#bad sentence. you may throw rocks at me

[scary-yuri]

what if instead of t45 power armour it was called tgirl power armour

[neostrayteez]

SOMEONE WITH SECRETS

PAIRING. lee jeno x female reader

WORD COUNT. 6.9k

SUMMARY. you have detention thanks to your temper and unfortunately, so does jeno, the boy you hooked up with last summer.

WARNINGS. smut, profanity

PLAYLIST. “gangsta” by kehlani

YOU GOT ME HOOKED UP ON THE FEELING GOT ME UP SO HIGH I’M BARELY BREATHING

The library was quieter than usual. There was almost an echo to the old clock on the wall, ticking by the seconds that felt like hours. A minute may as well have been a day in here.

You were - humiliatingly - two minutes early. It wasn’t that you were eager to serve your sentence, but political science finished a bit fast and you were actively avoiding your peers after the scene you made during lunch that landed you in here.

Their looks of scorn, adoration and worst of all, pity, were uncomfortable.

The library was empty. A perfect place to lay low and hide. You picked a seat at the second table a respectable distance from the front. Mr. Kim waltzed in, looking perturbed as ever, and called you by name.

“A whole week, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

He bobbed his head.

You were lucky not to be suspended for the outburst, but your squeaky clean record up until this point had swayed the principal in your favor.

Mr. Kim checked his watch. For a moment, there was a tiny sliver of hope that you would have the library all to yourself, serving detention alone. But then, five minutes late, Jeno strutted through the door.

“What’s up, Mr. Kim?” he asked gruffly.

You wanted to crawl under a rock and die.

Jeno noticed you, his eyes locking onto you like a sniper’s scope, and pure mischief spread across his face along with a grin.

“You’re late, Mr. Lee!”

“Well, well, well,” Jeno taunted, as if he’d not heard him, cocking his head and sticking his tongue out at you. “What do we have here?”

“Fuck off, Jeno,” you grumbled.

Mr. Kim chided your choice of language and barked, “Mr. Lee, take your seat.”

“Of course, sir,” Jeno said silkily, dropping into the chair directly behind yours.

You rolled your eyes. Of all the tables and chairs, he positioned himself there to be a nuisance to you. You expected nothing less.

Jeno leaned forward. “You know, ‘fuck off’ isn’t what you said to me the last time we were alone together,” he whispered in mocking. “It was more like, ‘Fuck me, Jeno. Ooh. Ahh. Fuck me.’”

You flushed with embarrassment and your heart dropped into your stomach. You didn’t need to be reminded of the ridiculous shit his dick made you say that night.

To your relief, Mr. Kim spoke like he didn’t hear the filth rolling off Jeno’s tongue, “You’ve both got an hour in here. No talking. No running about. Just sit and contemplate your bad decisions.”

You and Jeno fixed him with equally blank stares.

“But since I know you won’t, just study or nap. Whatever. I don’t care.” Mr. Kim pointed his finger squarely at Jeno. “Just no funny business that could get me scolded by the principal. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, sir,” you and Jeno said in sync.

Mr. Kim gave a nod and left, adding that he would be checking in every once and a while to ensure nothing scandalous occurred on his watch.

The moment the door closed, Jeno stood, flipped his chair around and straddled it. Overlapping his arms on the back, he said, “Never thought I’d see the valedictorian in detention.”

“You know why I’m in here,” you hissed, leaning back, trying not to let him get under your skin. Of all people, to be stuck with Jeno? This was an extra serving of penance you didn’t sign up for.

It’s not that you disliked him. Not entirely anyway. It’s just that Jeno had the ability of seeing right through you. You couldn’t fool him or sway him, like you could everyone else. Jeno had you completely mapped out after one night.

And what a night that had been.

Jeno chuckled. “I must say, watching you fuck Kylie up in the cafeteria was not on my bingo card for this semester, but it was a thrill. The judo-style throw to the ground was immaculate.”

He was tempted to add that you had permission to throw him like that any time you so desired.

You snorted, but said nothing. You didn’t feel guilty about fighting Kylie - the bitch had it coming the moment she crossed you - but fighting wouldn’t look good on your pristine record. And although you’d already landed a coveted spot at an Ivy League school plus a hefty scholarship, you were in no position to jeopardize either with your temper.

Jeno scooted his chair toward you noisily. “Why’d you fight?”

Folding your arms across your chest, you turned to finally look at him and snapped, “How many languages can you say ‘none of your business’ in?”

“Three. Now, come on.” Jeno whined your name. “We’ve got an hour in here together. Plus five extra minutes, in my case. Tell me why you leveled her.”

You clamped your lips shut.

Jeno was nothing but persistent. “Did she plagiarize your essay? Did she make fun of your clothes?” Jeno lowered his voice and asked, “Did she steal a certain boy from you?”

A bolt of anger went rushing through you like lightning. Whipping around to face him again, your eyes shone with emotions you went to great lengths to hide. “You know?”

Jeno nodded.

“Everyone knows. Don’t they?”

He nodded again, but this time, the mischief was gone from his face.

You hung your head. There was no way to adequately describe this feeling. You wanted to cry and would probably feel better if you did, but you dared not shed a single tear over a boy that didn’t love you.

The saddest part was you thought he could. It stung the most. Like getting bit and feeling the venom slowly poison you for days afterward until you finally succumbed. The bite itself was bad enough, but to languish in misery and pain? That was cruel.

Jeno got up from his chair and took the seat beside yours. He stretched his arm out on the table and propped his head in his hand, trying to search your face, but you were well-hidden behind your hair.

You didn’t say anything when Jeno tenderly tucked some of the strands behind your ear.

“Don’t lose sleep over Mark Lee.”

“I won’t,” you said roughly, lifting your chin high and forcing out the breath you’d been holding, along with the tears you successfully stifled.

Jeno smiled. Then, seeing you were no longer on the verge of crying, resumed his teasing. “I never thought someone like you would fight over a boy. It’s beneath you.”

Your lips parted in disbelief. “I wasn’t fighting over him,” you exclaimed. “I fought her because she disrespected me.”

You were telling the truth. The moment Mark betrayed you, your feelings for him evaporated into thin air. Jeno was right. You would never chase after a boy. The betrayal still stung though.

Jeno smirked and licked his lips. “Well, you definitely got your respect back, baby girl.”

You grimaced. “Don’t call me that.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but we hooked up last summer. Didn’t we?”

“That doesn’t mean you can slap a dumb pet name on me.”

“Not the only thing I slapped, if memory serves,” Jeno murmured darkly.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. The heavy smack of his hand landing on your naked ass echoed in your mind. The memory was still fresh, like it happened yesterday, and it made you press your thighs together.

That was what frustrated you most about Jeno - your body craved him, remembering how good he made you feel.

Satisfied by your reaction, Jeno sat up, slouching in the chair. He spread his long legs, his knee brushing against your thigh, but you didn’t move away. You didn’t want to give him an ounce of submission.

If you gave him an inch, he would turn it into a mile.

You sized him up. Jeno looked a little too good with long hair, dark like his eyes. The leather jacket fit him like a glove, as always - he never left home without it, and his jeans looked ripped from use and not that he bought them that way.

Jeno marched to the beat of his own drum. He didn’t give a shit what people thought about him, but they knew better than to voice any opinions either way. Jeno lived in detention for bending people into submission with force. He didn’t tolerate disrespect on his name.

Apparently, you had that in common.

It took you a moment to realize you were eyeing him. Who could blame you? His thick thighs in those jeans warranted at least an extra second or two of staring.

Jeno was enjoying it. He smirked. “Like what you see, baby?”

“You look good,” you said shamelessly. You had history together. You knew he liked to be complimented on his body and looks. And if you fucked someone, didn’t that give you license to flirt with them later?

“Thanks. So do you,” Jeno replied, eyes lingering on your cleavage.

You started to grin and quickly turned your head to hide it.

That didn’t matter. Jeno knew you were pleased. And he wanted to lewdly elaborate that you looked mouth-watering. With your pretty black skirt and v-neck tee. Your body was strong from volleyball, where you spiked the ball almost as hard as you socked Kylie in the face for stealing from you.

Rumor had it you crushed on Mark Lee for months and his oblivious self had no fucking idea where to buy a clue. You finally had the courage to make a move on him - as much as it killed you to be the one to initiate - but after one perfect date after another, you thought there was a future between you and Mark.

Which was dashed the moment Kylie flaunted the hickies on her neck and the bruises on her thighs Mark had left behind at a party.

Jeno frowned. Mark didn’t deserve you. You needed someone worthy that could match your fire and energy, not staunch it. Someone that would protect your heart and worship your body.

Kylie would have never been able to take Jeno away from you. He was as loyal as he was fearless. Any disrespect showed to you, was disrespect shown to him.

But… you weren’t his, Jeno remembered.

His mind wandered, back to the summer. Jeno could still smell the salt of the sea as it wafted on the breeze through the open windows. He could still hear how you moaned his name and sometimes, if he closed his eyes, he could still feel your fingernails dragging down his back as he fucked you in the backseat of his car.

Mr. Kim walked in then, whistling as he did. He saw Jeno’s new position beside you and the look of sheer annoyance on your face, and quirked a brow, but nothing else was amiss so he didn’t care. Jeno gave him a wave, you offered an awkward smile, and Mr. Kim returned to his office with a half-hearted warning to behave yourselves.

As Mr. Kim’s footsteps echoed further down the hall, Jeno slid his chair closer to yours, but this time, he crowded your back.

You felt the heat of him first and you shivered when the scent of him really hit you. His cologne was something earthy and clean, but curiously, he smelled like strawberries, which caught you off-guard. That was when you noticed he was chewing gum.

Jeno blew a bubble that burst with a loud pop.

“Strawberry?”

“Mmhm. Want some?”

“No thanks.”

Jeno raked his eyes up and down your body. He so badly wanted a taste of you, no matter how small it was. If you only knew he would do anything you asked of him for a kiss.

He closed the rest of the distance between you, which wasn’t much, and brushed your hair to the side slowly, leaving your neck exposed for him to begin trailing soft kisses up the column of your throat.

“Jeno...,” you said, your tone full of warning, but you didn’t tell him to stop.

Jeno slipped an arm around your waist like a snare, shifting you toward him. He was logging away every second that you didn’t push him away. “Hm?”

“If you get me in trouble,” you mumbled, but your actions betrayed your words. You tipped your head back, giving him even more access to your neck, and you reached behind to slip your fingers into his long hair. You’d been wanting to run your hands through it since you laid eyes on him.

Damn it. Why does he have to feel so good?

Jeno chuckled darkly. You were falling apart in his arms, just like you did last summer. He kissed and suckled the sensitive spot beneath your ear, and tightened his grip around you until your shoulders were flush against his chest.

There was definitely a connection. Jeno’s heart didn’t race when he saw other girls, even the ones he’d hooked up with, but any time he caught a glimpse of you, his heart went wild, taking his pulse with it.

You hummed, eyes fluttering closed. His kisses grew louder and wetter, nibbling aggressively beneath your jaw. He was turning you into mush. You could feel yourself getting weaker, running your hands over those burly arms, imagining them around your naked waist as he drilled you from behind.

In an instant, you were back in his car, feeling it rock underneath you with Jeno’s rough movements. He filled you so deeply - so completely. You felt a pleasure and release more than you’d ever known before.

Jeno was the best sex of your life; a crown no other boy had come even remotely close to taking from him.

You remembered where you were (which was not the backseat of his car, unfortunately) and why you were there in the first place (because of a stupid boy that broke your heart), and you unwound Jeno’s arms from your waist and shook free of him.

Jeno studied you, cocking his head coyly. His eyes, though clouded with lust, were also twinkling with affection. Like you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

“We can’t,” you said weakly.

Jeno purred your name. “You can kiss me. There’s no one here, but you and me. Just you and me.”

You wavered. He had never looked so kissable than at that moment.

What the hell was this emotion sitting heavily on your chest? Had you missed Jeno? You would never voice that though. You were no fool.

Jeno reached for your waist slowly, giving you every chance to draw away from him or bat at his hands, but you didn’t. He steered you toward him again, this time face to face, and whispered, “I’ve missed you.”

That makes two of us, after all.

“I’ve been here the whole time,” you told him, a little stern, your expression sour. “You could have asked me out.”

“Pfft.” Jeno scoffed dramatically. “Yeah, the deadbeat and the valedictorian. Very Beauty and the Beast of us. What would your friends say?”

You’d never seen him so bitter. It almost knocked you back. “You think my friends have any say over who I date?”

“Yes, because that’s why you wanted Mark as bad as you did.”

You bristled. Did he really think that little of you? Or was that jealousy talking?

Jeno kept going, pretending to swoon. “Perfect Mark Lee. Top athlete. Class president. Headed to an Ivy League, like you. Rich parents. He’s the whole pretty package.”

“I liked Mark because he was kind. Not because of what he had,” you said in a small voice.

“Sure, babe.” Jeno rolled his eyes.

Your first instinct was to get annoyed, maybe even offended, but instead, you saw right through him. As Jeno shifted away from you, you moved closer to him and asked, “Do you wanna know why I slept with you last summer?”

“Because you were horny?”

“Because you asked me to dance with you.”

Jeno paused.

You chuckled fondly to yourself, thinking back to that night. You and Jeno never crossed paths at school, but fate must have been at play then.

