. “And we keep each other safe.”

At that, Eddie’s grin softens, becomes warm, almost fond. “And who’s keeping you safe now? Inviting a complete stranger up into your bed." He shakes his head, still trying to tease. “I could be anybody. I could be a murderer, for all you know.”

“You aren’t,” Steve answers with full conviction.

The sincerity seems to give Eddie pause. “What makes you so sure?” he asks, and now he seems almost serious.

“Your eyes,” Steve says readily. “They’re too kind for you to be any kind of bad person.”

Those eyes go wide with surprise. “Well,” Eddie says slowly, “you’re one of the few people who thinks that.”

“Well, maybe other people need to pay more attention,” Steve says. “But if I’m wrong, and you do kill me, at least the last thing I see will be something beautiful.”

And that seems to do it. Eddie leans forward and kisses Steve, his lips chapped and warm against Steve’s.

“You might be the killer here, actually,” Eddie murmurs when they pull apart. “You’re gonna knock me dead with those lines, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. Steve likes that.

“Better come upstairs with me and give me something else to think about, then,” Steve says, and Eddie doesn’t need to be told again.

The snow continues through the night and into the next day. Steve and Eddie go out first thing to check the animals, to make sure everything is holding against the wind and the snow, and then head back to bed, where they spend the remainder of the day. It seems unkind to send Eddie away in this weather, after all.

In fact, it’s still so cold by the time Robin comes back from her visit that Steve hasn’t yet had the heart to send Eddie away. And if he and Robin talk it over, and if Eddie is still around by the time the warm spring weather comes, and if Eddie just stays and stays, the only thing people in town ever really wonder about is how the Harringtons found the money to hire a hand for their tiny piece of land.

[mikefrawley]

Okay Where's Mike...

and what have you done with him? Blushes angelically and sends love to all of his dear friends. I hope this perfect day finds each of you well. As for the rather interesting intro, I've recently realized that 2024, this far at least has easilly been one of the best years of my life. It's been at least 30 years or more since any other year has even come close. Many of you may remember my very positive be kind to you posts fom earler this year, and perhaps surprisingly these thoughts were actually the offspring of some pretty dark times. I practically slept through 2023 and was mostly depressed any time I was awake. I basically quit, but I'm guessing there must be something out there who listens to our sorrows and by some miracle actually has us spiritually grow through them. Beginning around December things finally got so painful that I had to do something or else! Finally in desperation I found a therapist and a psychiatrist who got me started. It wasn't easy or even fun, but I began with baby steps and while I fell down several times, I slowly began making progress. In the greatest case of irony I could ever think up, my wonderful year includes getting fired from my job of almost 21 years right after my birthday, and to be totally honest, it certainly did not feel even remotely like a good thing at the time. Anyway and thankfully, after a couple of weeks, slowly but surely things started working out. I really had not enjoyed my job for at least the past two years, and after accepting my retirement as a fact, I began enjoying it and even started tackling many challenges which I would never have had the courage to attempt before. I hope everyone out there is already aware of this truth, but if not, it's truly amazazing what we can do when it's a necessity, or when we set our minds and hearts to succeeding. Now as for my most interesting title, many of my past 20 plus years have not been terribly pleasant, and while I've no wish to complain at this moment, I have not been very positive very often over this period of time. It's so amazing to feel as happy and optimistic as I have over much of this year. Along with the fact that I actually leave my house on a regular basis, my friends are all very pleasantly surprised, and truthfully so am I. Aside from wanting to share a little gratitude, I'm also hoping this might be at least a small light for someone who is still seemingly hopelessly lost in their own darkness. Please believe me, if I can finally do this at the age of 66, you most certainly can! Love to all, Mike 💕

[soleilars]

hii! could u do a leo valdez x nyx!reader ? could be headcannons or short story whichever u prefer :) take ur time and thank you!!

IT’S BEEN SO LONG, IT’S BEEN SO LONG, MAYBE WE’RE FIREPROOF

summary: leo valdez frightens everything he likes. and he’s so so so scared of you.

pairing: leo valdez x nyx!reader

a/n: i hope you like this!<3 i wrote it so quick idk what happened tbh

it wasn’t like leo disliked you. he didn’t know you this well to have this kind of judgement about you in the first place. he just… didn’t wanted to cross paths with you. like, ever. again, he didn’t dislike you. he’s just so leo about that. the one time he decided to play capture the flag after weeks of not playing, he got taken down in the first 10 minutes into the game by no one else than you. he got angry at first, thinking that someone had hit him by mistake because he wasn’t hurt or dizzy, he just fell to the ground with his face hitting the earth. you made sure not to inflict pain in anyone during the game, so to say the least it was an ego boost for you to strike again with such efficient. when for leo it was certainly a motive for never play again after his pity dignified performance. and to be honest you scared him. he was just so amazed with your beauty, which seemed to get amplified by the night time, that he felt physically incapable of talking to you.

this probably justifies his reaction when the one day he decided to go out of bunker 9 after several days in with the minimum amount of human contact, he saw you coming in his way. broken sword in hands and a pleading face.

no, no, no, no, no, hell no.

would it be ridiculous of him to run? to simply turn away and run? pretend he didn’t saw you because he was sure you didn’t saw him? gods, he hopped not because that’s what he did. he went straight to the way he came from and started looking at the shelves, pretending to be busy with something. you came in anyway, after all the need of a repair was evident and you were getting impatient. ‘this kind of gold is roman stuff. most of us aren’t specialised at this and we wouldn’t risk breaking or causing any extra damage to your weapon. i recommend you find, leo. he’s more used to this kind of stuff than us, really.’ jake manson, the cabin’s counsellor had told you.

“hey, is someone in here?” your voice send shivers through leo’s spine. he cursed himself as he came out of his, not so, hidden spot.

“uhm, yeah? who are you?”

as you introduced yourself and explained your problem leo could feel himself getting more and more warm. the mixed feelings started to get to him in the form of an alarm sounding in his head that sounded like ‘dangerous!!!!!hot, but dangerous!!!!!! would look stunning… while killing you!!!’

“sorry, but are you okay? you seem… pale.”

leo was surprised to find himself more nervous than usual. and believe, he’s very used to being nervous around pretty girls, and he’s also very used with being scared. now, the combination of both of those? nah, he’s an absolute mess. it takes him a few seconds, or maybe minutes? to go back to his ‘normal’.

“whatcha saying? sorry, i didn’t understand”

“i was saying that i need to fix my gold sword. you can do that for me?” you cried “please, your half siblings said you’re the only one that works with it”

“yeah yeah, sure. hand me the thing and i’ll see what i can do”

after a week your sword was almost new again. lighter and sharper. in the meantime, you asked leo to let you watch him work, mostly so you could try to understand how to fix it new time or tips on the most efficient way to keep them glossy and not dull. by chance, leo started to get more comfortable around you and vice-versa. lazy mornings, calm afternoons and busy nights. if bunker 9 wasn’t so far from camp for sure the two of you would get in trouble from noise making past midnight. leo joked that by the night time you should help him, because your mom being who she is you’re supposed to be the most productive in the room. you laughed at his suggestion, but ended up helping him with his projects the minute the sun sets.

his work was so good that you ended up taking your dagger, your helmet, your other sword, and another dagger for his treats. you may have made the blade of your daggers go blind and getting the pegasus to kick your helmet, but that doesn’t really matter does it?

[dont-offend-the-bees]

Lived My Whole Life Before the First Light

Omg here we are. At the end. I'm sad, I've been having such a blast with you guys this week! But all good things... Anyway, this is a strange one, rambling and mournful but hopefully with some sweetness. I hope it makes you feel things, I hope it gives you something, I hope we part on this final day of Painland Week as friends and confidants 💛 Huge, huge thanks to the organisers of Painland Week for putting this magical event together! Special love on this day goes out to @mellxncollie , who has been creating amazing gifs all week and has made beautiful ones for this very fic. It's been so so wonderful to collab with you and everyone should go and look at these wonderful creations at ONCE. Warnings for canonical character death (sorry, Charles) and the stuff that comes with it (i.e. refs to bullying/hatecrimes), non-graphic injury description, and just general mournful grief vibes all round. But hopeful ending bc let's face it, we all know how this played out! 7.3k, M-rated, available on Ao3. Thanks again, @painlandweek!

"Colour! What a deep and mysterious language. The language of dreams."

~ Paul Gauguin

Edwin Payne had always possessed a thirst for knowledge. As a child, he'd wished to learn just about everything there was to learn — every fact in every field. He'd been told, many times, that he could live to be a hundred years old, and still not have enough hours to do so.

Edwin had most certainly not lived to be a hundred. But he supposed that if you added his sixteen years of life to his seventy-three of death, he was getting rather close.

The dead years, however, had been far from conducive to study. Knowledge was hard to come by in Hell. Found either in burnt and bloodied books scavenged from individual damnations, or delivered in the form of cruel trials. He'd been taught a lesson or two in his time, but not on anything so polite and pedestrian as geometry. Edwin's key area of personal study in Hell had been one thing, and one thing only: how to escape from it.