“I was so tired and burnt out and stressing over every goddamn thing in my life that I had to get right, and I was wondering what the hell I would do if I failed. If I screwed everything up and let everyone down. My whole family is counting on me to make something of myself.”

Jeno listened, looking at you a little differently.

You smiled as you said, “You approached me at that party. You made me laugh. You got me to dance for the first time in years. I used to love dancing. You made me forget how fucking exhausted I was for a night.”

A grin spread itself across Jeno’s lips. “And exhausted you in other ways.”

You nodded, fighting a laugh.

Jeno reached for your face, stroking his thumb over your cheek, and whispered, “Aren’t you just full of surprises, baby girl?”

This time, you didn’t correct him on the pet name. It was starting to grow on you. You bit your lip, wishing you had the courage to admit just how badly you wanted him to touch you.

Jeno confidently pulled you into his arms again, reading your mind, and brushed his lips over your cheek before kissing the corner of your mouth. You made the softest sound, like this one gentle kiss had completely ruined what was left of your resolve.

Sound beyond the door made you part from each other, sitting rigidly in your chair to avert suspicion. Mr. Kim peeked his head in, asked if either of you needed to use the bathroom, and when you both declined, he left again.

The door closed and Jeno reached for your hand. You let him, watching curiously as he surveyed the bruises on your knuckles. There were a few jagged cuts of broken skin that the nurse disinfected after the fight. She said they would heal faster in the open air, but you could bandage them later if you felt it necessary.

Jeno pressed a kiss to your bruised knuckle, then the other, carefully avoiding the cuts. It turned him on; you being strong and vicious, so hell-bent on punishing disrespect shown toward you. You had that in common with him.

It was sick and twisted, Jeno was well aware, but that was part of what made it even more attractive and arousing to him. Kylie stole Mark, not because she wanted him for herself (she wasn’t the least bit interested in him, much to Mark’s shock when he realized he lost two girls in one night with one fuck), but because she wanted to take something away from you that you really wanted.

You sucked in a breath when Jeno’s lips and tongue drifted to your wrist. He really was determined to seduce you and you were getting closer and closer to surrender. You glanced at the clock. Detention was half over now. He was running out of time.

Between kisses, Jeno said, “I don’t think Mark would know what to do with you if you had him.”

Your brows stitched in confusion.

Jeno glanced up, fire flickering in his eyes. “You’re way too powerful for him.”

That made something inside you snap. In the next second, you crashed into Jeno, locking your lips to his in a kiss that put the others to shame.

Jeno was ready to catch you, getting his arms around your waist and lifting you into the air like you weighed nothing. You held his head in your hands, tangling your fingers in his long hair, and made a noise when he set you down on the table, popping your legs around his hips where they belonged.

This boy was yours. There was no doubt in your mind. The way he kissed you and the way he held you to him, there was nothing on this earth he wouldn’t do for you. To have you.

You slipped your tongue into his mouth and Jeno kneaded your hips, his hands rough as he roamed them over your body. There was a catch in your breath when his fingers slipped under your shirt, desperate to touch your bare skin.

“Fuck,” Jeno groaned between kisses, his jeans getting too tight. He settled his hands on your thighs to anchor himself to you and thrust his growing bulge against your clothed sex, feeling your warmth.

You lost track of time. And everything else. Fuck it all. There was only you and Jeno, just like he said, kissing and touching. Reckless and hungry, one for the other.

The sound of the door sent adrenaline prickling through every inch of you, but you were too drunk on his kisses to give any thought to self-preservation. Jeno reacted much faster than you did, dragging you off the table and clumsily to your feet. You managed to throw yourself into the nearest chair while Jeno - for whatever stupid reason had popped into his head - dove under the table.

Mr. Kim poked his head inside and upon seeing only one of two criminals, came marching in. “Where is Mr. Lee?” he exclaimed.

You smoothed your hair back, desperately trying to catch your breath and get just the tiniest bit of composure. Mr. Kim would raise hell if he knew you’d been making out when you were supposed to be dying of boredom.

“He, uh,” you stammered. Fuck! “He went to the bathroom.”

Mr. Kim narrowed his eyes. He was not convinced.

Your eyes, on the other hand, widened.

Jeno’s hands were running up your bare thighs, pushing up your skirt.

“Are you sure?” Mr. Kim pressed.

No. He’s between my legs. Your heart was racing out of control. Your lungs were going to combust. Jeno’s hands were on your hips and his head was between your knees. You could feel his warm breath on your inner thighs.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. “Positive, Mr. Kim. He’ll be right back,” you said hurriedly.

Jeno lifted your skirt a little higher, knowing you were hidden from the waist down by the table, and smirked at the sight of your pink panties. And buried his face in your clothed pussy.

“Fuck,” you squeaked out in a high-pitched whimper.

“Language,” Mr. Kim chided once again. “Tell Mr. Lee he now has to stay an additional ten minutes for taking a stroll!”

You threaded your fingers into Jeno’s hair, trying frantically to slow him down, but he was kissing your sex with the same passion and intensity as he’d kissed your lips - like he was trying to make you scream. And you weren’t far from that.

Nodding rapidly, you said, “Yes, Mr. Kim. I’ll tell him. I promise.”

Suspicion was clearly written all over Mr. Kim’s face, but you knew Jeno giving you head underneath the table was not on the list of possibilities going through his mind. Thank god.

Jeno kept a punishing grip on your hips, kissing and tonguing at your folds, tasting your arousal despite the panties in his way. He couldn’t wait to peel them off and make you beg.

When the door closed, sending a loud slam echoing through the library, Jeno quickly slipped out from between your legs, knowing exactly the reaction he was going to get.

You reached under the table, swatting at his head as best you could. “Fuck you, Jeno,” you yelled. “Fuck you!”

“You will in a minute,” Jeno retorted, grabbing your knees and spreading you apart for him again.

You fell back against the chair, gasping at how he manhandled you. “Oh shit,” you moaned as he yanked your panties to the side and dived back in.

Jeno steered your legs onto his shoulders and found your clit with his tongue. He soon grew frustrated with your underwear, which seemed to be intentionally trying to block his way. Winding his hands through them, Jeno tugged sharply, ripping your panties with ease and letting them fall to the floor.

“Not fair,” you whined, pulling on his hair in retaliation and earning yourself a moan that made your toes curl.

Jeno kissed the inside of your thigh and said, “All’s fair in love and war.”

At first, you kept your eyes worriedly on the doors, but soon, your eyes were winched closed, your head tipped back. You writhed on the chair, arching and squirming, because it had been a while since someone ate you out, but mostly because Jeno was kissing your cunt like a man starved.

Jeno slipped his tongue into your hole and lapped at your slick. He was a lucky bastard to be burying his face in your pretty pussy. You weren’t exactly an easy girl to bag. Boys were lining up around the building to fuck you, but only Jeno had scored last summer. You’d told him as much.

Had you been saving yourself for Mark since then? It would seem so, given how sensitive you were to Jeno’s mouth. He was going to unravel you in no time.

You bounced into his face, covering your mouth to muffle your sounds, your other hand cupping his head. Jeno reached under your shirt, under your bra, and palmed your breasts, which were shuddering with the rest of your body. He kneaded them and pinched your nipples, teasing his fingers around the nubs until he felt them stiffen.

Jeno shook his head between your legs, your thighs clamped tightly on him. Your pussy was fucking addictive. He knew he should stop - that he needed to stop - but he just couldn’t. He wanted to suck every drop out of you until one of you passed out from exhaustion. Or orgasm. Whichever came first, because Jeno was so hard in his jeans there was a strong chance he was going to come untouched in his pants.

“I’m coming,” you cried out, your lashes fluttering as he played with your nipples and your clit. Your mouth was dry from panting. “Jeno… Jeno, please!”

Fuck, he loved how you said his name and how you begged for him, on the cusp of euphoria. But Jeno made a disapproving sound and gave one last kiss to your perfect pussy.

Your eyes went wide, just like they had when he first started, as you watched Jeno come out from beneath the table. “What are you doing?”

“Hm?” He played clueless, much to your annoyance, and he nonchalantly swiped your ripped panties off the floor and tucked them into his back pocket.

“Why are you stopping?!” You sounded desperate, because you were. Climax had been right there, close enough to taste. You were experiencing the most powerful tunnel vision of your life, thinking only of how you could get him between your legs again to finish what he started.

Jeno came to stand over you. He sure did enjoy watching you lose your mind. He cocked his head for the millionth time that afternoon and just smirked down at you. “Who have you fucked since me?”

“No one.”

“Should I believe that?”

He did believe it actually. Jeno just liked toying with you. And with how badly fucked out you were already, the edge of your orgasm slipping away with every passing second, you weren’t exactly in good shape to lie to him.

His hesitation infuriated you, as it should. Was he implying you’d been whoring around? You got up, shoving him away from you, and whined, “You bastard, I hate you!”

Jeno grabbed you and stole a kiss in the time it took you to blink, before you could even react. But it didn’t matter. You folded into him like you had not a shred of self-respect left to your name, like he was the only thing you wanted.

“Fuck me like you hate me then,” Jeno growled, watching you expectedly. You were still reeling from the kiss. “If you wanna come, baby, you gotta do it on my dick.”

He made you crazy. You didn’t know whether to suck him dry or slap the shit out of him. He would enjoy both. You glanced down, seeing the hard bulge in his jeans, your mind filling with memories of that big cock and what it could do to you.

Jeno raised a brow. “How about it?”

You scowled. He truly was annoying as all hell in addition to being stupidly good-looking.

Jeno watched as you turned away from him, reaching for your bag and rifling through it hurriedly. And he chuckled darkly when you pulled out a condom packet and slapped it into his hand. Sex Ed gave them out by the bucket full, after all.

Delight filled Jeno’s face. “Always full of surprises.”

You squeaked when Jeno took you by the hand and started rushing toward the back of the library, dragging you behind him. You struggled to keep up with his long strides, but you couldn’t stop giggling. The excitement in your chest threatened to burst you at the seams.

It should have been a crime to be this aroused by someone. The chemistry between you and Jeno was off the charts; highly destructive and flammable, consuming everything in its path.

Including both of you, together, engulfed in flames of your own design that burned hotter in your midst.

Tucked away in a nook behind rows and rows of old books, where the blinds were shut on the windows and the soft lights overhead gave a warm yellow hue, Jeno spun you around in his arms and sealed his lips to yours.

It was a passionate, almost rough collision of teeth and tongues, like two cars racing toward each other at breakneck speed. The kind of kissing reserved between two people desperate to bring one another to ecstasy.

You whimpered into Jeno’s mouth when he shoved you against the wall, forcing his hips between your thighs to rub his clothed cock against your sex. Jeno could feel the wet heat of you and thrust his bulge on your folds, hungry for friction. His tongue slipped between your lips just as his fingers prodded at your entrance.

A pitiful sound escaped you. Two long thick digits curled into your pussy, finding that spot inside you without hesitation and stroking, crooking, making your hips rock into his hand.

You wrapped your arms around Jeno’s neck and broke from his kisses to stare into his eyes. His pretty irises were almost gone, dilated to black. He was so turned on he couldn’t see straight and you weren’t faring much better.

“I thought I could only come on your dick?” you stuttered, his fingers thrusting faster into your cunt.

Jeno nodded and nipped at your lips. “Just kiss me and let me prep you, yeah?”

You did, kissing him hungrily. Every now and then, you moaned or cried into his mouth, those fingers hitting you just right, but you wanted that cock and so you kept reaching down to palm at him.

Little by little, you got his leather jacket and his shirt in a pile on the ground, letting you brush your fingers over his nipples and the sharp lines of his abs. Then, you unfastened his jeans, but couldn’t get them past his muscly thighs at this angle. Not that you cared. You were fisting his cock, pumping it with the same speed he fucked you with his fingers.

Jeno panted and moaned in the crook of your neck. “Shit,” he snapped, finally breaking.

He spun you around, pinning you to the wall, but drew you toward him by the hips harshly. You tried to find purchase on the wall while Jeno tore open the packet and rolled the condom down his length, his cock so stiff it twitched with need at the sight of your glistening pussy. You wiggled impatiently, shifting your weight as you readied yourself for the stretch, glancing over your shoulder to salivate over that big dick.

You bit your lip as he steered the head of his cock to your folds, arching your back, bracing your hands on the wall. Jeno curled an arm around your waist, pressing his palm into the lowest part of your stomach and drove in deep, pulling out of you to thrust back in, a little deeper each time.

Sucking in a breath, you were about to moan at the top of your lungs, but a hand swiftly clamped over your mouth. You cried out Jeno’s name, muffled against his palm, and rocked back with his movements, trying to take more of him. All of him.

“Open up for me, baby,” Jeno whispered into the sore sensitive flesh of your neck, where he kept biting because he needed an outlet for just how good the hot vice of your cunt felt around his cock. “Tight fucking pussy.” Jeno groaned, sneaking a hand under your shirt to hold onto one of your breasts.

Tears pricked at your eyes. Jeno was dancing on the line of pleasure and pain. His cock was so hard and thick, bottoming out and making you see stars. You held onto his arms, shivering at how your walls burned and stretched to accommodate him, already screaming for more.

Jeno’s hand fell from your mouth to wrap around your neck possessively. You moaned softly. He was being surprisingly gentle, though you knew him as the opposite. It was very telling how tightly Jeno held you against him, how slowly he dragged his cock back and forth inside you.

But once Jeno was satisfied you could handle him, his pace started to build until he smacked his hips into your ass, your soft flesh heating up beneath his hands as he brought you down to meet his thrusts, slamming that cock into your sweet spot.

“Like that, baby,” you begged, desperately trying to keep yourself in place to get every inch of him. “I can take it.”

I know you can. Jeno brushed his parted lips up your neck and kissed your jaw. He’d give you anything you wanted if you kept begging for him. He stuffed you full of his dick a little harder and hissed, “You’re so fucking good. So wet for me.”

You bounced your hips, matching his rhythm. It annoyed you; the two of you could have been fucking each other’s brains out this whole time had you not been cowards last summer.

Jeno glanced down, watching you throw it back on him, and grabbed the nape of your neck, pinning you to the wall.

“Jeno… fuck!” You gasped as he fucked you hard and fast. You winched your eyes shut and squirmed, but you were nothing compared to his strength.

Jeno shoved himself balls deep in your cunt and stilled, groaning with pleasure. Before you could catch your breath, he pulled out of you, making your arousal slip down the inside of your thighs and flipped you around to face him impatiently. He smashed his lips on yours just as you opened your mouth to complain and lowered you to the floor underneath him, sucking on your tongue and thrusting his cock back inside you. You spread your legs and drew him into you by the hips, watching Jeno hook your knees in his arms.

“This is mine,” Jeno said, his voice raspy and dangerous. Both of your mouths were open, lips brushing, panting for breath.

“Yours,” you said without missing a beat, drifting your hands down his back to his ass. “Whenever you want it, it’s yours, baby.”

Jeno rewarded that with a kiss and a hard thrust of his hips.

The desperation took over both of you. There was only you and Jeno chasing the high, stealing pleasure from each other’s bodies as hard as you could. Jeno crushed you into the floor with his weight, his hand tangled in your hair, the other covering your mouth, because you couldn’t keep quiet. He was so rough, starved for you, and all of the unspoken, unresolved feelings between you coupled with him taking you for all you were worth made you break.

The orgasm began like waves between your thighs. Your body went tight, your back arching like you had no control over it anymore, and you screamed into Jeno’s palm as your walls pulsed and squeezed his cock.

Jeno felt you unraveling and swore, his hips stuttering at your pussy sucking him in. He hurriedly got ahold of your hands, pinning them to your sides, and thrust in as deep as he could go, emptying his load into the condom.

You blinked to clear your vision, watching Jeno close his eyes and moan, shaking with his own pleasure. Hooking your legs through his, you grinded into him, milking his orgasm, smirking at the total euphoric daze on his handsome face.

Jeno finally lowered his head, meeting your eyes, and you both chuckled at the same time. You smiled when he didn’t hesitate to kiss you, his cock still buried inside you, his hands still pinning you to the ground.

“Any boy you fuck that doesn’t deserve you…,” Jeno whispered, his breath hot on your lips. “I will kill him.”

You wilted. It shouldn’t have aroused you, but it did. You felt your body tighten on him one last time for it. “If you want me so bad, why don’t you ask to keep me?”

“Would you say yes?”

“Ask me and find out.”

Jeno lost himself in your eyes, staring, burning. He inevitably surrendered, hands falling away from your body, soft cock slipping out of your core.

You watched him rise to his feet and peel off the condom, and you sat up, adjusting your clothes as he threw it away. “Don’t tell me the guy who doesn’t give a fuck is scared of rejection like the rest of us,” you taunted, wanting to goad him, because you wanted a reaction.

You needed a sign that he was capable of loving you.

“Fuck off,” Jeno snapped, zipping up his jeans.

You took that in stride and stood, sucking in a sharp breath at the soreness between your thighs. “‘Fuck off’ isn’t want you said to me last time,” you retorted, using his own words against him. “It was more like, ‘Please, baby girl. Please let me fuck you. I’m the only one good at it.’”

Jeno wanted to laugh at your impression of his voice, but he was too busy deflecting. He fished his jacket off the floor and clocked you a glance. “Am I?”

You rolled your eyes. “You are so fucking obnoxious.”

“We have that in common. Among other things.”

You snorted. Why he couldn’t just talk to you after you’d had sex was a mystery. How could he be so intimate with you one way, but not the other?

Jeno saw the sadness forming on your face and he reached for your hips, bringing you flush against him. You smiled in pleasant surprise, content to be in his arms again, and closed your eyes when he graced a quick kiss on your lips.

For a moment, Jeno studied you, like he was committing you to memory. Jeno anticipated this would be the last time he would ever hold you or touch you again.

“Maybe I don’t deserve you either,” he whispered bitterly.

You frowned. Your whole body tensed with it. “Then… no one does.”

Jeno’s eyes widened. You would be the first and only person to have ever found any worth in him. Jeno wasn’t ready to accept that yet. It was such an utterly foreign feeling to him.

You said, “No one deserves anyone, Jeno. It’s about effort. Do you feel something for me or not?”

“Do you feel something for me?” he shot back, his heart on the line.

You forced out a tiny laugh and worked your hands up to his face, cradling his cheeks. “This is how the night ended between us last time. We’re both too scared to do anything with this.”

Jeno bobbed his head. “Yeah.”

You sighed. Mark was supposed to be safe. That was why you really wanted him. He was kind. He was reliable. He was cautious.

But he crumbled at the first gust of wind.

You looked at Jeno. He was passion and fire, made of steel. Much like you. He kissed your wounds. He would destroy anyone that tried to hurt you.

Nothing would break Jeno. Loving him would be risky, you knew that, but you accepted it, because in his arms would be the safest place in the world.

The two of you resigned yourselves to this little stalemate, though the tension dissipated. Both you and Jeno knew there was something worth fighting for between you.

Jeno held you by the hand, mindful of your wobbly steps as you returned with him to the tables. To your relief, Mr. Kim was nowhere to be seen.

He appeared five minutes later, announcing the hour of detention was over, but Jeno had to stay an extra fifteen minutes. You gave your lover a smirk of amusement as you gathered your things.

You told Jeno and Mr. Kim goodbye, the latter already out the door, but Jeno grabbed your wrist as you began to leave.

“How long did you get detention for fucking up that bitch?”

“A week,” you replied calmly.

Jeno laced his fingers through yours, bringing your battered knuckles to his lips to kiss. “Hm. I guess tomorrow I need to get myself sent here again.”

You chuckled with a shake of your head.

“And the day after that. And the day after that too.”

“I’m sure you will,” you purred, taking your hand back and grabbing him by the chin, stealing one final kiss.

Jeno grinned as you walked away and propped his feet on the table, overlapping his hands behind his head like he was sitting on a beach somewhere.

By the last day, he would find enough courage to ask to keep you.

END.

[victoria-grimesss]

Ghost Headcanons ~SFW & NSFW~

masterlist

->Paring: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader

->Warning: MDNI pretty please!! smutttt, some fluff, romance, etc.

->A/N: giggling and kicking my feet

SFW:

He's a quiet, stoic, and serious man but somehow you worm your way into his heart and although he may have been annoyed at first, he had a feeling you were going to be an issue when you first met.

It was an intensely slow burn built up to your relationship filled with passed glances, touches that you wish were longer, and the sound of his commands lingering in your mind for longer than normal.

Eventually he asked you out, unconventionally. He marched right up to you after training, still drenched in sweat and asked you flat out. You accepted and from there grew something as incredible as it is intense.

100% scary guard dog privileges.

Walking at night is never scary when he’s next to you. His stare is enough to deter any wrongdoers, he walks on outside of the sidewalk.

He's quiet but don't mistake that for aloof. He's observant as all hell. Always watching out for you when you're out together. An absentminded action he says.

Not a big fan of PDA but he always has a hand on you at all times. Ushering you through a crowd he's got his hand on the small of your back guiding you.

He enjoys being seen with you, having you next to him and just being in your presence is all he needs.

He denies he gets jealous but when a guy who shows a little too much interest in you enters into conversation with you he'll come over just to puff up his chest and throw a heavily tatted arm around your waist. "A bit jealous Simon?" "Don't know what you're talking about love."

He has an insane amount of those mask that are strewn about everywhere, and they are all in a disarray of washed and unwashed.

He thinks it's cute when you put them on and mimic him, especially if you're not British and you mimic a butchered Manchester accent. It gets a laugh out of him.

Others adore the two of you, especially the rest of the 141. He has literal heart eyes for you, through his rough exterior he really does love you.

His love language is words of affirmation and actions. You'll wake up to some flowers and painkillers on the side-table after a particularly shitty day.

Even if he's in a hurry to get out of the door he will never miss the chance to give you a hearty kiss and tell you to have a good day.

He listens to classic rock, there's usually some form of it playing in the house, he doesn't like the silence due to the tinnitus from the field. The vibes are great in the house.

You can’t tell his mood over text AT ALL. He texts in short brief choppy sentences. He prefers phone calls.

Ex:

You: “don’t forget to take the meat out of the fridge when you get home, maybe swap the clothes from the wash to the dryer if you have time. I’ll be home around 6pm traffic shouldn’t be too bad. Insert story about your day.”

Him: 👍

Aggressively British, sometimes you don't even know what he said. You just stare at him. "Did you hear me love?" "I was questioning if those were actual words that just came out of your mouth."

Sometimes you wake up at 3am for water to see him eating a big portion of fries in just his boxers with just the dim light of a football match as a light source. You usually make eye contact once but say nothing then retreat back to the room. The first time you saw that you were convinced it was a fever dream.

Sometimes his jokes are worse than Price's. You laugh out of sympathy nonetheless. You're his #1 fan.

Speaking of Price, if you're on the team he won't let your relationship get in the way of his career or mission. You are on the team because you're capable and can handle the job at hand but he does keep close eyes on you just in case on risky missions. If you get hurt he blames himself. You reassure him it's just part of the job.

There was a visible tension between the two of you that was visible to the rest of the team before you got together. I mean Ghost stared at you a majority of the time when you weren't actively working. So when they saw the two of you coming out of the same room one morning it was a definite relief. "Oh for fucks sake it's about time!" "Shut it Johnny."

He either sleeps completely silently and still to the point you think he might be dead, to which to check on him and he just opens his eyes right away. You almost shit your pants. OR he snores like a train, this option is usually when he's safe at home with you and can relax.

He loves it more than anything when he can fall asleep on your chest with you combing your fingers through his hair. He swears he's never been more relaxed.

You never discussed children but you get small glimpses into dad actions when Soap is over to help Simon fix something that takes two. "Johnny are you daft? Hold the bloody flashlight straight I can't see fuck all with you shining it in my eyes." Soap is hysterical seeing him upset over a sink leak. "Yea yea sure LT." You just watch from afar, giggling.

NSFW:

He's intense, alluring, and dominant. He can last many rounds; he enjoys taking you every which way he can.

His voice.

He loves the effect it has on you, how he can pin you against a wall and simply stare down at you, drawing it out by raking his gaze from your lips and around your face not saying a work and just toying with you until he would utter a few simple words and have you weak in the knees. His ego is huge because he knows you find him irresistible.

Will come up behind you when you're in the kitchen, voice low and creeping right to your ear, low enough to hear the gravel. His hand would snake around you securing around your waist. All of your clothes end up on the kitchen floor, they look better down there anyway he said. "I'm a bit famished love, care if I take a bite?"

Confident in the bedroom, especially if you're vocal. He likes to hear how he makes you feel. In return he'll tell you exatly how you make him feel. "Gods love, you..fuck-fucking hell you're doing such a good job."

Sessions in bed are messy, hot, and sweaty. He plays dirty but matches what you give him. He won't degrade you, he respects you. But he is a tease.

Will tease the tip of it until you're begging and withering. "You want it say badly yea? Go ahead, tell me how badly you need it pretty girl."

His favorite positions would be doggy, missionary with your legs up around his neck or your ankles in his hands. He loves to see your reactions.

He finds himself sometimes lost in the moment, silent as he works on you. Eyelids heavy as he tries to commit this moment to memory, hands gripping you with fervor. His breath hot on your skin when he lowers his lips to your neck to leave his mark. "You're my good girl, such a good girl for me. Say it."

He may be dominant in bed but he lets you call the shots. If you need him and you're out at the pub just grab his arm and take him to the bathroom. Out on a late night date? His car is in the back of the parking lot, he's grabbing the keys and reclining the front seat. You've had sex in a supply closet once out of sheer desperation once.

Hates hates military galas, will really only interact with the 141 and some others if he has to but loves to see you all dolled up. His favorite part is smearing your makeup on the pillowcases afterwards though.

Shower sex is also an option, seeing you all soapy and wet really gets him going. Makes for easy cleanup afterwards too.

If you like his uniform he's more than happy to just bend you over and unzip the front of his pants. You’ve don’t it with the mask on more than once.

Gets off on going down on you. Could die doing it and die a happy man. He'll definitely get himself off while getting you off.

Enjoys a good blowjob every now and again, let’s you take the lead not a big head pusher unless you ask. He’ll do whatever you want.

Eye contact is a must. Missionary with your legs around his neck, and a hand around your neck making sure you know who's making you feel like this. "You love this don't you? Dirty girl."

If you're being a brat and he's had enough he'll just have you ride him, he'll put his hands behind his head and have you do all of the work until you get too tired to continue. You'll have to admit defeat. To where he'll take the reins by grabbing your hips.