It had taken seven decades, a slew of disembowelments and innumerable failed attempts, but at last he'd passed his final exam with merit. Or at least, a version of him had. But there wasn't much to be done for his original self, whose body lay mouldering on the dollhouse floor beneath a thousand savaged duplicates.

Best not to dwell on it.

He supposed he should have been upset about where the door to Hell spat him out. Not many people would be happy to return to the place where they'd met their untimely, violent demise. But to Edwin, after a small infinity in the blackest pit, stepping back into St. Hilarion's hallowed halls felt like greeting an old friend. Well, friend might be a tad generous. More of an acquaintance, or perhaps a second cousin one barely tolerated. Not a person one enjoyed spending time with, but nonetheless a familiar face.

For a day or so he'd wandered about in a bit of a daze, glancing over his shoulder for any sign he'd been followed from the depths. He'd drunk in every familiar feature, and puzzled over the unfamiliar ones. It was a small change in the grand scheme of things, but he suspected they'd replaced the drapes. They were a lighter grey now than they had been in his time. He wondered what colour they'd chosen — or for that matter, what colour they were in the first place. He'd never thought to ask.

Then on his second day of wandering, he'd stumbled across the old library. And that, for several weeks, had been that.

He'd probably had dreams about this, in his youth. Dreams of being left to his own devices, surrounded by books. All the information he could inhale, with no interruptions. Not even from the other boys. Their voices had startled him a few times, and he was always wary when a gaggle of them descended on the library. But he'd quickly realised that none of them could see him, and so long as he turned the pages quietly, he was free to continue his reading unmolested.

And he did so, continuously, for days. Not even boring old human restrictions like hunger, tiredness or eye strain could stop him now. He read everything he could get his hands on, brushed up on everything, filling in the gaps of the last decades. On the future that had been robbed from him, subsiding into history while his back was turned. He'd sat in his own shellshock when he read not only about how the so-called 'war to end all wars' had concluded, but also how little time had passed before the next one. He'd blushed and skimmed the pages pertaining to the nineteen-sixties free love movement. He'd gazed, thunderstruck, at the moon through the library window; wondering what the Earth must have looked like to the man they put up there.

All these years he'd been trapped in the gutters at the deepest depths of suffering, reaching up towards the light; all that time, humanity had been reaching, too. Up, up and up, all the way to the stars.

It became habit, after that, to gaze at the moon in between books and chapters. An opportunity to gather his thoughts on what he'd just read, to file away the facts, to jot down the most pertinent in his notebook. It was rather a meditative process.

Or at least it had been, until the night he'd seen something else beneath that moon. Something tragically earthbound amidst the gently illuminated greys of the grounds. A hunched and trembling shape against the trees, lurching by Edwin's window. A boy, on the run — his pursuers baying for blood like wolves at his heels.

They could put a man on the moon, but some things never changed.

It would be the first time Edwin had left the library since re-discovering it. Holding aloft the pilfered lantern he'd been using to read into the night, he trod carefully through the darkened corridors. The majority of staff and students were in dorms or common rooms by now, voices a soft patter, bleeding with the light under the doors. No one marked Edwin, or came to investigate the lantern floating past. Though some extinguished their own lights and hushed their voices, mistaking him for a warden. Edwin didn't wish to scare anyone, but he drew some comfort from it. He'd grown tired of being pounced upon in long, black, twisting hallways. How comforting for once to be the root of fear and not merely its captive.

Edwin had to search a little while, but he was already familiar with the best hiding places. It wasn't long before he was creeping up to the attic, minding his ghostly tread upon the stairs. He didn't wish to cause alarm, or send the boy deeper into hiding thinking his assailants had found him.

He crossed the threshold, and at once heard a shuddering intake of breath as the harsh white aura of his lantern bounced off the walls. He supposed there was no disguising the glow. He hung back a moment, conflicted. All he wanted was to offer some light and warmth, but perhaps a floating lantern would be a sight too much for the terrified boy. Well, it was too late for that, now. He stepped into the room proper, peering past the flare of his lantern to the source of the sound. A shivering bundle on the floor, tucked into a nook behind the shelves. Trying to be as small as possible and, by and large, succeeding.

Wide, hunted eyes stared into the light. A voice, low and wary, spoke.

"What do you want?"

It was then that Edwin realised the eyes weren't looking into the light. They were looking at him. He glanced behind himself, just to make sure, but he wasn't mistaken. "You can see me?"

It was also when he noticed something equally perplexing happening to the light. It had started to look... less white. No, in fact it no longer looked white at all, but it had not dimmed, and it bore no resemblance to any shade of grey Edwin had ever seen. It was... he didn't even have the language to describe it. If he had to choose a word, he could only say it looked warm. He'd never seen anything like it. Not in seventy years of Hell, nor in his life before. It simply defied description.

He tore his gaze from it. There were more pressing matters to attend to. "I... I thought this lantern might help," he said, still dumbfounded. He approached, with care — this boy was clearly a victim in this circumstance, but there was a defensive set to his jaw. A wild look in his eyes. A creature caught in a trap was as liable to bite a rescuer as an attacker. "You can simply extinguish it if those boys come up here."

The guarded expression cracked, vulnerability bleeding through. As Edwin drew closer, he noticed that the strange new quality of the light was reflected where it hit the boy. There were notes of something else beneath the pallid grey tones of his skin, something richer. Just as something beyond simple black glistened in his enormous eyes.

"You saw them?" the boy rasped.

"I did. I went to school here a long time ago." Edwin knelt before him, bringing the light closer to the lad’s face and marvelling, quietly, at the strange tones that sprang into sharp relief. Whoever this young man was, Edwin's very perception of the world appeared to be shifting in his presence. "We had bullies, too."

He looked so weak, curled up and trembling. He certainly wasn't weak, Edwin suspected that much. Peeking out from beneath the blanket were shoes and trousers of a kind he'd seen these modern boys wearing out on the sports pitch. The lad was no delicate flower, but at this moment, at the mercy of his wounds, he was helpless.

And if he could see Edwin... then his fate was already sealed.

Edwin looked at the boy levelly, at the fear in his strange eyes. He'd seen that fear upon countless faces these last seventy years, on the wretched souls crying out for respite from their torment. He'd worn a similar expression some decades ago, when a careless act of cruelty had damned him, too.

"Rest assured," he said, gently, offering the lantern. "I shan't hurt you."

He could see the moment the boy decided to believe him. His shoulders slumped, his breath escaped in a rattle of relief. He reached out from his blanket shell, and flashed a sliver of that curiously saturated skin at his shoulder. Against the stark white of the sleeveless vest he wore, the difference was now undeniable. Not grey, not white, but something altogether different. Like his eyes, like the metal at his throat and ear that glimmered in the lamplight. Tones Edwin had never seen before, couldn't even name.

It couldn't be...

"Cheers, mate," said the boy, shivering as he brought the lantern closer. "I'm freezing. Never been this cold in my life."

Swallowing, Edwin nodded. "It's the least I can do."

The boy's lips twitched in a feeble half-smile. "Yeah? You mean you can do more?"

Probably not as much as he'd like. But Edwin nodded again. "Of course."

The light shone upon the boy's face and the dark, waterlogged curls of his hair. Steeped in that impossible hue.

"Stick around a bit?" he asked, his voice very small indeed. "Bit lonely up here..."

Edwin had not come here with any plans to stick around. He'd wished to help, of course. But to say he was unaccustomed to dealing with people was a tremendous understatement. He'd planned to drop off the lantern, check the boy was alright, and slip away without a fuss.

But the boy was clearly not alright, half-alive and fading fast. And he'd seen Edwin, asked him in no uncertain terms to stay. Asked him with all the broken hope in his voice and all the impossible buried, blooming hues in his eyes. And if those colours meant what he had always been told…

Well. How could Edwin begrudge his own soulmate a last request?

"My name is Edwin," he said, as measured as he could manage. "Edwin Payne."

The boy grinned. It wobbled at the edges. "Charlie," he introduced himself. "Charles Rowland."

Edwin hummed. Charles. A pleasant name. Respectable. He thought it rather suited the young man. "A pleasure to meet you, Charles."

Charles chuckled, drawing the lantern closer to himself. "Pretty bloody brills to meet you, too, Edwin."

The colour — for it surely was a colour, Edwin knew of no other word or explanation — of the lantern seemed to pulse, then settle, stronger than before. It illuminated the feeble grin upon Charles' drawn face in hues as yet unnamed.

Edwin would have to find some names. Compare what he could see with what he'd been told, what he'd read. Identify what he could.

While he still had the chance.

"Best thing to happen to me all night," Charles mumbled. "You showing up."

Edwin wished to tell him things could only improve from here; but he knew it to be a lie.

~

"It is the color closest to light. In its utmost purity, it always implies the nature of brightness and has a cheerful, serene, gently stimulating character. Hence, experience teaches us that yellow makes a thoroughly warm and comforting impression."

~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

"Just didn't seem right. Letting that kid get beat on 'cause he's from Pakistan," said Charles.

His socks peeked out from the blanket, bright white in the lamplight. Interesting — a part of Edwin had always presumed that white would look vastly different with the rest of the spectrum unlocked. It didn't, but there was much less of it. The world was full of more off-whites in more hues than Edwin could've previously imagined. Charles' skin wasn't dissimilar. Pale-ish, but bearing pleasant warm under-and-overtones that made Edwin's look near-translucent by comparison.