If you have long hair he enjoys hitting it from the back and wrapping a majority of your hair around his fist and pulling just enough for you to make noise for him.

Definitely a mirror in your shared bedroom where he can sit you on his lap and you can both watch as you work yourself on him.

His eyes roll back in his head when he cums, his grip leaves marks. He enjoys finishing inside you, the closeness and intimacy makes his stomach burn in a good way but he’s all for pairing your ass or tits too. He’s not a picky man.

Aftercare king, although he likes to bask in the afterglow for a bit with you. You lay on his chest trying to catch your breath, the room is stuffy and warm and your heart is racing but you've never felt better. But after he cleans you up he'll come back with a good cup of tea to end the night.

tag: @chiharuthecatmom

[mediumgayitalian]

“Hello, twerp.”

Kayla grunts at him. She is focused, intently, on something small enough to be covered up by her hands and curtaining hair; Nico decides it is likely some kind of explosive. There is a reason she, Banned From Arts ‘n’ Crafts For Criminal Reasons, is sneaking into the Hermes’ cabin’s time slot and hiding behind Julia.

Instead of confirming that she is, indeed, planning to blow up at least one of her brothers’ bunks in their sleep tonight, because of Plausible Deniability, Nico swings a leg over the picnic table bench, settling in next to her. She spares a second of attention to blow a raspberry at him, seemingly unprovoked. Nico reaches calmly over, plucks a pair of scissors from Connor’s hands, which he allows because of who he is as a person, and snips a piece of her hair. In response she pulls a notebook from her pocket and puts a little tick mark next to Nico’s name.

“So,” Nico says, choosing to ignore that. “I have a Question.”

“Ten dollars.”

“I’m not paying you, you little shit.”

“Then wonder in silence.”

Nico digs two wrinkled fives from his shoe and slams them on the table, scowling. Kayla pockets them.

“Proceed.”

Nico glares at her, noting her twitching mouth, and remembers that he does, in fact, need her help, and her brother is, in fact, his best friend, so challenging her to a duel to the death is a bad idea on both counts.

(Nonwithstanding the part where she has deadly accuracy with any projectile from almost any semi-reasonable distance. And he has, like, a sword. So.)

“Your brother,” he starts, and he does not need to clarify which one, “is always trying to…feed me.”

“Yes,” she agrees, “he is internally a seventy year old Southern woman. He does that.”

“Fruits.”

“Hm.”

“Oranges, specifically. Like, every single meal.”

“…Ah.”

It is a very knowing ah, Kayla’s little noise, and in fact she sets her project aside. (It is, in fact, an explosive.) She turns slightly on the bench to face him, lips pursed, hands folded. She blinks at him for several moments. Nico holds her gaze, remembering he is out ten dollars.

“My dear brother,” she begins, “my lovely, kind-hearted, smiley, morning person brother, is neurotic.”

Nico waits. This is, apparently, the end of her sentence, as she does not continue.

“I am aware,” he says slowly. “I have been present during every rant about Hollywood inaccuracies about medical sciences.”

She nods sagely. “This is true. You have. You are, however, by virtue of his cripplingly low self esteem and fervent belief that his mere existence is a Literal Actual Curse, spared from much of his most…colourful…contingencies.”

“Contingencies,” Nico repeats.

Kayla nods again.

“Yes. You see, dear future brother-in-law —”

“Cease,” Nico snaps, reddening.

“— our lovely William, also known as your Special Guy, according to Nico With Severe Blood Loss.” continues Kayla, not ceasing, “is under the impression that you, like all people, have a Limit.”

“…A Limit.”

“Yes. A point or level beyond which something does not or may not extend or pass.”

“I know what a godsdamn limit is, Kayla.”

“You seemed confused.”

“I am going to strangle you.”

Openly snickering to herself, she moves on.

“He feeds you oranges because he regularly paces around the cabin in the middle of the night stressing about your vitamin levels,” she explains, finally. “He doesn’t know how to tell you that like a normal person because he’s afraid he’s going to weird you out. Ergo.” She makes a flippant gesture with her hands. “Citrus.”

“Why is he so godsdamn cute,” Nico mutters to himself, then remembers to throw out a hasty, “Thank you,” before scrambling away from the table, ignoring the gathered snickers, and beelining for the the Demeter cabin. “Gods.”

It is empty, thankfully, when he strolls in, except for Miranda in the front gardens, who holds up a finger as he gets closer and whispers to a struggling seedling.

“Hey,” she says after a moment, smiling up at him. “What’s up?”

“I need,” he starts. He purses his lips, rocking back on his heels. His hands make some kind of motion. He’s not sure what, exactly, he didn’t give them permission. “I need.”

Miranda, thankfully, has had years of experience communicating with non-speaking entities, and as such is relatively fluent in Nico. She dusts off her hands, patting the spot beside her. Nico sits as indicated.

“Try a deep breath first,” she instructs. “When your brain is back up and running, try again.”

“It’s running. It’s running a lot.”

“Oh. In that case, might I suggest a small shout of frustration?”

“You may.”

He clears his throat, resting his hands on his diaphragm to Maximize the Output, as he has been previously instructed, and yells. A passing satyr jumps a full five feet in the air and flees. Nico grimaces, calling apologies after them.

“They’re never going to like me,” he grumbles.

Miranda pats his head. “There, there. One issue at a time.”

“Solace,” he says at her invitation, gesturing again. “Oranges.”

“…Ah.”

“He is. You know. Right?”

“I must confess I do not.”

He takes a moment to collect himself. Or, well, he tries to. He’s had an easier time trying to wrangle errant souls surfing along the Styx, but whatever. He literally owns his brain. It Shall submit to him, or he’ll get a new one. Watch.

“Will is…intensely thoughtful.”

“He’s a sweetheart,” Miranda agrees. “Once he brushed past me on the way to dinner and felt that I was going to get a cold, so he took the food I got and exchanged it for soup and veggies and Gatorade and stuff. He forgot to actually tell me that I was about to get a cold, at the time, but it was really nice of him in hindsight.”

Nico makes another loud, strangled bleating noise. Thankfully, no satyrs are harmed.

“He is so!”

“There, there,” Miranda says again. “You’ll get to full sentences soon, I’m sure of it.”

He takes a few moments to have a minor crisis in the peace and tranquility of Friendship. It’s this new thing he’s been trying. Will tells him it’s usually called ‘trust’ and ‘vulnerability’. It is mortifying for the most part but in small doses is kind of cool. Mostly.

“Who takes care of Will?“

“He doesn’t really get sick. Apollo genes and all that.”

“No, like. Emotionally.”

“Oh.” Miranda frowns thoughtfully. “Um. Chiron, maybe? I’m not actually sure.”

“It needs to be me,” Nico stresses. “He always takes care of me, and I want to, like, repay him. Not transactionally,”Nico rushes to clarify, “but, like, mutual care-ily.”

“I see.”

“You see?”

“Yes,” Miranda says sagely. “You must Show Him. That you are Invested in your Relationship.”

“Yes!” Nico cries, gripping her by the elbows. She meets his gaze head on, eyes wide and wizened. “Yes, exactly. Relationship Investment. You’re so smart.”

Miranda preens. “Thank you.” She stands, brushing off her jeans — fruitlessly, she’s got grass stains on top of grass stains on every piece of clothing she owns — and offering Nico a hand. Together they stand and observe the various shrubs, trees, and vines surrounding the cabin, hands on their hips.

Nico narrows his eyes. “Should I just get him oranges?”

“I still don’t fully understand the orange thing. But Will likes peaches.” She leans up and plucks one off of the largest tree, holding it out to Nico. “They make him think of home.”

Nico takes the peach and inspects it. It is, of course, impeccable — thick and heavy, skin soft and unblemished, full enough with juice and flavour to be fragrant even from the arm’s length Nico holds it. This is the kind of peach that wins fairs. This is the kind of peach that sits, prized, in a market, watching as mothers and hipsters claw at each other. This is the kind of peach that immediately upon first touch strikes within you such an intense urge to chuck it at the nearest hard surface and watch it splat into a beautiful explosion of Squelch that Nico has to, hastily, set it down and out of immediate reach.

“It’s perfect,” he declares.

“Don’t throw it at him,” Miranda advises, eyeing the fruit herself.

“Shan’t,” Nico promises, and it doubles at a warning to his brain because he can’t lie to Miranda, obviously, so his brain better Check Itself. There will be no peach throwing. Peach holding, only, and peach giving.

He waves goodbye to Miranda as he hustles off, headed for the bustling infirmary. There have been no great emergencies today — there would be a lot more of Will’s echoed screeching if this were the case — and many people who have walked in have walked out, minutes later, scowling, so now is a good a time as any. He could of course wait until Will is done his shift and they meet by Cabin Seven, like usual, but this is a Pressing Issue. Will can no longer continue to believe that Nico has a Limit, as Kayla had so unhelpfully explained. Nico is Limitless. He is a sine function. He is an eternal abyss. He is the final end of Chiron’s patience, if the horse is to be believed.

Also, the peach is really really tempting and Nico honestly does not have all that much control over his brain. It usually kind of does as it pleases. That’s why he has so many Situations.

“Solace,” he shouts, banging open the screen door loud enough to make everyone inside jump, “GET the hell over here.”

“I. Am.” Will holds up a patient’s arm, which has been hastily butterfly-clamped closed and is now being stitched. “Um. Is it urgent?”

Nico snaps his mouth shut. “No.” He stalks over to where Will is sitting, still bewildered, on his favourite stool, and stands with his arms crossed behind him. He nods at the injured camper, clearing his throat. “Proceed.”

“…Okay.”

Because Will is a Professional, his gaze remains focused on the gaping wound he is fixing. Because no one else at this camp is, everyone else chooses to gawk. Nico lets the fires of Hell enter his eyes, like Father showed him, and glares them all into subservience.

“Alright,” Will says, several minutes later, patting the patient’s knee with a smile. “I’m gonna wrap this, Jen, and you gotta keep it dry, okay? Have ambrosia twice a day like I told you and come see me at the end of the week.”

“There’ll be no scar?” the young girl hedges.

“Not if you follow my instructions,” Will promises. “Although you’ll be just as beautiful with a scar, kiddo, I promise. Ask your mother.”

Jen looks at him doubtfully, but Will is one of those people who’s unbelievably hard to distrust. It’s infuriating, if you’re Nico and committed to the whole goth/emo lifestyle. Probably comforting if you’re a normal person.

She leaves, and it is abruptly very quiet in the infirmary, which is crazy because it is abruptly never quiet at camp unless people are dead, usually, but no one is dead, and people are too godsdamn nosy to flinch away from Nico’s glare, or maybe they’re not scared of him anymore, and hey, isn’t that something. The world is so busy, all the time. Things keep happening. Who’s fault is that, again?

“Nico?” Will asks, rocking back on his heels. His hands are suddenly clean of blood and grime and his scrubs have been swapped out. They stand, also, at the other end of the infirmary, right outside of the on-call room. He looks up, and conversations have resumed, and Will is watching him, intently, bright eyes slightly too wide, front teeth gnawing at his bottom lip, Ace bandage winding, unwinding, winding.

“This is for you,” Nico blurts, and shoves the peach at him.

Will blinks. “Oh.” He stares at the peach, a moment, before a smile erupts on his face. “Oh! Thank you!”

He takes the peach, gently, from Nico’s hands, and holds it close to his chest, wide hands gentle so as not to bruise, smile gone close-mouthed, giddy. The rocking gets every so slightly faster, and the slight breeze from the open screen door ruffles his frizzy hair, and his nose is scrunched, just slightly, enough to wrinkle his dotted feathers, and Nico’s mouth is very, very dry.

“I do not,” he tries, and it grinds along his paper-parched throat, near silent, “I do not have Limits, William.”

The rocking stills. Nico mourns it.

“…Sorry?”

“Limits,” Nico repeats. “I do not have them. I am Limitless. Purge the thought.”

“You have limits,” Will says, alarmed. “Um, we had that talk, right? About pushing yourself and why that is generally regarded as a bad plan.”

“That was you shouting at me in between nectar shots and frantic mothering, actually, but that’s not what I meant.”

Will doesn’t answer, only tilting his head.

“You’re neurotic,” Nico attempts to explain, and as could be expected by literally anyone with a brain this goes poorly, and he rushes to amend. “I mean! Well, you are neurotic — but! There is a but! Stop looking at me like that! You are neurotic but!”

“This is a very bad friendship break up if that is what you are trying,” says Will in a small voice, and Nico resolves to kick his own ass later tonight to Atone.

“I like it,” he hurries to explain. “You and your — neuroses. All of you, I like it. There is no Limit. Capital L. You’re groovy. On — point. Fleek? What do the kids say. I don’t —”

“Oh,” Will breathes, thankfully putting Nico out of his misery, “oh, this is about the oranges.”

Nico nods miserably.

“The oranges are —” Will cuts himself off, staring down at his shoes. “Um, scurvy freaks me out.”

“…Scurvy?”

“It — collagen synthesis is an active process? In your body? And scurvy makes it degrade really quickly. Which kind of tears your body apart by reopening scars. On top of other things. And you — were on a ship, you know. For a while. And you sweat a lot. And you don’t take the multivitamins I give you.”

“Because they’re gross,” Nico says, breathless, “and I’m not — sweaty.”