"I mean, I'm half Indian," Charles continued. "Why am I so different?"

"That is a fair point," said Edwin, thoughtful, harkening back to some of the history books he'd skimmed of late. "They were the same country back when I was alive."

Fascinating how the times changed, new lines drawn in the sand. Fascinating, and frustrating. In the time Edwin had been gone wars had started and ended, entire countries had been ruptured, borders reshaped. And yet some of life's most persistent mysteries remained unanswered.

He'd not looked much into it, but it seemed little advancement had been made in understanding of the so-called 'soulmate' principle. It had been a frequent enough phenomenon to be common knowledge in Edwin's time, but no one ever had any real explanation for it. Plenty of spiritual explanations, of course. But it seemed no one could point to any tangible scientific reason why a person, upon hearing the voice of a certain other person, had the entire hidden colour spectrum revealed unto them. An entire dimension of the visible world remained inaccessible to the vast majority of the population, and still no one knew why, or even how. Clearly, there was still much research to be done on the subject.

And clearly, the notion of this mysterious person as a 'soulmate' was romantic drivel. Charles seemed a pleasant fellow, but he was a fellow. And two boys could hardly be soulmates, could they? No God-fearing Christian would embrace the concept if that were the case. So no, Charles couldn't possibly be his soulmate. Perhaps the phenomenon represented something else entirely. Like minds? Charles seemed an easy boy to get on with — and Edwin seldom got on with anybody. He even felt at ease sitting beside him on the hard attic floor, nearly touching. Perhaps Charles was simply his universe-appointed fastest friend; the one person in creation who could truly understand him.

Or maybe it was a cosmic fluke, a quirk of biology. Maybe it could have been absolutely anybody in the world.

Yes, that was probably it. Nothing deeper at play than that.

Still, it was a pity Charles would be dead before the night was out. Soulmate or not.

(Definitely not.)

"Right..." Charles mumbled. Followed by a frown. "Wait, what?"

"Hm?"

"What d'you mean 'when you were alive'?"

Edwin looked at him. Charles still seemed rather small, rather sorry. A chilly little lump, all curled in on himself, even now they were side by side and of a height with one another. He looked cold, sallow. Not even the warm hues of the light Edwin had tentatively designated yellow could hide it, cheerful though it may be.

"You ought to move around a bit," said Edwin, standing smoothly. "You must keep your circulation going."

It would do no good, of course. But who knew? Charles might be hardier than Edwin gave him credit for.

"Edwin," said Charles, all seriousness. "What d'you mean when you were alive?"

Edwin's brow twitched. He held out his hand. "Get up, and I shall tell you."

Charles took his hand — and startled. "Fuck — you're colder than me, mate!"

"And for good reason. Come, now. Two or three quick laps of the room. I'll hold the lantern."

~

"Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead."

~ Wilfred Owen

Edwin had heard some truly hideous sounds in his time. Crunching bones, squelching organs, agonised screams. And yet somehow, the wheeze of Charles hacking up water from pulverised lungs was among the worst to date.

"Are you alright?" Edwin asked, hands clasped upon the table — lest he risk something overfamiliar like a pat on the back.

"I'm fine," Charles deflected, voice hoarse and unconvincing. "Just answer my question.

Charles was looking worse by the minute. The warm tones of his skin that Edwin had grown so fascinated by were receding under sallow grey. A new colour was blooming, in and around his eyes; in the puffy lids underneath, in the spiderwebbing veins across the whites.

This colour was not nearly so puzzling — the veins were a dead giveaway. Edwin had read more than enough crime literature to be able to identify the colour of blood.

So, this was the famous red. A bold colour, possibly quite charming in the right context; which this most assuredly was not. Edwin was no physician, but he'd read a number of medical textbooks. Charles bore all the hallmarks of a man bedevilled with internal bleeding. It was not a matter of whether he would die, but of what would kill him first; the cold, or the injuries.

He tore his gaze away. Anger, bitter and harsh, had him by the throat, had his fists clenching together until his gloves creaked. Who were those wretched boys, to lay hands upon Charles? To break him so? This boy who, insofar as Edwin could tell, hadn't a bad bone in his body? Whatever Charles was to him, soulmate or not (definitely, definitely not), he was his. He was supposed to be his, and soon he would be dead, and Edwin understood, now. Understood how people found themselves mired in Hell's fifth circle, swamped in wrath and rage. For no reason, no reason at all, those boys had taken Charles’ life without a care. Taken his life, and the colour from Edwin's eyes, all in one fell swoop. Soon both would be gone; and if Edwin ever found the hooligans responsible they'd have a formidable haunting on their hands.

"Nineteen thirteen, to..." he counted one, two, three, slowly. Collecting himself. "Nineteen sixteen."

"Bullshit." Charles cocked his head, a small smile of disbelief upon his lips. It was a charming expression, in its impertinence. "When did you go to school here for reals?"

"Nineteen thirteen to nineteen sixteen," Edwin repeated, slower. "I am dead, Charles."

Charles laughed. Edwin raised his eyebrows — and pretended not to be fascinated by the flash of not-red in Charles' mouth, his tongue and gums. What was the word for a light red, again? He was sure he'd read it somewhere...

The laughter died, and Charles' eyes went wider still. "...Oh."

There was more of that not-red than Edwin had thought, actually. The shells of Charles' ears, where the dawning light from the window glowed through translucent skin. He'd never considered that a person's ears might appear a different colour to the rest of them. How many secret tricks of the light had he been oblivious to all these years? How many more had he yet to discover? How many would he never get the chance to see for himself?

Just how much more could possibly be stolen from him?

"I... I dunno if this is, um, bad to ask, or what, but..." Charles swallowed. "How'd you die, mate?"

His lips, too, were redder than the rest of him; although that was fading, rapidly. Cooling at the edges. Edwin suspected that wasn't supposed to be the case.

"As I said," Edwin replied, sadly. "We had bullies, too."

~

"Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay."

~ Robert Frost

He had Charles move around again, though it was clear it would serve no purpose. He was delaying the inevitable. Charles was all but shutting down already; the occasional boost to his circulatory system was hardly going to bring him back from Death's door.

But perhaps Charles would beat the odds. Why not? He seemed a resilient fellow. Perhaps he would, indeed, outlast the night, see another day. Perhaps help would arrive. Perhaps Edwin could give him the push he needed to survive this if he only persisted.

Besides, he couldn't let Charles seize up and expire just yet. Charles had questions and damn it all, Edwin would answer them!

"Actually, you can move around any space however you like," Edwin explained. "It is not that you cannot touch things, you just cannot feel them."

A blessing in disguise, on occasion. Though Edwin had done his utmost to fill up this nook by the window with whatever musty blankets and futons he could salvage, he doubted the floor was comfortable. He himself sat with his knees tucked up to his chest, bracing for discomfort he couldn't feel. It was far from ideal. But he supposed that a hard floor was the least of Charles' problems.

Charles was rapidly declining. That cool tinge upon his lips was growing more prominent, his coughs harsher and more visceral-sounding. But here, at least, he seemed as snug as Edwin could make him. Swaddled like a babe, tucked up against the cluttered old shelves. Perhaps this was warm enough to get him through. It certainly seemed warm, with the yellow light burning merrily on.

It glowed not only off Charles' skin and his eyes, but a myriad small reflective surfaces strewn about the forgotten nook. Edwin was particularly taken with the shimmer of it off what appeared to be a dented instrument — possibly a tuba? — near Charles' head. Metals had always looked very similar to one another, in Edwin's grayscale vision. Now he could see the metal of the horn was a somewhat deeper shade than that of, say, the earring Charles wore. Finally, he could see first-hand the differences between the precious and non-precious metals. Alas, he had few of them to choose from, and little way of knowing which was which. He supposed it safe to assume that the instrument was brass, hence its orchestral designation.

But the metal Charles was wearing was his favourite so far. It had a little of the yellow about it, but richer, more lustrous. Edwin found himself quite transfixed by the way it fluttered and flickered in the light.

He was familiar with the saying all that glitters is not gold, of course. But for want of further evidence, gold seemed as good a guess as any.

"It's stupid, but... I think I'd miss kissing," said Charles. He looked right at Edwin, earring and eyes twinkling with the motion. He did have... handsome eyes. Edwin simply must figure out what colour they were. Of a similar hue but different tone to his hair, to the old wooden shelves at his back. "Do you miss kissing?"

"Mmm-mmmm," Edwin mumbled, with a small shake of his head. "No. Not as such."

How many people had Charles kissed, he wondered? Surely not an abundance, they were of a similar age. Had he kissed someone this month, this week? Today? Before his lips grew cold and chapped, when they were... oh, what was that word for a lighter red? Pink, yes, that was it.

Then again, perhaps he went about with painted lips in every day life. He already wore some sort of cosmetic on his eyes, after all, so maybe it wasn't a stretch for a modern young man. Imagine. A boy, staining the lips of his paramours with lipstick when he kissed them...

Goodness. The world really had moved on.