Wherever sunlight touches Will’s skin he tends to glow, slightly, and his freckles fluoresce the longer his hand takes to traverse the space between them, past the open window, resting, lightly, on Nico’s wrist.

“You are,” he says, gently. “You have — really low magnesium and potassium levels. Just, all the time.” He glances down at the inside of Nico’s wrist. “Right now, actually. Will you eat a banana if I go get you one?”

Will will go get a banana, and Nico will follow him, and they will sit, somewhere, probably the big rock by the lake, as Nico eats it, and Will will eat his peach, and Nico will watch his throat bob, and Will will talk, hands gesturing, peach juice everywhere, and they will stay there, probably, way past sunset, right till curfew, and then they will sprint, as they usually do, to avoid the harpies, and they will go to Nico’s cabin, first, because they always do, and Will will snag an orange as they run past the fruit trees by the Demeter cabin, and he will press it into Nico’s hands, firmly, smiling as he says goodnight, and running back to his own cabin. Where he will, according to Kayla, pace, and worry. Where he will rant about Limits, and how close Nico is to approaching them.

“Will,” says Nico seriously, grabbing his hands. Will’s eyes snap to his, wide, wider than usual, and they are so blue, so so blue, are things usually this blue? He’s startled by it every time. “Will, I am a sine function.”

“I don’t understand,” he admits.

Nico nods. “That’s okay! Just — peaches.” He reaches out and pats the fruit, curling Will’s fingers around them. “For you. Okay?”

Will glances down at the peach. He glances back up at Nico. He looks down, finally, at their hands, twined around the fruit, and holds there, one, two, three seconds.

“Oh,” he says, finally. “Oh, you don’t — oh.”

“Peaches,” Nico repeats, “oranges.” He pulls one hand free and draws a line between them. “You get it?”

“I get it,” Will says, softly. He looks up and smiles, small, private; too-big front teeth just barely peeling out. “You never reach your approached value.”

“I really don’t even get that close.”

“I’m kind of losing the metaphor, here.”

“Okay.”

Nico squeezes their hands together. Will squeezes back, shifting his weight.

“I’m still gonna — you still gotta get your vitamin C.”

“More oranges?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He rubs his finger over the backs of Will’s knuckles; he shivers. Nico meets his eyes and he smiles, widely, hurting his cheeks, and Will smiles back, and he rocks, and Nico is an abyss, and he is falling, falling, falling. “I like oranges.”

[zeyris-daydreams]

Nocturne to The Consecrated - 15.6k longfic

Yandere!reader x (whatever this is)!Sunday

This idea was piling in my mind for weeks now, but it is finally done. Reader displays some concerning tendencies, all the while we get to watch. I’m not sure what to label Sunday in this, yandere is too harsh but he’s NOT normal. That aside, special thanks to Adam, my musically talented friend, who lent me his expertise for orchestral accuracy in this.

Warnings; stalking, manipulation, sort of abuse of power if you squint.

[ao3] [music used for this fic]

“He was never supposed to know you existed. You kept your distance, content with watching from the edges, learning his movements, his habits—his power. But Sunday has always understood the weight of unseen things. And when he calls you forward, it is not with accusation, nor with anger. It is with amusement. With interest. Because the moment you stepped into his world, you were already playing by his rules.”

The paper was a white, dove colour, shade of the freshest feathers plucked, long before they had a chance to stain with the unruly ground - stark contrast to the blood red seal at the front of the envelope, throwing off the harmony of the already too thick sheet.

It weighed heavy in your sweaty palm, breathing shortened as you stared at the object, pondering the reality of the situation - or lack thereof. The envelope bore a shade similar to the halovian’s feathers, and as himself, the stamp was perfectly pressed. Not a spillage of wax outside of the shape it held, formed into the innermost layers of a tree. A symbol you’ve grown used to seeing already, and you could imagine his gloved hands pressing the form into the wax.

Sitting on top of the beige sofa in the comfort of your own apartment didn’t fix the restless feeling of unease in your gut. Lack of emotional control in your own safespace, lack of control over the situation - things unfamiliar. You didn’t want to know them.

The wax felt smooth beneath your fingertips when you grabbed it instinctually, like all the other times when you've taken the courtesy of receiving the mail from the Oak Family in the comfort of your office.

Your fingers lingered on the envelope for a moment too long, as though the act of unraveling it would change something irreparably.

Index finger easily pried the edge of the wax up, before you remembered to keep it intact. It is a symbol of the Oak Family, and a symbol of a perfect person. Then again why would something like this matter to a deadman? It was nothing but bad news to be addressed by him directly, feeling akin to a freshly penned death sentence.

Your position and expertise was nothing but a candle’s flick to a sun’s roar, guaranteeing you no recognition in this field. To be sent paperology so personally was below your tasks.

You could gently peel it off to hold onto it like with everything related, but perfection didn’t matter in this situation. This time, this single time, you ripped it off in haste. If— If there would be another chance like this, you’d preserve the wax. To ruin such a shapely sigil would be unsightly, you knew he’d most certainly dislike it.

A strange bile rose in your throat when the paper protested, holding onto its shape despite your harsh tug on the front, and the edge of the envelope tore in the sudden action. It didn’t matter.

Your heart felt like a rock upon water, its beat sending a steady rhythm down your fingertips.

The envelope gave you one last mocking frown before it was unveiled, and the pristine white sheet was taken out from the inside. Empty and purposeless exterior fell to the ground as you held the beating heart of the problem, fingers digging into it like into your last meal, and you pulled the organ apart, exposing its secrets to all eyes that may be watching—

All colour and blood drained from your face. Your fingers shaking against the thing that felt all too thick and all too glassy, like blood ready to spill from your fingers. With a flutter of paper the temperature dropped, the chill settling on your skin as though the air had anticipated with you. Eyes drifted down towards where the signature would be laid, at the end of the correspondence. So down it was almost passable, and despite the dimmed light in your apartment, you saw it well.

“Sunday, the head of the Oak Family”

The ink felt bold, as if it had been pressed with force into the writing - precision remained, as many of the items he wrote before. It bled into the thick sheet, still in your retina despite your frantic glance around the space of your dull living room.

As fast as that happened, your eyes shot back to the culprit, and you scanned it. Once - skimming, the letters blurring as if they smudged under the weight of your gaze.

Second - drawing out the key words, ones which escaped your grasp, like a mouse from the claws of a cat.

Only the third time did the message register, painting in your mind as you analysed each stroke, lips moving along to each syllable.

”—Esteemed member of the Nightingale Family. It is my utmost pleasure to invite you to a private soirée following the Assembly of the families this Friday,“

The dryness in your mouth only intensified. It was Wednesday.

”where the evening shall continue with further contemplations in a more intimate setting. Please arrive promptly at the close of the performance, for the evening promises to unfold in unexpected ways.”

The penmanship was what you knew already, having collected countless letters and signatures with the same strokes before. The same quill, the same ink. The same hand.

As a member of the Nightingale Family you were more than aware of the tradition; each year Family representatives gathered around a table to discuss the future of the land of festivities together - more to uphold an idea than to have any political discourse.

That, and apparent parties they partook in for the duration of the day.

”Should you accept, you may find the atmosphere illuminating and serene—

Though I suspect it will be, for you, anything but.”

Your gaze felt pinned to the sheet. That is all it said, yet you couldn’t shake the feeling that the wording left much to be considered.

Hand tightened against the paper and the fabric bent like a neck to jaws, the thick saliva in your mouth finally swallowed.

—

The residence was quiet, spare for the echo of footsteps you took. Hum of conversation and murmurs of others long died - never to be witnessed by your ears. Maybe you had come too late - an idea proven by the eerily empty room you stood in.

Perhaps they have slipped unnoticed, long gone to leave you to your reckoning - and perhaps if you knew it was the plan, you too would’ve slipped into the shadows as always.

Now though, you were alone, with light above too bright for the liking of your eyes.

The realisation weighed like a boulder, each breath becoming heavier as you looked around. The walls were washed over with a dull shade of blue, akin to a vast ocean in which you could easily get lost in, where all land was too far to be seen.

As though the room wished to retain nothing but stretching emptiness - your body felt lightweight.

You had come, expecting the soirée, the event—you had come wishing to slip unnoticed at a time opportune. But now the space seems cavernous, the shadows stretching long, looming above your frame. Mocking, laughing at the predicament.

The butler that had taken your coat has long vanished, and yet the feeling of eyes on you was unmistakable.

A sharp note cut through the quiet.

Your body turned rigid. Another note joined it, narrow, and they danced in your ear in a tango from the very far left, tempting you to join their flow. Their threads pulled your limbs out of the space, forward and down the corridor.

You knew the tune immediately, and just as instantaneously you wish you didn’t. You have heard the piece before - when he played the piano like this during the private event, then again you couldn’t be sure if that was more than once; being too preoccupied with the pianist each and every time.

Sunday was at the piano when you had found him, seated with utmost perfect posture, his back to you. Skillfully his hands glided across the keys akin to a painter mastering their craft. The melody building and twisting, every note deliberate. The way he played it - precise, restrained, as though there was something beneath the rhythm being held back. It gripped you in an unmistakable way.

He spared you not a glance. He didn’t acknowledge you. For a moment, you’d be hopeful enough to believe he hasn’t taken notice of you at all.

The sound arches as you observe him, rolling down a steady slope-

But then, as the melody faded into silence before the next part of the composition you’ve already grown to anticipate, the fugue, he glanced over his shoulder.

Eyes of gold met yours.

”Ah,” he mused, as though he only realised your presence. “You’ve arrived.”

Nothing in the halovian’s tone sounded unusual, nothing to suggest he had been expecting you, here, alone. Yet the faintest rise of the edges of his lips - a knowing smile.

For a moment you opened your trembling lips, trying to apologise for intruding, but your throat felt tight. It was of no significance to Sunday, as he turned back to the piano. His gloved hands returned their dance upon the keys. The silence between notes stretched out however, purposeful and nearly deliberate.

”Do you recognise it?” He asked suddenly, voice so soft it blended with the sharp tune of the music, smudging with each passing second.

Your chest tightened, throat burning. Of course you recognised it, how could you not? The obvious answer doesn’t find the escape through your teeth, clenched together.

And so you said nothing, and he too didn’t press. The melody shifted, the last keys being played, and the tune grew softer, before a sense of almost pleasant silence followed. As though the aroma of the tune remained in the air, lingering thickly like smoke.

Not for long.

As if nothing happened, he raised to his full height, facing you as he smoothed down the sleeves of his suit. Perfect. Preened.

”I’m sorry for the absence of company,” his voice cut the momentary reprieve, words so casual they felt nearly calculated. Restrained, and deliberate, a perfect chord resolving a dissonant phrase. “But I thought it might be better this way. Simpler.”

Simpler. The word twisted in your mind, an apple rotting as soon as it began its descent from grace. It felt sour on your tongue.

You wanted to leave, now. The urge clawed at you, sharp and insistent, a cat scratching at the window to take run. Something in the way he watched you, though, his head tilted slightly. Sunday waited for something you couldn’t quite pinpoint, a reaction possibly.

”You’re quiet,” his tone was conversational, light. Sunday stepped closer, and it took every single fiber of your will to keep yourself grounded, not retreat. “But then, you always were.”

The calm in which he said it, the purposeful use of ‘always’. A fact, not a guess, something he knew as well as the fact that the sky is blue. And that the candles are meant to burn.

Before you processed his words and had a chance to decide on a reaction, he tilted his head slightly, arm gesturing towards the hall beyond.

“Come,” he says. “I’d like to show you something.”

The words carried a tune of softness, but they weren’t a request.

You hesitated, but something in his posture and unblinking, unrelenting gaze forced you to move. The weight of his tone made it impossible to refuse.

Sunday waited just enough for you to take a step, and he then turned, beginning the walk. Each move was precise, soft yet measured - certain against the floor. Despite the tightness of your mind and your flesh, you followed him.

You tried to focus on the sound of your own footsteps to drown out the sense of anxiety that muffled your rational sense, the floor feeling as though it dipped beneath your shoes. Like sand, wanting to swallow you whole.

The walls, despite the lights, felt long, decorated with your moving shadow, one that laughed cruelly at the predicament of the ‘real’ you. The silence stretched similarly to each darkened spot on the walls, mocking, staring over you.

When he finally stopped, you nearly stumbled, heart racing when you realised that you’ve reached a room. For a change, you didn’t recognise it, an unknown pathway of the forest you always bravely threaded. The doors were closed, surface carved with an intricate design you again didn’t find familiar - regardless of the dim light.

A sense of sickness pooled at the bottom of your stomach, threatening to burn through the layers of the already sensitive flesh.

Sunday turned to you, his face unrecognisable. For a moment the halovian merely watched, gaze steady as it was when he played Bach’s melody, and you felt its weight sit heavy on your shoulders, weighing you down like a sinner’s record.

”Go ahead,” his voice was smooth, hand gently pulling on the handle to reveal the interior to you.

”After you.”

—

The light shone from above you in a distinct halo, and you looked towards your ticket once more. The edge dipped in gold, reflecting the beam from the chandelier in an almost blinding manner. Yet your walk persisted, following the usher into an entrance tucked away from the common guests.

Upright posts traced the way forward, the most elaborate pathway towards the grand doors at the end. The surroundings around the venue felt spacious, creamy white walls and intricate decor of the walls, the pillars which supported a far too high of a ceiling. Crown mouldings above were nothing but detailed, white and free and pure and untouched.