Edwin cleared his throat. "No," he repeated, firmly. "No, I don't miss kissing."

He supposed it was fine that Charles liked it, though. And maybe he'd get the chance to do it again. He just had to hold on a little longer, outlive the dawn chorus, until the teachers noticed his absence and sent people searching. Then he could keep on living, and kissing and whatever else he wished to do and Edwin...

Well, Charles probably wouldn't have much use for a ghost friend. But at least Edwin could keep the colours. Just a little while longer.

Charles chuckled. It was a bit of a sadder sound than the last time Edwin heard it. "Must've had some shit kisses in your life, mate."

Edwin smiled, tightly. "Something of that ilk."

"Shame we weren't mates," said Charles. "I'd've..."

"You'd have... what?"

A smattering of colour returned to Charles' face, then. It might've been a trick of the light, but Edwin could've sworn his cheeks warmed. "I'd've... well, I'd've found you someone to snog, wouldn't I?" he laughed, drawing his blanket closer around his chin. "Got some fit mates from my old school. And the birds proper fancy the brainy lads."

Edwin frowned. "The... birds?"

"Y'know. Lasses. Girls."

"Oh." For whatever reason, Edwin felt... disappointed. And not just at the apparently abysmal state of modern slang. "Yes. Girls."

He cocked his head, watching Charles carefully. He was a very good looking boy. And he wasn't Edwin's soulmate, couldn't be, but...

Edwin cleared his throat. "Charles?"

"Yeah?"

"Do I look..." He wavered. "...Unusual, at all? To you?"

Charles blinked. "Um. Well. Outfit's a bit retro." His eyes widened slightly, a dash of mortification. "Not being rude! I like it! It's... it's cool."

Edwin rolled his eyes. "I don't mean my outfit, I mean... have you noticed anything different about this room since I walked in?" he pressed.

"Well, yeah."

Edwin inhaled. "You have?"

"Yeah."

He leaned in closer. "What have you noticed exactly?"

Charles smiled weakly. "Well. It... feels a lot less lonely. With you here. Warmer, too." He chuckled. "Daft as that sounds. With you being dead, and all."

Edwin's fingers flexed on his knees — all he could do to stop himself hugging them, wretchedly, to his heart. "Yes," he agreed, dully. "Daft, indeed..."

~

"Green makes me think of silence, or maybe it’s loneliness. I get the feeling of a terribly distant star."

~ Kobo Abe

Edwin had only ever known one person ‘fortunate’ enough to meet her soulmate.

Aunt Florence had always been a bit of an odd duck. Flighty and fickle, a perpetual embarrassment to her brother — Edwin's father — whose job it had been to lend financial support to her spinster lifestyle. As she alleged it, she'd found her soulmate in the late eighteen seventies. For reasons undisclosed (to Edwin, at least) they had never married. Edwin had never had the pleasure of meeting her mysterious match.

She had always seemed very fascinated with the world around her, Aunt Florence. A trait she shared with Edwin; though while his interest lay in facts, hers lay in aesthetics. He’d seen her dedicate hours to the study of a singular rose petal in her garden. Edwin was told she could do quite beautiful things with oil paints, for those with eyes to see. They were passable, too, in black and white, but lacking dimension.

Once, when Edwin was about nine or so, Aunt Florence had taken his chin between her willowy fingers.

"What lovely eyes you have, my boy," she'd said, in a smoker's croak. Uncouth for a woman to smoke, particularly one of her social standing, but she'd never much cared what others thought of her. Her tobacco-stained nail had nipped his chin as she held him close. "Your mother's eyes. Sea green... You'll find yourself someone who can appreciate them, won't you?"

Edwin, of course, had had no idea what green was, and little desire to find out. Not if finding a so-called soulmate was the prerequisite condition. He was of an age where the fixation that grown-ups seemed to have on kissing one another was both vexing and perplexing to him. A phase of his life that, to be frank, he'd never entirely left behind. He'd extricated himself from Aunt Florence's talons as politely as possible, and given her a wide berth for the rest of her visit.

The next time he'd seen her, she had taken one look at his eyes, and burst into tears.

They all ended the same way, these soulmate stories. It was a law of nature. Death was not neat, or particularly fair. No matter how blissfully happy the pair, someone always had to leave first; and when they did, the colour left with them.

Some, at least, got time to enjoy it all. Before their love — and their colour — died away. A few decades, or years. Months, even.

Some, like Edwin, got far less. Hours, if that.

And some, like Charles Rowland, got no time at all.

~

"They're out of the dark's ragbag, these two

Moles dead in the pebbled rut,

Shapeless as flung gloves, a few feet apart —

Blue suede a dog or fox has chewed.

One, by himself, seemed pitiable enough,

Little victim unearthed by some large creature

From his orbit under the elm root.

The second carcass makes a duel of the affair:

Blind twins bitten by bad nature."

~ Sylvia Plath

"Shut up, mate. That is brills."

Edwin was inclined to agree. Especially now he could appreciate the full effect. He'd been aware, of course, that his form seemed to partially dissolve into a mirage when he passed through solid surfaces. He'd been unaware that the mirage seemed to possess a certain hue. Not unlike the hue beginning to bleed through the filthy window.

The pre-dawn light was different to the majority of the colours Edwin had identified so far. It was colder. Greyer. Pale and stark against the opaque black silhouette of the distant treeline (interesting, how the trees still seemed black in this light. He wondered if he'd get a chance to see this green he'd heard so much about before the night was over.) If Charles' face was warmed by the yellow lamplight, it was cooled at the edges by the seeping tones through the glass.

This, like the red and the blood, came with an easy reference point. Everybody knew that the sky was supposed to be blue.

Seemed Edwin finally had a word for the sickly tint of Charles' lips.

"Why don't you fall through the floor?" Charles asked, puzzled.

"There are many, many, so-called ghost rules," said Edwin, sagely. He had, after all, spent several weeks conducting his own personal study and compiling the rules himself. "I shan't waste your time listing them."

"Well, I only asked about the floor, didn't I?" said Charles, a teasing lilt to his lip. Honestly, the cheek of the man.

"Because I choose not to fall through the floor," Edwin replied, in utterly falsified exasperation. "Happy?"

Charles had a certain way of smiling; one that spread up from his grinning mouth and into his eyes. Despite the cold, miserable state of the rest of him they fairly shone with warmth, a merry humour. A knowing gleam that said 'look at us, in on the joke'.

Edwin had never been in on the joke, before.

Charles chuckled; and Edwin did likewise, helpless to the draw of it. The magnetic sound. It had his lips lifting of their own volition — even as his heart sank further and further into the floor.

The blue devils, that's what his father had called it. On those rare occasions when he acknowledged Mother's low mood, or found Edwin weeping silently upon his bed. "You've just got the blue devils, my boy. Chin up, now, and soldier on. You've better things to do than mope."

He could feel them, now, those blue devils upon his shoulder. Cold, heavy, and the colour of Charles' bloodless lips. Weighing Edwin down like stones in his pockets. He hadn't felt hot or cold in decades, but now he felt as Charles must have done with the chill lake pressing down upon him, filling his lungs. And unlike Charles, he wasn't sure he possessed the tenacity to break the surface before the bubbles stopped.

He'd fought his way from the pits of Hell itself, and yet this climb seemed more insurmountable by far. He was no longer fighting his way from the dark to the light. There was no light above the surface of this icy water, no light at all. The light was here, the entire spectrum of it; above was only grey, grey, grey, as far as the eye could see.

"Oi," said Charles. He looked so very tired; but still inquisitive to a fault. "What other cool stuff can you do, then?"

Edwin huffed. "I can travel through mirrors, if you must know."

Charles' blue lips parted, breath escaping on a wonderstruck wheeze. "Wicked."

He ought to be more careful with his breaths. He couldn't have had all that many left to draw.

~

"We love the sight of the brown and ruddy earth; it is the color of life, while a snow-covered plain is the face of death."

~ John Burroughs

Charles Rowland passed away in the small hours of the morning. Edwin didn't even need to look up from the page; he just watched the pinkish tint bleed from his own ghostly fingertips, and made a deduction.

Even before his passing, Edwin hadn't looked directly at Charles in some time. He hadn't been able to bring himself to. The colour in his ailing new friend had diminished all but completely, his skin a sallow patina, his lips a cracked grey slate.

Edwin had only come to know colour on this night, and already he could feel its absence like a hole in his heart. He understood, now, why Aunt Florence had dragged herself so mournfully through her twilight years. Going through the motions of existing. Colour, for Aunt Florence, had been life; without it, there was simply no point living.

Somehow, Edwin found his voice, and he read on. Because Edwin was no Aunt Florence, arty and flighty and prone to outpourings of passion. Edwin was his father's son; he soldiered on. No matter what.

But the ache in his chest persisted, despite his best efforts to quash it. There had been so much yet to see. He'd never witnessed the colour purple — an expensive hue of which he'd heard a great many appreciative things. He'd never seen a flower, any flower, in full bloom, or watched one of those famous sunsets.

In the end, he never even got to see what his aunt meant about his eyes. But he had no reflection anymore, so. Perhaps that one was always a lost cause.

On the topic of lost causes; there was someone else in this room with him, yet. Someone who'd lost far more than a fleeting glimpse of creation in technicolour.

""— I cease to believe,"" Edwin finished reading with a soft, forced chuckle. To no response. He looked up to find Charles standing tall, gaze turned to the window. It was the first time all night he'd been without his blanket; and the first time he'd borne not the slightest shiver.

Well. At least he would never be cold again.

"Not enjoying this one?" Edwin prompted, gently. "Carrados the blind detective was just becoming quite popular in my day."

When Charles turned around, of course Edwin already knew what he would find. Knew what his own eyes would fall upon when they followed Charles’ gaze.

But knowing did not prepare him for the reality. The cold, desaturated tableau of Charles Rowland's demise, illuminated like a crime scene in the stark white light of the lantern. How a person so vital, so vibrant as Charles should be without blood and colour defied all reason. And yet there he lay; bereft of hue, and of life.

Edwin swallowed, and closed the book gently upon Max Carrados. "When you could see me, I knew it was too late."

Charles was silent. For the first time all night. Silent as the grave.

"But I simply..." Edwin hesitated. "I did not want to scare you."

In the corner of Edwin's eye, the lantern guttered and died. Good. It didn't seem right; all that light upon Charles, and not a drop of warmth in it.

"Well. Glad you didn't say anything." Charles' voice was stronger, now. How different he sounded, without the rattle of lake water in his lungs.

Charles looked at his hands. As did Edwin. How strange they appeared, in the bleak grey of Edwin's impoverished eyes. How unsettlingly close to the pallor his skin had taken on in his death throes. And yet he wasn't pallid, not in the slightest. Standing tall, unchained from his ailing flesh, he was more wholly and healthily Charles than Edwin had yet seen him.

"Doesn't feel like I imagined. Being dead," said Charles, thoughtful. "Feels okay, doesn't it?"

In truth, there was nothing remotely 'okay' about this situation. Edwin felt... robbed. He felt robbed. Because he would never know the colour of Charles' skin when it wasn't frozen grey, or beaten black and blue. He'd never see this Charles, standing tall in the dawning sunlight, the way he was designed to be seen. The way he was chosen, by God or fate or an impossible quirk of biology to be seen, by Edwin. Only by Edwin. For he was Edwin's, no more could he deny it.

And Charles would never see Edwin. Not the way Edwin saw him. Because by the time they met, it was already too late. Because in a wretched twist of fate, Charles’ soulmate — his unfortunate, unorthodox soulmate — was dead in the ground before Charles was even born.

And Edwin had thought Hell to be cruel and unusual punishment.

"I sincerely wish we could have been friends for longer," said Edwin, dropping the magazine and standing from his seat on the old trunk. "But Death will come for you, now. You should go with her when she arrives."

He turned, and began his brisk march to the door. What's done is done; and Charles was, unmistakably, done. Done in and done for, done in just about every sense.

So Charles would be off, now. He'd be off, and Edwin would just have to carry him, too. In his head, with his facts and his torments and a thousand tiny heartbreaks. What was another one, in the grand scheme of things? What else was there to do in this fugitive afterlife but keep his chin up, and soldier on?

"Well I'm not ready, am I?” Charles called out. “I don't wanna go somewhere else, yet."

Edwin faltered. Turned. Charles was watching him.

"What if I stay here for a bit with you, instead?" said Charles, preposterously.

"Then you will always be running from her," was Edwin's quick, logical response. But Charles was still watching him with those... those damnably appealing eyes, and he felt the need to defend his case. "Also, I'm not good with other people. And I only just came back to this school after escaping Hell, so. I'm out of practice, to be perfectly frank. So. When the light comes. You stay, and I go."

He smiled, tightly, and turned once more. There. He'd avoided mentioning Hell all night, but it was done, now. No boy with a lick of sense would —

"Well, I'm aces with other people."

… He simply could not be serious.

"Pretty chuffed you got out of Hell, mate," Charles continued, maddeningly blasé. "That sounds hard. Nice job."

Edwin turned on him, incredulous. "That is not how you make decisions," he snapped, taking a challenging step towards Charles. "Just based on whatever you happen to be feeling in the moment!"

"It's how I lived my life."

Charles turned his head, looked down at his own body. Edwin couldn't bring himself to do likewise.

"Doesn't seem all that different now."

Charles looked at Edwin, unflinching. And what a different creature he was, free of cold and pain. Lithe but lax, eyes slightly narrowed in almost catlike contemplation of Edwin. He stood before a hellbound soul, near naked and freshly dead, and yet the easygoing slope of his narrow shoulders bore no strain.

He shrugged, nonchalant. White light glimmered from his dangling earring. "Looks like you're stuck with me.”

For a moment it was nigh on impossible to believe he hadn't seen it, too. Hadn't seen the spectrum unfold when Edwin said his name. Because how else could someone look at anyone, let alone Edwin, with such certainty? As if he'd never been more sure of anything or anyone in his tragically short life.

Breathtaking was not a word Edwin liked to use lightly. In fact, he preferred not to use it at all. Who had ever seen something so rare, so staggeringly beautiful they'd lost their breath? It was the sort of word Aunt Florence would have used; flowery and hyperbolic.

It seemed Edwin owed her yet another apology.

Light flared in the corner. Their eyes leapt to it. It was of no colour that Edwin could see and yet he could feel it, deep in his soul, he knew its shape and colour; blue. A kinder, softer blue than that of bloodless lips and dreary skies. The wild blue yonder that he was barred from forevermore; the one that awaited Charles Rowland with open arms.

Charles looked at Edwin.

Edwin looked at Charles.

Charles smiled, soul glowing lantern-bright in those dark, confident eyes. He didn't move, not towards the light or away from it, but he held out his hand. Planted like a tree, unbending, unbowed. His roots sunk deep into the loamy earth of life; his branches beckoning Edwin into their boughs.

Oh, thought Edwin, when he understood — didn't see, simply understood — the colour that had been gazing back at him all along. That's the word I was looking for.

~

Thirty years passed, fading into memory, and with them faded the sting. It was hard to mourn the loss of colour when one could scarcely remember what it looked like in the first place. Those fleeting hours blended and blurred amidst the grey years, lost to time; a single hand-tinted frame in a hundred miles of monochrome celluloid.

Though he tried to remember, Edwin struggled to visualise the yellow light that had bathed their faces; the gold that glinted at the cut of Charles' jaw. Pink lips, red veins, the blue stain of death. Such things were impossible to note down in a world of black ink and white pages, and his aide-mémoires soon failed him. The colours fluttered away into the past, scattered to the winds of memory like his mother's smile, his father's voice, Aunt Florence's smoky laughter and the roses she painted on the guest room walls.

But though he could not recall the exact shade of Charles' eyes, nor compare them to any other — not even his own — Edwin knew something about them. Just as he knew Death's light shone heavenly blue. And for once in Edwin's long and tormented afterlife, he felt truly fortunate. Because he'd been allowed to experience only a fraction of what the visible spectrum had to offer; colours he could count on less than two hands.

And yet somehow, by some stroke of luck, he'd seen the best one nonetheless.

~

"At breakfast that morning I had been struck by the lively dissonance of its colours. But that was no longer the point. I was not looking now at an unusual flower arrangement. I was seeing what Adam had seen on the morning of his creation - the miracle, moment by moment, of naked existence."

~ Aldous Huxley

~~

Thank you for coming on this journey with me, my darlings 💛 Love to hear your thoughts! Reminder to check out Olly's amazing gifs! This one took a little while to come together, bc in my first draft Edwin's feelings/progression were a bit all over the place. But I realised that all the sections of the attic scene (not including the very first one/my inserted flashback about Aunt Florence) could track along the five stages of grief quite nicely and that gave me a good framework to loosely follow, starting in his denial of the implications and ending in devastated acceptance of what he's lost. As to why he didn't like, *tell* Charles, well, what would you do? Be honest? If you were a dead Edwardian ghost boy and you found out your actual soulmate was not only another boy, but a doomed one? One who isn't even seeing what you're seeing. Maybe he thought Charles wouldn't believe him, or would take it badly. Maybe he thought telling him would sway him unfairly into staying when Edwin believed he should go. I think he will tell him, one day. And Charles is gonna be PISSED that he kept it from him so long xD For the quotes, I tried to stick to things Edwin could possibly have read, so pre-1989 things, as I like the idea of him using literature as a framework for understanding what he's seeing. It was really interesting writing about colour from the perspective of someone with no reference for it! Some of the quotes might have ended up anachronistic by a couple of years, tbh people are *shit* at sourcing their quotes and while I could source authors easy enough it was hard sometimes to isolate what specific book/anthology the piece came from, or what year it was published. If I'd have had more time I would have done more digging! Anyway, that's about all I got right now. I dunno when I'll be back, probably (hopefully) in a few weeks with the next chapter of Lonely Bones. In the meantime please, feel free to continue chatting with me in the comments, on my tumblr, come be a pal, I've had the time of my life with y'all this week and I'm not ready to get off this train just yet! Until next time! 💛

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for calling the cops (twice, kind of) on someone in a car who swerved at me on the side of the road?