As you walked you wondered what sort of person could reach and clean it from possible cobwebs. Fingers absentmindedly moved over the repertoire of the concert, the surface glassy and smooth against your skin. A measure to ground yourself, a futile one. You chose to focus on the feeling of your formal wear against your body, and the discomfort of your shoes against the heels of your feet.

The usher led you towards a gradually darkening hallway, where you and the grand doors could bid each other another greeting and farewell. With a smile akin to paint on porcelain, the usher opened the doors, letting you walk through, as the manners demanded.

The grand concert hall beyond was one you’ve witnessed already, the main stage in front of you, the seats empty still. As a person of precision, you were always present before most other guests; a privilege you weren’t truly aware of.

Behind you the usher waited for you to take in the scenery, automatic, still as a robot. Your eyes lingered at the seats before the stage, the balconies in front of you. As of now, your perspective was laid from the spot behind the stage, elevated.

An important point indeed.

The chandelier was elaborate, shards and crystals hanging from it, the water hardened upon branches of a tree from the frost - hanging and anticipating warmth of spring. A cruel irony when the tree looked best in the cold. The light from it was sharp, separating in thousands stars and halos in your vision - starbursts and rays of shine.

Your thoughts drifted to the balconies, eyes following sluggishly. The hall was well lit for now, illuminating each empty seat, highlighting absence of presence. Unknowingly the corners of your mouth moved up, in a smirk you had a hard time keeping down. Soon enough everything would be filled with life, but for now it was yours to enjoy.

The orchestra situated in front of the stage was an intriguing concept. Not one for you, no. While the stalls in front of the musicians provided an auditory experience out of this world, it wasn’t that aspect that drew you to observe. From your perspective it was no effort to lay your eyes upon the guests who chose seats with such little proximity.

From that point the melody surely seemed multifaceted, filled with layers that threatened to spill from the nearly full cup, overflowing to the edges - held only by its surface tension. The listener must have been able to feel the steady drumming of the liquid underneath their fingertips. Each blow of flute - painfully separate from the essence of the violin. All notes and tunes flowing in a river to fill the senses, yet not mixing, like oil to water.

To witness it must’ve been extraordinary. The melody diverging into few, solely due to how easy each sound could be separated from the rest had they paid attention. Not that you’d know - price wasn’t an issue. Had you deemed fit, you would’ve graced the stalls - which were closest to the stage on the ground level - with your presence.

The guests at the front must’ve thought themselves to be connoisseurs, wishing for an up-close view, as though it made a difference due to the balanced acoustics and the view of the performance.

But you weren’t one to enjoy cacophonous melodies.

The true performance wasn’t in the eye of the guest; not in the eye of the conductor, and definitely not in the wooden or metal hearts of instruments. The true performance was the event, the observation of all that unravels - and in that light, you were the spectator.

The usher took a step to lead you to your seat - once you were done admiring the view of the unmoving hall, that is. You were led towards the designated choir spot - empty during this performance, and the other person left.

Formal dress felt comfortable once you wore it often, and you found yourself feeling as easy as in any pair of clothes, spare for the bite of your shoes. The coat on your arm was slowly put onto the arm rest of the seat, before you walked forward to the barrier-like structure between the seats and the stage.

It bore ornamental mouldings at the top, extending forward to you, and you could rest your elbows on it. Leaning against it you took in an inhale.

You opened the plan of the orchestra in your hand, pretending to yourself, and anyone that can be watching, that you paid any mind to the compositions listed.

“Beethoven” You mouthed.

Beethoven - Egmont Overture, then Symphony no. 7,3rd movement.

Bach - Erbarme dich, mein Gott

Beethoven, Symphony no.3, 2nd movement.

The repertoire at the back went over the musicians at play today, but any technicalities caused you to shut the paper soon after. It was of no significance, in the end, the music was not what you judged.

Someone could call it recklessness or inelegance, but you weren’t one to dwell. The performance tonight was a special show indeed - an appearance of a prominent figure; a man who was to take the leadership over the Oak Family. That itself gave you more power, it was after all an exclusive performance which only family members could join. And - as many as there were - not all afforded the ticket. A delight for not many eyes was what you were in for, disregarding the parts of this that went unspoken.

You thought yourself to be above such political matters, and so you had no care in that aspect; then again you were always like this.

The emptiness of the hall was enjoyed by you for about half an hour, where you gazed and thought absentmindedly, before it began to steadily fill. With the grace and normalcy of a cat you moved back from the barrier, sitting in your designated place.

The guests arrived from entrances slowly, filling in the balconies and the boxes along. Perhaps you were lucky enough to visit this unusual hall, none wished to share your space.

For a moment you considered whether this was due to you, or due to the spot. Not that you’d ever complain of solitude. It was enough to see with your very sharp eyes how people gathered in pairs and groups, little doves and robins flocking together to pick at the seeds dispersed. Only prey stuck together. The three-course meal of this orchestra seemed to have been tailored to you.

Your stomach fluttered at the thought.

—

The people all took their places in an orderly manner, like ants to honey - all drew in by the sweet promise of melodies and sounds cleansing their mortal mind. Seats near you remained nearly empty due to their unconventional placement, much to your pleasure. With your legs crossed subtly, you watched the musicians tune their instruments. And the audience fell into one, long quiet note of nothing - respectful to the craft.

Your face slowly moved once the whispers began; far away; but you saw it. People in balconies leaned towards each other to speak quietly, their tone a hushed sound, like dust in the otherwise clean air. It was evident their thoughts were ignited by a spark, and soon enough the person came into view.

It was time for the conductor to enter - and he did, with grace unseen by the mortal squarol previously, from the far entrance, walking towards the stage.

All the whispers stopped, hung in the air like a promise.

As he stepped his figure grew clearer, and given your unique position in the seats behind the stage, you saw the man from that much more unique standing. Dark suit tailored by the night, elongated at the back - plain and simple, yet elegant all the same.

A halovian - you realised.

The apparent new heir to the Oak Family. Your fingers laid upon your knees so you could lean in to focus better, and you looked with bated breath.

He walked onto the stage with no slip up, measured and precise. Once atop, he turned his back to you, and acknowledged the audience. Sunday - that was his name, that was what you remember from all the gossip you have overheard. In arrogance you ignored the thought which appeared in your mind; no, you were not aloof, nor were you dismissive. Why should you care who pulls the strings this time?

However, the impact was undeniable. You were in this hall many times, and not once has this man played. In fact, you never heard of his protege before. Your eyes followed each move with judgement, and found not a thread to latch onto, rather, you were left with an impression.

An impression of skill, as Sunday graced the audience as though he did it thousand times over before, the anxiety of performance not read from his body either. And as the halovian turned back to the musicians before him, his face remained equally as neutral as his body language.

Your upper tooth caught against the dry skin of your bottom lip, a strange cotton filled your mind. The concertmaster readied her bow, straightening instantaneously, as though she hadn't sat properly previously.

The chandelier above the stage illuminated his halo, which reflected in rays and beams that made your eyes squint, an ache to the very back of your skull. It was a cruel mockery of fate, the astigmatism you were bestowed got in the way of truly analysing this new figure.

From what you saw, his silver hair gave a sheen of iridescence as the light fell upon it, draped over his shoulders. Despite the odd sensitivity to light separating from all that emitted it, your vision was as sharp as always.

Beneath the glow of his halo you saw a pair of golden eyes - as you assumed. The sharp features of his face like paint upon canvas, crafted and catered to by someone already mastered. You saw it all despite the proximity, the stage was quite the distance in front after all, and nothing around seemed to matter, spare for the main course. As everything around grew dark, the focus was on the musicians.

In spite of that, only the man seemed to have been graced; seemingly bestowed upon heavens with sunlight breaking through the clouds of the weather, highlighted as starkly as snow during summer. (Snowflakes could not dream of reflecting this sort of shine)

A strange feeling in your throat rose, and you forgot how to breathe for a moment. You couldn’t tear your eyes away, unlike all times otherwise.

An angel. He must have been an angel. His gaze swept over the orchestra - subtly and unhurriedly, with certainty which seemed preordained. You felt ringing in your ears, and he raised his baton, the musicians nearly under a spell. With no further dragging or prolonging, sharp noise of strings cut through the air, building slightly to cascade in a slope. A bold and decided melody, it was much more than just that.

A statement of bravery, a statement of honour. Your tongue moved against your lip. Sound bold and foreboding and-

The musicians pulled and moved their hearts of instrument, but all you focused on was the movement. He welcomed other sections to join in the dance, a heavy feeling in your lungs. This was no mere performance of skill.

Involuntarily you leaned forward, hands at the barrier separating you from the space in front. For the first time in months your brain stopped sending signals, and you looked to the conductor empty minded.

It felt akin to a hypnosis, you stared thoughtlessly as the tunes changed. Each time his demeanour fit the melody - but it was pushed to the back of your mind. You were no longer trying to gauge reactions of the crowd, no - your eyes were glued with amber to his grace. You didn’t know if you’d ever be able to break through it, the soft flutter of feathers in your skull pushing against the boundaries of mortality.

—

The music carved a space in your chest. When he moved, the orchestra moved, and so did the air, and so did your mind. And he conducted the performance with something- something else.

The baton altered the law of reality itself, and with the last note’s death came the end. And before he even had a chance to turn around properly you rose from your seat, hands joining together for a moment temporary. You inhaled deeply. This you have never done - you have never graced people with your approval. You stood for none and clapped for none.

Yet your heart decided for you, movement so quick you couldn’t register your logical will behind it. The sound of your clapping gave way for others joining in, the sound filling the hall shortly after.

Sunday bowed to none. And he didn’t bow now either, turning away from where your gaze could see him. He surveyed the room not with air of appreciation, and as the applause echoed into its death, his gaze swept over the audience.

Not with politeness, but quiet authority— as though the evening had never been about music at all.

The guests took their time to come down from the grandiose, and he watched like a hawk as they slowly left, trailing through the exit in monotony.

You couldn’t budge. Your feet were planted, and it took minutes for the room to empty once more. Sunday finally turned his gaze to the puppets he guided, and gave them but a nod of approval. But then he looked up, eyes meeting yours for only a second.

Throat tightened on an instinct, and before anything else he averted his gaze—you were another soul in a crowded cemetery, abandoned by your saviour.

It was time to go, but your feet moved on their own only when the musicians were left behind by Sunday. He headed for the exit, and you headed for your own, grabbing your coat and walking back in haste. With your chest burning, you stepped fast, nearly stumbling over your feet before you forced yourself into grace. Through the dimly lit corridor, up to the doors which you swung open hurriedly.

Most parts of this hall had their own entrances, and you walked fast, to catch even a glimpse of him in the entrance hall where all the exits connected-

Sunday was at an advantage, as he could swiftly make his way out through the grander entryway; you felt blessed to even witness him truly leaving the building, moments after your entry.

Your feet carried you to the centre of the entrance hall, and you stared at the doors for moments, long after he had left.

A sweet aftertaste lingered in your mouth, and you licked your teeth.

—

It was innocent - initially. You had to see him once more.

The first purposeful encounter wasn’t hard to navigate, and to satiate your curiosity, you decided to grace the event with your presence. A week and a half since his debut and final performance in one, came his ascension.

And he looked brilliant as he did all these days ago, white suit, perfectly ironed. His wings were preened as always, nearly translucent at their ends; only this time his halo didn’t reflect the light right at your eyes, allowing you that much more comfort.

Your side leaned against the pillar, the shadow of it like a comforting blanket for a person with fever. The side of your head pressed into the carved stone soon after, and you averted your gaze from Sunday.

It wasn’t worth mentioning what kinds of people gathered here, family representatives and the executives, and then the other four heads of each organisation - showy and loud about their presence, begging for a gaze as divine as sweet.

Not you, no. Refined as you were, you knew what to do despite your elevated rank. Amongst your kind - the aristocrats - you were still quite low, a piece of wood right near the ground, hardly necessary for the ladder to function. You knew that, and in spite of it, you were still important enough to enter seamlessly.

There had been no issue with signing onto the guest list.

The room was dimly lit despite how spacious it was, quite intimate for family’s standard; with tens of guests, yes, yet still smaller than life itself. That was proven by the scarce decor of the tables, only drinks served - when speech was delivered, no one was to consume food.

It wasn’t the food you craved, nor the appraisal that the other representatives seemed to strive for - you knew they didn’t care about the speech. They didn’t care about Sunday and his rank, merely what he had to offer.

They were here to show everyone that they were here, to make a statement with their insignificant presence, demanding approval. Not you.

You were here with purpose, and you’d fulfill it. You weren’t like them; you weren’t here for favour from singing Sunday praises, and you weren’t there to scrutinise the new family head. Different — that’s what you were, and you weren’t here as a Nightingale Family member. You were here as you.

Your brow rose, and you straightened upon hearing the chatter come to and end - and then a soft clink. Decisive voice cut through the air, in a mere clearing of his throat.

It was time. Your head whipped sideways as you leaned aside from behind the shadowed pillar, watching Sunday at the very end of the room. That marked the first time you heard him speak, for a smaller audience at that, but you were here.

“On behalf of the Oak Family, I’d like to extend my gratitude to those who took time out of their day to come. Alas, on my own behalf as well.”