(Disclaimer: I hate cops. But I felt extremely threatened and wasn't going to let this go without something happening.)

I am a high school student and have not yet gotten my license, and therefore cannot drive alone. To get to school I ride an electric scooter, it looks a bit stupid as a high schooler but it is the only way possible for me to get to school on time. (I have a class before school in the morning, and both parents have work.) I've been doing this for over three years and have had no problems until recently.

Two or three weeks ago, I was on my way home from school. I noticed a car approaching from behind, and moved to the very edge of the road as I would normally. I was literally in the gutter on the side of the road, nowhere near where cars would be. This car, however, then sped up rapidly and swerved within 2-3 feet of hitting me. Probably not trying to actually hit me, but clearly trying to scare me or something of the sort. The person in the passenger seat was screaming the whole time.

The car sped off (I should mention that the speed limit on this road is 25 mph, and the car was going at least 50-60 mph) and after standing in shock for a moment I followed them home since they apparently lived in my neighborhood. I caught two teenage boys leaving the car, and asked if they had been in that car and had swerved at me on the road. They denied everything and went inside the house.

I went home and after a short while, came back with my father to back me up. Asshole move from me, I know, but he insisted on going in case the boys decided to get violent. I made him wait a short distance back, then rang the doorbell. Waited for a while, no answer. They were clearly still inside; the car was still parked on the road nearby and I hadn't been gone for long.

When they didn't answer, I then went home and called the police. I gave them the license plate number and the guy's address, and they said there had been reports of him speeding and being reckless before. The cops went to the house and yelled at them, and I thought it was over then. I most certainly did not want to press the issue any further, the shock and adrenaline was wearing off at this point and I just wanted to be done.

But several days later, I was sent screenshots of the driver of that car spreading hate about me on Snapchat for getting him in trouble. Now this is kind of difficult to explain, but I am unfortunately somewhat well known for riding an electric scooter to school. But up until this point, people just were aware of my existence. After the Snapchat posts and messages about me were spread, all of that turned into pure hate. Every time I was seen with that stupid scooter, people would scream that they wished I would fall and stuff like that. None of this had happened before, and I was (and am) miserable and scared. I don't feel safe anywhere around school because this is still ongoing.

I also tried to contact him via Instagram messages, to which he did not respond. That was three times that I attempted to contact him: first by following him as he was getting out of the car, second by ringing the doorbell, and third by messaging him.

Two days ago, I got my mom to pull me out of school early because I was feeling like crap after some particularly bad harassment in the morning. In the office as I was asking to sign out, I started crying in front of the school police officer, and she asked for the full story. I told her about the online posts and the catcalling and harassment I dealt with every day, and she took it very seriously. I didn't want her to do anything really, but she did anyway (I'm not upset about this honestly, it was probably a good thing). She said that the patrol officers usually didn't do much about stuff like this, but she could and would do a lot more.

She pulled the guy out of his class after I had left to go home, and in her words "put the fear of God in that kid"; telling him he should have lost his license and that since he was 18 he could face real consequences and go to jail for stuff like this. He has been told that he has to stay at least three feet away from me at all times.

Since then, he hasn't said anything to me in person, and hasn't posted anything publicly online. I still don't feel safe at school or anywhere in the area, but I've been taking an alternate route to try to avoid being seen and yelled at as much.

Am I the asshole? I honestly think we both might be, but I do feel somewhat justified by the fact that he at least got some sort of consequence for threatening my life like that and causing that level of problem.

What are these acronyms?

[gabessquishytum]

Hob mistaken for a prostitute by Dream.

Hob is just sitting in this hotel bar getting a drink when this blazingly hot man walks up to him and starts talking.

Hob's leaving tomorrow and had been in dumb meetings all day selling his tech company for more money than he thought existed for an idea he came up with his late wife; He and Robyn will be set for life (2 or 3 lives). Hob just wanted a drink to decompress (and quietly freak out). Somehow, this hot guy, who didn't share his name, talked Hob up to his room and blew his back out/they blew each others' backs out (Hob honestly stopped tracking when they front'ed against the room door to a fast 1st one each).

When Hob wakes up the next morning to a pile of cash and a note on hotel stationary saying 'thanks and hope this covers it + tip', he's gobsmacked. 1. It was a lot of money - at least he's a good whore; and 2. Hob didn't think they connected for a long term thing or anything, but he certainly didn't think his stranger thought he was on the job!

Well, life is weird and full, and this will be a great story for his friends at the pub -- Joanna is going to give him so much sh*t. Hob certainly doesn't expect to see his stranger again, now.

This is my new favourite thing. I’m actually so tempted to throw this in my wip pile because omg. I LOVE sex worker Hob, but not-actually-a-sex-worker Hob is so fucking funny and weirdly hot.

Anyway, it keeps Hob from moping as he starts his new life with Robyn. Whenever he’s sad he has a little chuckle about that night. He’ll mutter “chin up, you’re a good whore remember?” whenever he’s having a crisis. He’s moved to this smallish village with a school for Robyn and a nice little pub where Hob has taken on a few shifts that he doesn’t need but hey, they were short staffed. He’s made a small circle of friends and Robyn’s grandparents are just down the road. It’s a very comfortable life.

And then one night he’s hanging out with his friends at the pub, and someone new comes in. Hob doesn’t get a glimpse until Joanna waves the stranger over and introduces him as an old uni mate.

It’s the guy. The hot guy who paid him £4000 cash for sex. Holy shit.

Their eyes meet and Hob feels his face turn bright red. The stranger introduces himself as Morpheus and sits down awkwardly next to Hob, while the rest of the group dissolves back into chatter. Which would be fine, except — Morpheus starts whisper-asking polite questions about Hob’s job. Do his friends know? Should Morpheus be discreet about their encounter? Is Hob being safe? Hob nearly dies there at the table. How’s he supposed to tell the guy that he’s a millionaire, not a rent boy?!

The worst part is, Morpheus is so fucking hot. Hob wants him all over again. And because he’s a fucking idiot, he lets Morpheus take him back to the little B&B he’s staying at nearby. Once again Hob is fucked into sweet oblivion in several different rooms, and when he’s too sore to go any more he takes over and finally fucks Morpheus on the actual bed. Morpheus gives him permission to stay the night and Hob thinks that he really, REALLY needs to come clean but. They both fall asleep.

In the morning over coffee in the kitchen, Morpheus says “I am afraid I only have £500 in cash. Do you have a PayPal account?” Just as Joanna pops in through the back door (it’s her girlfriend’s b&b, she has a key).

“Oh my GOD, Hob.” She says. “This is why EVERYONE assumes that you’re a whore!”

…and from there onwards, chaos reigns.

[l0v3tast3]

here to help — spike spiegel

spike can't help but say yes when you ask him to help you with something so nicely.

✎ tags: mdni!, smut, female reader, cat girl!reader, dub-con if you squint, smoking, spike's eye wasn't the only thing experimented on (wink), pet names, spike is kind of a perv but in a hot way, very brief mentions of blood, dacryphilia, bit of a size kink, he's nice in a mean way, unsafe sex, fluff at the end

✎ word count: 3.8k (proofread this time wowie!)

✎ author's note: i know i haven't posted anything in a month oops sorry ヾ(´ ▽ ` ) ... anyways i'm back and still working on call of duty stuff for those who follow me for that! but i'm also gonna start writing for jujutsu kaisen and cowboy bebop now yippee!

masterlist

spike really, really hated sharing a wall with you right now.

being the latest addition to the bebop, the room next to spike's had been the only empty one left, and you were just so sweet. he had just grumbled a "fine" and went on with his day, thinking that you were agreeable enough to live next to.

you were quiet, certainly more-so than faye; he had reasoned with himself that that was why he said yes. not that your pointed cat ears atop your head and fluffy tail that flicked side to side and curled when you were happy was the cutest thing he'd ever seen.

you had sheepishly explained them when it was just you and him in the living room. he had asked what the deal was with "all that", and you had twiddled your thumbs in your lap and told him about the medical tests gone very wrong. he had started scolding faye and jet whenever they made jokes after that, and kept ed away from poking at you.

now, though, you were anything but quiet.

spike could hear every moan and gasped breath you uttered through the thin wall, his bed of course pressed up against it. he could hear the sounds of you desperately fingering yourself, wet noises between your voiced frustrations. you must have been soaked.

he wasn't stupid; he had figured it out pretty quick. after the first night, when faye had knocked on your door to drag you out and you said you were sick, he knew you were lying. after the second night he realized you were in heat.

this was now the third night in a row, and he was exhausted. it was hard to get any sleep with you practically crying out in his ear, making him painfully hard throughout the whole night. at least he knew now why you would disappear for a week every month you'd been here. this time, though, the bebop just had to be out of fuel, unable to get to the nearest planet with a hotel.

spike was fed up.

he was just going to go over to your door and tell you to be quiet. right? well, he didn't want to embarrass you. but you had to know he could hear you. you had to know he could hear everything, even the whines of his name that you were poorly attempting to keep quiet.

your door stood in front of him and spike was unsure of what to do, more than he had been in a long while. should he knock? just yell and hope you hear?

he was about to just turn away when the door slid open; he hadn't even realized you'd gone quiet. he just stared in shock, mouth hanging open as he processed the fact that the only thing you were wearing was one of his shirts.

"spike," you sighed, as if just seeing him gave you some kind of relief. your eyes were glazed and wet like you were on the verge of crying.

it took him several moments to recover. "you're... being loud," he finally managed to say.

"'m sorry," you muttered, looking down. "can't help it, it just hurts."

"you need some help?"

spike was just as surprised as you seemed to be by the words that had just come out, but your breathy voice, wet thighs, and having been already thinking about this for awhile won him over.

"are- are you serious?"

"wouldn't say it if i didn't mean it." he was walking forward into your doorframe, tall enough that he almost had to slouch. it made him very aware of just how small you were compared to him. "do you want my help?"

you nodded, backing up as he slid the door shut behind him and moved closer to you. when you were at the edge of your bed and couldn't back up anymore, he came close enough to cup your face with his hands and bend down until your lips were a hair's breadth apart.

"you gotta say it, sweetheart."

your hands were on his bare chest, nails almost digging in. "yes, please, need your help, spike-"

he pushed his lips into yours and you let out the sweetest moan he'd ever heard. his hands were running through your hair, down your back and to your waist and under your (his) shirt, swallowing your noises the entire time.

breaking your kiss to pull off your shirt, he marveled at the sight of you. he was laying you down on your bed and biting and licking down your body before he knew it, until he kneeled between your legs, pushing them up to get a better view.

your hands were already in his unruly hair to try and tug him to where you needed him to be, but he didn't budge. instead he brought his hand down from under your knee, each grazing touch closer to your core making you twitch.

"shit, you're so sensitive, baby," he muttered. his fingers had barely touched your clit and you were already crying out.

"please, spike, please just do something," you whimpered when his hand went back to your thigh.

"what do you want me to do, hm?"

"something, anything, please spike!" he almost felt bad when tears started welling up in your eyes again. almost.

"anything?" he echoed with a giddy smile.

he slid two fingers inside you easily. you were practically dripping wet, a damp spot already forming underneath you. he cursed again as he felt how tight you were, watching your back arch almost immediately.

"ha-a, ah! spike!"

your voice was music to his ears, a song he wanted to play on loop forever. he'd been imagining it, your whimpers and pleas, for months now. it was about time the universe paid him back.

it took less than a minute for you to cum, your body going stiff and your voice choking. spike almost came himself when he felt your pussy contracting around his fingers.

he gave you barely any time to recover before he was licking up your juices, sucking on your clit and pushing his tongue into you. you just about screamed, but you didn't push him away, only pulled him closer, one hand leaving his hair to claw at any skin you could reach.

you were already reduced to a babbling mess and he couldn't stop muttering about just how sweet and addicting you were.

"fuuuck, sweetheart," he dragged out, finally detaching himself from your clit after you'd came twice more. "can't get enough of you."

spike stood up and you whined, sitting up and trying to get his sweatpants off before he even had a chance to himself.

he choked out a moan when you started licking and sucking at his cock as soon as his pants were down, looking like you were entering the same trance he had just been in. it took every ounce of willpower he had to drag you off of him and lift you back onto the bed.

"you can do that later, angel. i'm here to help you, right?"

you seemed to forget about going down on him pretty quickly, opting instead for trying to drag the man closer as he crawled over you. he gave in to you rather easily, meeting his lips with yours again.

admittedly, he had been giving into you a lot lately. he would give you the last snack left and let you lean against him on the couch when you were tired. he would let you come with him when he split off from the group when you touched down in a new place.

and of course, everyone noticed. they saw how soft he was with you, how his stature relaxed and he slouched just a bit closer to your level when you walked into the room. and of course, they teased him relentlessly about it.

jet had even asked him once if spike thought you went into heats.

"well, she disappears for a week every month. what if that's when- ya know-"

"faye disappears all the time. so do i. besides, it's none of our business."

spike would never admit that he got off to the thought of it. and now, here he was, basically living his dreams. he couldn't wipe the grin off his face.

you whined when he started rubbing his dick over your pussy, his head bumping your clit with each grind. he found your attempts to line your hips up so he would finally fuck into you adorable; there wasn't much you could do though when he had his arms hooked under your knees and hands grabbing at your waist.

"aww, sweetheart, what's wrong?" he patronized, breaking away from kissing you. you were still grabbing at him wherever you could. "what is it? you want me to fuck you?"

"mhm, need you to, please spike- ah!"

he wasted no time pushing into you as soon as he heard your sweet voice, cursing as he slowly pressed in further and further, barely dragging his hips back before he would slide in more.

"oh, fuck, baby- so fuckin' tight, can barely fit my dick inside you- shit!"

you cried out when he finally bottomed out; it was like he was reshaping you to fit him inside. it had been so long since you had been with someone, since someone had helped you with your heat, but even then it had never felt as good as it did now.

he was about to ask if you were alright when you started begging him to move, to fuck you, to please help you. his final shred of resolve snapped before he grabbed one of your wrists as leverage to start hammering into you.

your back arched again and spike took that as an opportunity to lean down and suck on one of your nipples. he wasn't surprised when you came again already, your cunt tightening until he felt like he could barely move. your eyes rolled back and your nails dug as deep as they could into spike's back, probably drawing blood. he didn't care, though, because you looked so pretty cumming on his cock.

spike kept making you cum as much as he could until he couldn't fight off his own orgasm anymore (he was honestly impressed with himself that he'd managed to even last this long).

"where do you want me, baby? huh? where d'you want my cum?" he breathed, watching your body squirm and twitch from overstimulation.

you couldn't even answer him, feeling like he fucked your brain right out of your head. all you could think of was the pleasure overtaking your entire being, of wanting to stay like this for as long as possible.

when you didn't say anything, spike leaned down over you and left your leg on his shoulder to lightly grab your jaw.

"c'mon, angel, you gotta answer me," he panted. "you want me to cum inside you, right?"

that seemed to bring you out your haze a little bit and you nodded, ears teary and face painted a cute shade of pink. "mhm- ah- cum in- side, ah! please!" you managed.

he came with a harsh groan, bullying his dick as far into you as he could as he filled you up. you came with him one more time, your body clinging onto his, trying to keep him from pulling out.

you both stayed like that for some time, kissing slow and stealing the other's body heat. you whimpered when he pulled away and started to untangle your limbs from his, but he shushed you with another smile.

"don't worry, sweetheart. we're far from being done."

spike found out just how sensitive your extra appendages are pretty quickly, and he absolutely took advantage of it.

scratching and petting your soft ears made you melt against him, like putty in his hands. he found you're much more pliant when he does it, less whiny and more grateful.

of course, spike wasn't a complete dick, so he would take you into his room to feed both of his addictions at once. like when he was fucking you but stopped every time you were about to cum, torturing you just to see what you'd do. he had your hands tied to his headboard, keeping one hand on your stomach to pin you down and using the other to smoke a cigarette while he lazily fucked you.

"nngh, nonono- please! spike, you're bein' mean-"

he bends down over you to put out his cigarette on the bedside table, making him press deeper into you; you nearly came just from that, choking on your words.

"i'm being mean? sweetheart, i'm helping you." he cupped your face and debated internally for a second before he reached up to pet and rub your little cat ears soothingly.

your tensed limbs went slack, no longer tugging on your binds or trying to pull him closer with your legs. your wide eyes became lidded and you started nuzzling your head further into his hand.

"you asked for my help, remember? this is how i help you, baby," he cooed, and when you gave a little nod and a whimpered "mhm" he smiled. "you just gotta be a good girl and take it. can you do that?"

you nodded again. "mhm, i'll be good," you mumbled.

"good," spike said, reaching for another cigarette and leaning back up to light it. he put a hand back on your stomach and when he wasn't holding his cigarette he was petting your ears as he went back to slowly dragging his hips back and forth.

he also found out that tugging on your tail made you cum nearly instantly, and he used that until you were crying.

you were on your hands and knees on the floor with spike fucking you from behind, having to hold your hips to keep them up; he was holding your hair in a messy ponytail to make you watch it all in the floor-length mirror that was in front of you.

the curl of your tail against your back was just so cute, and having seen the effect of touching your ears, he had no hesitation in grabbing your tail lightly. your body shuddered and twitched and your back arched when you let out a loud whine.

"shit," he groaned through clenched teeth, feeling your pussy tightening around him. "you really like that, don't you angel?"

"fu-uck, mm-mm, i don'-"

he grabbed the base of your tail and tugged, and you were clawing at the blankets underneath you as you came.

"ha, why are you lying to me, baby?" spike breathed, tossing his head back as he fucked you through your orgasm. "thought you were finally being good."

he flipped you over with a pillow under your back and tried it again while he ate you out, and he was delighted to feel your cunt pulsing around his tongue. he tried it when he was just rubbing your clit, when he only had two fingers inside of you, when he was just sucking on your tits. you came every time, and each time made you try to claw your way away from him a little more. he never let you run; even if he did, he knew you would just come right back.

"one more time, baby, just one more for me," he kept saying, until you were reaching back to grab his wrist, his arm, his chest, anything to get him to let up.