He held a glass in his hand idly, somewhat elevated before the guests. You watched carefully, unnoticed and concealed, subtle like needle amongst hay.

Like a cat flattening into the ground when it was observing a bird.

”It is a rare privilege to stand in front of you today—not simply as an individual, but as a representative of what we all wish to achieve. Today we not only celebrate an appointment, but a shared vision and a shared wish; one that binds us, not separates us.”

Sunday spoke boldly, against all you expected. From the distance you could take in vague hints of his demeanour. Your eyes narrowed softly.

In his gold irises there was calculation, and in his words - a sense of certainty. He had no need for reading off anything, as a person of his stature should. You turned to face the pillar, fingers on the cold stone as you ran your finger down the engravings on it.

You remained concealed, despite the tilt of your head allowing for vision of the saint to shine through. “It is not our personal ambitions which allow us to weave law into reality — but a sense of duty we share. As we stand here, let us remember it is our collective will to push the boundaries of the possibilities we have today.”

The guests paid much attention, and you tried to as well. It was hard to focus on the taste, and you drank the honey of his voice like a deserted hermit, left with no water to the point of their lips resembling dehydrated land. The sweetness stung your sore and dry throat, but you couldn’t stop.

There was no focus on admiring the taste. Trying to decipher what sort of flowers went into the golden dew you were drinking wasn’t an option anymore.

His tone was fluid, and you swallowed dryly.

“Our ultimate goal is to benefit Penacony, and we are not competitors in improving our ways; rather, we are collaborators.“ Sunday glanced over the guests, scattering an air of appreciation for their presence, the pollen of flowers to rest upon their eyes.

In your mind you felt there must’ve been more to his words. There always was, and the orchestra hadn't been only about showing people his conducting talent.

It were the people that he conducted, and the orchestra was only the symbol of it—something clear as day when you considered his stance when addressing others.

Once the guests were paid attention to as such, the halovian continued, his tone gaining an air of boldness, confidence. Firm and unwavering as stone. Cold stone. Your fingers touched the pillar with an unseen curiosity.

“It is not enough to respond to the changing world; we must seize it and adapt our ways, improve in ways we want the future generations to do. We must set an example not only in the public eye, but in places where no eyes lay.

Penacony is a planet of potential—boundless and ripe, full of opportunity not only for us, but for our people. It is up to us to direct that potential, mold it, guide it.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, the pressure in his words evident. Sunday wasn’t trying to appease the elders' ways, despite what all the other heads did. He took the route of openness, stunning them with light and only then—allowing them vision.

“And so, as I step into this role, I make this promise to all of you; I will do what is necessary. I will push the limits of what we thought was possible, we will no longer simply adapt to change—we will become it.”

A strong middle of the speech, as strong as it was in the orchestra. And then the aftertaste; lingering and sweet whisper of what would come undoubtedly. Like in his performance.

“I will not ask for approval based on words, what I offer is action. And with action, I’ll reap results. To those who stand beside me, I offer support, and I’m grateful to know the weight of choice is understood. To those who oppose—I offer nothing but silence-“

You involuntarily gripped at the stone tighter.

”-for in silence, we will do what others cannot.”

—

The public meetings left a bitter aftertaste in your mouth, akin to drinking tea after consuming a cake most layered and sweet. Such tea was reality that you had to be struck with when the sweetness of the event eventually washed away like foam upon sea.

It was nearly voracious and gluttonous, a stomach which didn’t know how to seek satisfaction with a balanced diet; disregarding the idea of a fulfilling, voluminous light meal, for the idea of something small and dense, over and over.

Your gaze was trained on the papers in your hand, the desk beyond them so dull and lacking that it didn’t catch your interest. Your eyes moved upon the words with little interest — it was a proposal for a financial strategy for the upcoming year, one you had to analyse and sign to confirm that you realised your responsibilities.

Like all areas of your work, the technicalities didn’t matter, as longest as the job got done. A weary sigh, and then the papers dropped onto the wood in front of you. Your elbow rested upon it, and you instinctively flipped to the last sheet, signing it without realising you held the pen all this time.

The secretary in front of you tensed. A frail and new thing really - her hands balled at her lap, her breathing coming to a stop. Unimpressively you watched her mouth open.

In that moment you wondered what it may be that she wanted to say—maybe question you, or correct you. Leaning back against the seat you released the paperwork, and waved her off; her nervous departure taking even less than reading the writing itself.

Many people hoped for this work to be a gate for them, a stepping stone to an oh so grandiose and dream-like future they assumed they’d get access to. It was proven by the way they decorated their work areas and offices, you’ve seen it countless times really. Pictures of their family and loved ones, small memorial trinkets of their goals and interests. Some even kept plants, or testaments of their hobbies; like paintings or figures.

With a sharp gaze you looked at the walls of your office. Plain, with the decor scarce spare for what you arrived to all those years ago—a still-life painting and a vase which was empty for a long, long time.

Some people got too invested in their work, while some took it for granted; you were neither. A boat never ending too far on the deep end, yet never as much as scraping the oceans floor. All reports were on time—never early, and never late.

Conversations and useless chatter reduced to minimum, spare for whatever could bring gain.

Some people worked too hard, while some worked too little. Former—welcomed promotions, more money, more power, which inescapably tied to more responsibility, less time. And the latter ended up on the grey end, replaced by better; fired.

You would say you value your free time; you would even say your schedule was already too tight as it was. Colleague invitations all declined, small talk cut with a dismissive scoff.

With your head held high you never engaged in office politics, never asked questions. Your colleagues talk about career trajectories, while you’re wondering when the work hours are over.

—

Sunday was an important figure now, more so than he was before.

He was so utterly unlike you, in that aspect. The man seemed to have been ambitious, something you’d never imagine in your own life. Stuck in monotony, content in uncontentment; having enough to live, but not to dream. In a sense it was intriguing, a person living so.. distinctly.

Sunday must have had it all. The recognition fell upon him shortly after he was officially recognised as the new head of the Oak Family, and it didn’t take a genius to guess other parts at play.

An underwater current, unseen to the naked eye, until it pulls you in, and you’re drowning — you had to stay away, never allow yourself to linger too close for fear of being tugged into its rhythm.

You never danced to someone else’s tune, and you never sang to the directions of others.

And so—to keep your distance, you joined a conference where he would be the speaker. Counterproductive, in a sense, but your actions didn’t need to be logical for others. The ascension event has left you hungry for more of his articulate wisdom—

Because you didn’t want to truly stay away. Not in any way that mattered - it wasn’t usual for something to properly catch your eye, catch your heart. Admiration—a word you’d use to describe this occurrence.

You admired Sunday, and that’s about it.

And admiration truly could carry people places they’d never think to visit; that’s how you found yourself seated in the last row of the otherwise empty hall. It felt clinical and grey, large windows on one side of the room, draped over by zebra blinds, cream coloured and clean.

The windows gave way to a majestic view of Penacony from great height, but you didn’t find it in yourself to look through this time—waiting in your seat like lamb for slaughter.

As before you were early, rationalising it by the need to observe rather than be watched. Yet the seat was quite far from the spot where the speakers would converse, an unpleasant taste left in your throat at the idea of not seeing the events unfold properly.

You leaned back in the chair, and half-mindedly thought to grab your coat and just sit elsewhere—but whoever watched over you, be it Xipe or otherwise, had different plans. Before you made your move a group of people entered the hall, marking the end of your silent campaign.

So much talk—you shouldn’t be annoyed, the conference hasn’t even started yet. Yet the lack of appropriate behaviour boiled you over, and as more guests arrived in their restless and bored chatter, you inhaled and exhaled shakily.

Then, you checked your wrist watch, and looked ahead. People sat in front of you, next to you. Never behind you—something to actually be grateful for.

Ten minutes.

And then it was five minutes, which dragged over like hours. You bounced your knee, hands pressed together on your lap as a deep sense of unease filled you. As people took up their seats, you hardly felt like watching them this time.

It was different from the previous admiration.

—

You wouldn't say you were infatuated or enamored with the idea of Sunday at all; he hardly lingered in your mind. Then again that was the best subject for observation, and as such he would remain one. Something to treat as a sweet treat, or as a dessert.

Perhaps it was a good way to get out of the house more often. You never got along with people, and so it was easier to stay home with your own thoughts, rather than be exposed to the mediocrity of others. Given that attitude, you usually spent time by yourself.

Occasionally though you were in a people watching mood; not just any sort of window-gazing or park-sitting watching. Sometimes you picked places where humans gathered to dine and discuss, to wine and speak.

It wasn't that you needed their secrets in particular, or that you needed their sense of familiarity from some form of loneliness—rather it was a background noise you seemed to want.

Sometimes you'd try to filter the noise and information with your mind, cutting through the nice and useless threads to gather an image of something. Usually you weren't trying to spy.

You weren't spying now either, you were merely observing. Sunday was a few tables away after all, sat straight, with no sweet drink in sight as all the times before.

It was an accident that you found yourself here—well, one that became intentional with each visit. Wind told you once that a particular person enjoyed such a setting on very specific days, and you merely wanted to check it out yourself. That was how it began.

Soon after you found yourself arriving at the cafe multiple times a week, slowly trying to gauge out a routine tied to this place. The day was long, and so was the week.

It was mere curiosity that led you to sit in the cafe for hours at a time to try and see which moments were the graced ones—as it was only fascination that caused you to memorise the schedule.

You had a habit of chewing your food slowly and steadily, instead of consuming it all before you accurately enjoyed the taste. Watching from a controlled distance was a sign of a connoisseur.

The cafe was muted in colour, beige and darkened, giving off a feeling of an autumn evening rich with burned shades of yellow—spare for how washed out they were.

The halovian was at the table in the corner, and so were you, just the opposite side. His discussion was most fruitful indeed, and instead of focusing on the tablet in front of you, you were listening.

Sunday seemed to have been engaging in a light yet meaningful conversation, which carefully threaded between personal and professional. The noise around them and you made it harder to catch all detail—so your mind wandered.

From what you gathered, the person was someone close, whom Sunday must've known. Not by work, despite the distance that was between them, as the tone was far too light hearted. Each time Sunday frequented the cafe, it would be easier to spot the same habits of his.

Such as the way he hardly gestured during a conversation, spare for when you assumed he was making a point. Frequently he would place his hands upon his vest to straighten it out, if it ever dared to crinkle from his movement.

Even in such a comfortable setting he tried to carry himself with grace, just like at the events. And just like at the orchestra, he was eloquent in movement. His hands never made any sudden gestures, and he would ensure his vision remained trained on the guest he was speaking with.

Slight changes were present, you noted, finally lowering your gaze to the tablet. You grabbed the pen nearby to write down more.

Sometimes, Sunday would change the ordeal of his actions depending on who he spoke to. Once he came here with a family member of his—the famed singer Robin. You only knew more of her after extensive research which followed that encounter, and it led to more conclusions.

Sunday seemed more carefree around such a trusted person. He even allowed himself to lean an elbow on the table, his expression ever so pleasant then. Unlike what it was now, neutral and to the point. A mixture of his professionalism and an inherent familiarity he couldn't reject nor deny.

Not often would his posture become harsher—strictly detached and shielded, yet offensive nonetheless. It all laid in the anger of his gold eyes sometimes, covered over by a soft neutrality to mask his stance. Maybe Sunday remained detached, keeping his cards to his chest, but you could see it on his face.

You bit your lip in deep thought once your eyes moved up. The Head of the Oak Family seemed to have been holding onto something at this very moment. Perhaps it was his sense of conduct.

Remembering these few differences of his demeanor, you leaned down to put the straw of your drink between your lips. You wondered how he'd act around you. Would he disregard you? Would he treat you with disgust?

How does a rabbit behave around a fox? Would a dove fly away if a cat sat close?

The black haired male in front of Sunday nodded to him, and the cacophonous conductor only looked to the side, meeting the gaze of someone near his table. It was averted shortly after.

You wondered for a moment, with a sense of unease; if he sees them, does he also notice you?

—

Formally, the Oak family was a collaborator, not an enemy or opposition. Then again formal agreements hardly translate into words or actions, and it was no surprise that the name of competition lingered within the work area like cheap perfume, gone when waved away, short-lasting.

It was unlike the true aroma of your coffee, not enjoyed in silence, but in the noise. As soon as you grabbed a sugar packet you turned away from the machine, only to watch that one inconvenient pest trail behind you.

Superficial as all—a person kept around only for appearances. The girl cleared her throat as she walked with you.

”…and still they haven’t. What should I do?

Her voice was like a sound coming from an untuned accordion, and you gripped at the paper cup. You spared her a glance only. Nothing was as annoying as interrupted willful solitude.

“I don’t know”

The reply caused her to frown, and she immediately reacted at the dismissal. “What do you mean? Here I am asking you for advice, and—“

”Well, this is your problem.” You retorted.

Frankly, you didn’t care whether she had her reports on time or not. You only gave enough to hold onto her in case of emergencies—a nameless girl you simply felt bad for.

”But I need this report—“ She spoke, catching up to your step, and you weren’t willing to slow down your walk to the elevator in the building. You clicked the number of your floor without looking at her. “If i don’t get it, the presentation won’t get done in time.”

The anger simmered in your chest, but your face remained as neutral as before, and the metal doors of the elevator slid open. “Why won’t you tell him to wrap it up then?”

She skittishly followed you in, eyes closed as her long eyelashes rested upon her cheeks. “How do I make it not sound rude?”