"please, ple- ah, spike!" you hiccupped. which one of you was the one in heat again? "break, i need- nnh- need a break!"

he slowed down his thrusts and took his hand away from your tail, your sob turning into one of relief.

"alright, baby, we can take a break, you just gotta give me one more," he said, leaning down over you to kiss the back of your neck. you tried to shake your head, tried to say you couldn't give him anymore; it was then that you realized you definitely wouldn't be able to keep up with him if you continued this after your heat was over.

"i know you can, doin' so good for me," he just mumbled as he fucked you slower, until he finally let himself cum, of course making sure to give your tail one last squeeze. he couldn't help himself when it forced the cutest moans out of you.

he filled you with his cum over and over again, the both of you passing out for a couple of hours just to wake up and fuck all over again.

he would wake up to you sucking his dick, you would wake up to him spooning you and giving you hickies in the spaces between the ones he'd already left while he fingered you open again.

the only other time you stopped fucking is when he forced you to take a break and shower. you clung to him like a koala bear the entire way to the bathroom, fucked again in the shower, and clung to him all the way back.

during the duration of your heat, spike found himself being a lot more caring than he had been to someone in a very long time. he made sure you drank plenty of water, took you to the bathroom, made sure you ate still, dealt with your whining every second he wasn't physically touching you. in truth, he liked how much it made him feel needed.

he only ran into jet once while he quickly raided the fridge and filled up water bottles. jet came in just as he was hugging the supplies to his shirtless chest.

"spike! where the hell have you been?"

"uh... well, turns out she does go into heat," he said with a shrug and a slightly smug grin, walking past jet.

"oh, shit... wait, how do you know-" his jaw dropped when he saw spike's chest, back and arms, scratched to hell and marked with bites from your little fangs. he told faye, edward, and ein that you two were both very sick and needed to be "quarantined", counting himself lucky their bedrooms were all on the opposite side of the ship from yours.

you both stayed in your routine of fucking, sleeping, eating, and being forced to bathe for four days before your system starts calming down (spike had found himself considering the experiments done on himself more good than bad; he was so grateful he could keep up with you).

it's when you wake up with a pained groan as he's stretching out his overused muscles that he knows you're finally sobering up. as much as he loved the sex marathon, he was starting to get sore all over.

he plops back down next to you and you roll over to lay on top of him, but for the first time in days you don't start nipping at his chest and grinding against him. you just let out a little whine and go back to sleep. he can't help the little smile that spreads across his lips, and he reaches up to gently pet your ears and hair until he falls back asleep too.

you're shook awake a few hours later, blearily cracking open your eyes to see spike setting down a tray of "beef" and vegetables next to you on the bed. he gently moves your legs to sit beside you and eat his own.

"morning, sweetheart," he says when you raise your head and mumble something along the same lines back, slowly shifting onto your back and sitting up with another groan.

spike frowns a little in worry, wondering now if he had been too rough on you. it doesn't match up to your face of horror, though, when you look up and see his shirtless body.

"oh god, spike, 'm so sorry! you didn't have to- oh god," you ramble in panic, reaching out to him then retracting your hands and hiding your face in them, curling up into a ball.

spike laughs a little bit before he reaches over and gently takes your wrists in his hands to show your face to him again. "it's alright! hey, really, it's alright. i love the kind of woman who stakes her claim," he reassured with a cheesy smile.

your face goes red and you look down, embarrassed. "you didn't have to help me. i'm sorry- 'm sorry i made you do... all that."

"i seem to recall making you do a lot of things, too. very happily, too."

"well, yeah, but-"

"trust me, i enjoyed every minute of it, princess. well, except maybe having to force you into the shower. and having to spoon-feed you."

"you did not have to spoon-feed me!" you mutter indignantly, brows furrowing adorably and your tail flicking behind you.

"yes, i did," he sys, pointing his fork at you as he went back to his tray, "when you just needed to keep my dick inside you but didn't want to stop fucking yourself on it long enough to eat. had to hold you down." he acts like he's complaining, but he has a shit-eating grin on his face the entire time.

you choke on your own spit a little before huffing; before you can turn to your own food he adds on, "eat, don't make me force feed you again." you half-pout and half-glare at him, but you shovel the food into your mouth nonetheless.

once you're beyond full, you collapse back onto the bed, fully intending to go back to sleep and let your hormones rebalance on their own. you were always sore and exhausted for a day or two after your heat, but you usually slept through it anyways.

"hey." apparently, spike has other plans. "come on, we gotta take a bath." he's hauling you back into a sitting position and pulling his t-shirt over your head, which of course swallows you whole, despite all your whines and protests. "quit complaining, all you gotta do is sit in the water."

regardless of his front of acting like he was doing you a favor, he lets you cling to him again all the way to the bathroom. he washes your hair and cleans you off, makes sure the water isn't too hot for you. generally, you hate baths, but this seemed like something you could live with.

when he's toweled you dry and put you in one of his clean shirts, you sit on the counter while he finishes pulling up his sweats.

he picks you up again and as he starts walking you both back to your room, he asks, "so when did you take my shirt, anyway?"

spike feels you tense up and your cheeks get warm where they're pressed into the crook of his neck.

"i didn't take it," you squeak, "it got- it got mixed up in the laundry..."

"riiight. sure, sweetheart."

[alice-after-dark]

Deer Wife AU - Settling In

Inspired by @hiemaldesirae's deer sinner Vox designs (1 | 2) and his Attic-Wife Vox AU

Welp was gonna post this tomorrow but then Ran went and dropped this amazing art and I just couldn't wait.

TW for implications of eating disorders.

It has been nearly a month since Alastor had taken Vox from those sharks and brought him home and things were bizarre to say the least. Alastor hasn't asked anything of him except for him to rest and to actually eat his meals. And he is very stern about Vox finishing his meals. It is difficult, though Alastor's fantastic cooking certainly makes it easier. Unfortunately even that doesn't stop the discomfort from settling in once he has finished. He is certain he's gained weight. He tries not to think about it.

Truthfully, by the reactions of the sharks when Alastor had arrived on the scene, Vox was certain he'd fallen from the frying pan into the fire, but the red deer has been nothing but kind to him. He keeps him warm and fed and protected. When Vox woke up the first night he'd been brought there, Alastor had let him take his first proper bath in weeks and then dressed the wounds he'd received from the beating those sharks had given him for mouthing off. It was truly hard to believe that someone who treated him so tenderly was so feared. But he'd felt the fear in those other Sinners, had heard them curse in fright. They'd called him the Radio Demon.

Vox still wasn't sure what that meant, but he didn't really care.

Vox hasn't left his room since Alastor brought him there and if he was being honest, his desire to was waning rapidly. What did he possibly need anyways? Alastor provided for him, gave him everything he asked for, fed him. The worst part he supposed was the loneliness that would come in between Alastor's visits. Alastor came to him every meal time and they always spent nearly the entire evening together, but frequently during the day Vox was left to his own devices. In life, Vox had always been a social person and every moment spent without Alastor drove home the loneliness.

Before Alastor, his life had been...well...Hell. He'd been holed up in an old warehouse with several other weak Sinners, cold and afraid and hungry, until those loan sharks had raided the place, looking for some asshole who owed them money. Vox had been among those to nearly escape, until he'd been cornered and forced into a deal. Then Alastor had appeared and everything had changed.

Vox could admit he'd been more than a little skeptical during the first couple weeks. He was waiting on bated breath for the other show to drop, for Alastor to reveal some sinister intentions. But it never came. The only thing Alastor seemed to want was for him to remain safe and secure inside his room. He wanted him safe, nothing more.

The sound of the door shutting downstairs makes Vox's ears flick in excitement. Alastor! Alastor is home! He fumbles for his hairbrush. He has about an hour while Alastor cooks dinner and he wants to make sure he's presentable. Should he change? He's still in his nightgown.

That had been something to get used to. Alastor bought him many clothes, from simple turtlenecks, button-ups, and slacks to blouses, skirts, and dresses. The social norms instilled in him from his time above pushed back hard against the idea of him wearing women's clothing. At first he had stuck to the menswear, but as time went on he felt bad leaving all those nice dresses untouched. Alastor had clearly put thought into every piece and somehow seemed to know exactly what styles and colors Vox would like the most. So he'd stuffed down his father's raging in his mind and put on one of the dresses.

And he hadn't instantly caught fire. In fact, it felt...nice. He felt pretty.

He'd been so caught up in the experience that he hadn't noticed Alastor's return home until the man arrived with their dinner. Embarrassment and shame had flooded him, like a child caught doing something naughty...until Alastor told him it looked nice and Vox was all at once reminded that Alastor had been the one to buy him the dress in the first place. Of course he wouldn't think poorly of him dressing like a woman.

He decides on a simple red midi skirt and cream sweater just in time to hear Alastor ascend the stairs and the lock click open.

"Well, you certainly look lovely, darling."

Vox blushes despite himself. "Thank you."

He wants it. He wants Alastor's praise. He wants his attention.

Alastor sets their food on the table and gestures for Vox to join him and any loneliness the blue deer was feeling is gone, scattered to the wind like it was never there. Alastor is once again his entire world and Vox is satisfied with that.