When she didn't notice your eyeroll, you glued your gaze to the closing doors of the elevator. “You're asking the wrong person.”

“But I really need it-”

“Tell the higher ups.”

“I'll really get in trouble, I really need that report to- to calculate the possible profit from collaborating with Oak Family on a project and-”

She wasn't aware what sparked your interest, but you immediately turned your face towards her. She swallowed under the scrutinising gaze, but her reaction was misplaced.

“Send me the items of interest. I'll do it.”

—

The next time you saw him at an event, you secured the spot with your unique predisposition. Maybe this work of yours was useful sometimes, as it was with financial access to exquisite things. Museums and galleries, orchestras, operas. You wanted it all.

Reactions of people to artistry were interesting to put it simply, how their eyes would squint or narrow—and their brows would furrow, knitted together in a concentration similar to a prophet upon receiving a revelation.

Some people would have a different reaction, with eyes widened and brows raised—shock and surprise, akin to witnessing an apocalypse, hearing an angel blow the final trumpet, closing the gates for forgiveness.

You were never the subject who experienced it, spare for understanding the reactions of others, a second hand emotion you were privy to.

And while elaborate paintings or sculptures hardly moved your long rotten heart, there was something that had your blood flowing anew, breathing life into you like a musician into their trumpet. It made you come alive—no longer a piece of metal, but a thing to be heard. An utter vibranto.

Despite the setting of a museum, you weren't here for whatever new items of culture it could offer you. You were here due to the event which would follow its opening, an invitation to all the folk of Penacony.

You ensured your placement at the back of the hall despite the early arrival, the guests and alike all gathering at the front. They wished to hear Sunday's opening speech, to see him. And oh, did he have a way with words.

It was for Penacony's grand history, a museum to gather the evidence of Families hard work and ambition. A monument of sorts, to celebrate how far everyone has come.

But that was only a side reason, something you convinced yourself of to feel better. You weren't here for it, no—you were here for Sunday.

He was speaking as always, a long talk to appease the masses with his wisdom and eloquence. A charming ritual in which all the eyes were magically drawn to him, hanging on each word he spoke. The details of his face evaded you from the distance, and for a moment your fingers shook in your pocket. You wanted to be closer. You were here only for him after all.

The history of Penacony was something you had no care for.

Would he see you from the first row?

—

All you had to do was to ask, and it was a given. Securing an important position at your work wasn't because of ambition, but because of your will to own.

It was hard to remain in such a placement without being promoted, or without drawing much attention to yourself that is; and while the job helped with achieving your goals, it wasn't ideal.

If you could have the same pay for less labour, you'd gladly take any offer; but good things don't just occur like natural phenomena, just as miracles don't shine down on sinners.

Another weekly meeting, another scheduled misery. Your arms were neatly placed upon the long table in the room, and you ignored the coworkers which sat around as. With a gaze most bored you stared at your folder, not meeting the gaze of the executive who was explaining the agenda; there was no need to. You never asked questions, and you never wanted more.

“We are currently facing many allegations from different sides” The executive stated, her blonde hair tied behind her head in a slick bun. It didn't get in the way as always—everything was programmed to not get in the way.

She looked behind herself to the whiteboard which contrasted with the otherwise dark blue wall. “First being our deal of halving the Bloodhound income in half.”

You frowned to yourself, fingers moving over the skin around your nails. You focused on the shape of it, feeling the texture beneath your fingertip.

You traced the side of your finger, to the dip between the digits, before moving up again, right to the peak of the knuckle. The art of not listening was ingrained within you by then, and as the executive listed current issues, you were wondering when the break would be.

You could do with a coffee.

“...inherently tied to the new Head of the Oak Family. He may not be as lenient as we had hoped—”

Involuntarily you looked to the executive. You wouldn't have listened otherwise, but— “While it is not Oak Family's business what we do with our deals, they allege we violated the code of..”

Whatever else she mentioned faded to the background. Oak Family. Sunday—

She went over the possible lawsuits or disagreement, but it didn't matter. You hardly listened to the tasks which were expected to be fulfilled regarding that issue, and when she asked who would partake in that assignment of the week, your hand shot up.

Eyes lingered on you, but you held back the urge to shrink under the gaze.

—

Like all figures which were sacred and holy, Sunday was away from the reach of your palm. A star you could only gaze at when it was night, a rare occurrence of the moon when it took different shades to show to the mortal filth below.

To a literal extent, he was also far from reach. The head of the Nightingale Family was someone you couldn't hope to meet despite being its member; what made you believe you were worthy to know Sunday, the head of an entirely different family?

Perhaps over time it wasn't about knowing him. It should be enough to admire him from a controlled distance. Distance gave certainty, and measured proximity gave control.

Two things which you found more delightful than any cake. And to uphold said control over the situation, without being a reckless fool, you decided to take a closer look this time.

Sunday was a prominent figure for months, and as his reputation and responsibility over the Family grew, so did the curiosity of many prying eyes. But you weren't just any prying eye.

You didn't wish to ever know him personally, and you didn't want to be a part of his life. His company you didn't seek because of possible fame or clout, but for your own satisfaction. Sinner casting prayer in silence, compared to ones who proclaim their worship in the street.

Inherently, that made you better than all of them. And such human weakness could not hold you back from confessing your wrongdoings.

You hoped to find no forgiveness in the holy scriptures that the private library offered.

As an important member, you could enjoy the privilege of having connections. Superficial as all, but that was what mattered in the world of adults; not deep friendships which ended with sleepovers, rather—dinner parties which ended with agreements and unspoken favours.

It took nearly nothing to sign up for a membership which only important figures were privy to, after all who sane would be in a private library?

Sunday could easily afford to make a library within the Oak Family manor; in fact, if he wished to, he could probably own an entire library for himself. It was most intriguing then, that he picked this specific one.

You slouched in your seat, the thick book raised just enough to cover your face. You sat near a computer, at the second story of the grand family-owned library. Commoners couldn't hope to be here, and a sense of warmth filled your throat at the idea of such exclusiveness. A private bird sanctuary in an enclosed garden.

Sunday didn't come here often and so it wasn't a treat you could get your hands on. Still, there seemed to have been routines he followed. As with cafe being the more-likely spot, you found he visited the library at least once a week. There were places you visited already as well, such as his most frequented benches in the Golden Hour.

Or his most favourite balconies at the edges of the city which never slept. You were there already. Sunday never changed.

You weren't surprised at his pristine attire as he browsed the sections, his back turned to you. All the other people ignored him, busy in their books.

Maybe they thought themselves to be better than him. A figure of Sunday's stature was a sight unseen, and your jaw tightened at the thought. His fingers lingered over a book, which he pulled out to scan. Dark wood of the shelves against the emerald green book cover, as mystical as a forest. The halovian tilted his head in curiosity, his wings fluttering.

Soft and gentle as ever. Preened, clean. You wondered how it would feel like to touch them, to run your fingers over them, to pluck them for yourself. Take away his metaphorical flight.

You wondered how it would feel like to slide your fingers underneath his gloves, to push the boundary of what you knew to be possible. A mortal craving the delight of flesh of a saint. You wanted to sink your teeth in his jugular.

The item was put back on the shelf soon after, and he stepped aside, where your eyes could no longer see him.

Perhaps it was his means of having a slither of commodity, behaving like an average person for feigned normalcy.

When Sunday finally moved to a further section you closed the nameless book you held, slowly walking to the bookshelf abandoned by him.

Your eyes scanned the spines, and your fingers touched upon the book he discarded, an indirect way to feel connected. You didn't pick the book up though, looking towards the doors of the library. The distance was enough for him to be right next to the exit.

He grabbed the engraved handle, and then stopped. Your heart throbbed, and his face turned. Sunday looked in your general direction, brows knitting together—a small shard of his broken up composure, and your heart stopped. It appeared as if he sensed something—someone— and you held your breath.

His facade concealed him once more, and he left.

—

Routine was a defining factor of a member of the Nightingale Family, and the schedule didn't change much. Meetings were always on time, spare for emergencies. The work hours didn't change, and all holiday breaks were consistent each year. The layout of the offices and rooms never switched, and workers usually stayed the same.

Routine—integral and true part of your life, as real as the blood that rushed through your veins like a wild river restricted by the channel layered with stone and sand. Something so simple, so expected, yet troublesome all the same.

Discipline was something tied to routine, and routine was dependent on previous discipline, creating a cycle of short lived codependency, in which the routine finally tore away to be by itself—leaving discipline to tie different aspects of life to established habits.

The more you watched Sunday, the more integral it was in your routine. As obvious as the moon rising in the night, it was slowly becoming a necessity. Like the smoker needing nicotine because of their own weakness—unable to stay away, despite initially using cigarettes as a means of relaxation.

Reliance gave way to habits born from stress, and escapism with such reliance was another means of growing a routine. A routine not based around day to day life, but a situational one, only working when certain things clicked into place. An addict only smoked when stressed, and the habit of stress-smoking created the routine of smoking on a time-based schedule.

You weren't sure which applied to you, but the gnawing scrape of routine gnawed at the lining of your stomach. It took your appetite and will to live with itself, causing a vortex only satisfied with relentless pursuit.

It was no longer thought of or planned, it was desperate. Like a hungry dog whining and scraping at the doors, a mouse squeezing through the hole in the wall only to slither inside.

As before, it only took a small amount of curiosity for you to gain more gossip. You initially were against the idea, provided your general nonchalance towards your job; if you privately asked your connections about questions only relating to Oak Family, you'd be seen as suspicious. And so you had to slowly worm your way into the graces of the Bloodhounds—their.. unique job in the Penacony made it all the more easier.

Bloodhounds were responsible for ensuring safety and peace of citizens, and so they were always watching, observing. And, in your growing desperation, you used some of your connections to gain favour within them—something which your co-workers would only see as making more connections. That was something praiseworthy.

From there, by pulling a few strings on behalf of Bloodhound Family, you were privy to information pertaining to routines of figures of importance. Because even the most important figures relied on routines and habits, that was what made them successful.

In mere mortal desperation, as a smoker consuming any sort of cigarette, you quickly used such an opportunity to ask about the Head of the Oak Family, despite the original plan to ask around for others first.

But it didn't matter. In the perpetual evening of Penacony's sweet dream, you didn't feel like you were committing a crime in broad daylight. Because you weren't. Observing someone wasn't something punishable.

You walked a pace slower than Sunday did, watching him from the street parallel to the one that his footsteps graced. The light above his head illuminated his halo each time he walked beyond a street lamp, the shine beaming and splintering into thousands shards in your vision as with all light.

The lamps emitted a rainbow halo around themselves, the brightness making it difficult to keep your eyes open. Even as he strolled peacefully as a means of relaxation, he was graceful. A swan confident of its swim across the shimmering, moonlit lake.

In retrospect, the halo around particularly bright objects did take your mind to Sunday. Something illuminated past your mortal comprehension, as if trying to gaze out into the roaring sun. Lately everything took your mind to him.

An apple that you bit, or the movie that you watched. A cat always eats the bird, but not all birds are prey, and not all cats are predators.

The street was filled with joined buildings, and people around didn't seem to care for anything other than going about their day—something you wilfully deprived yourself off. Like a madman cutting off their leg despite not being bound.

You did this to yourself.

Despite the stark awareness you continued the walk, at all times remaining a pace behind. His halo was shining as always, as if freshly polished and wiped away, his wings relaxed despite the spikes which bound one. You wondered how it would feel to place your mouth over the cold metal of them, and then tear at it. If you gripped his throat, would he have the strength to stop you?

His step stopped abruptly, and your body ducked into an alleyway with an unreasonable speed. Concealed by the comfort of the darkness you saw him turn his head to a poster on one of the buildings, entirely uncaring about your—

Sunday's back was to you, but he moved his head to the side, just enough for you to see his eyes flicker, looking at the street ahead with a newly formed frown.

It was like nicotine on an empty stomach, and a weird sense of rush filled your body.

—

“Didn't think you cared about these briefings.” A voice from beside you muttered as you took the seat close to the executive, just this once.

“I don't,” you replied, flipping through the agenda. “I just want to know who's attending.”

It wasn't an utter lie, but thanks to your newfound connections to the Bloodhound's, you figured out there would be a business deal in regards to the Oak Family.

All you had to do was get the Bloodhound's some information and keep a stable contact, something unlike your connections to the Iris Family. Those required little to no contact, spare for only exchanging favours with no further familiarity.

Bloodhounds were more knit together you realised—troublesome, but doable nonetheless.

With a few bats of your eyelashes you learned new things. New opportunities to witness Sunday —and gain political intel.

The executive finally arrived, and you closed the folder to put it back down. Proper and perpetual courtesy you did but default.

The blonde woman looked over at the gathered co-worker's, before turning on the screen situated behind the ever present whiteboard. “Thanks to the quick thinking of one of you, we managed to salvage the deal with Oak Family before the allegations got out of control.

Mr. Oak liked our programme and the idea to improve on our cultural industry—courtesy of the Iris Family.”

Whatever that meant, you nearly rolled your eyes. That was until the executive finally said your name, and you straightened, looking towards her with your hand at the table. It squeezed into a fist.

“Thanks to you we managed to get the presentation in time—where credit is due, of course.” She cleared her throat.

Mr. Oak liked the presentation. He saw it; you signed it.

Something in your stomach fluttered, simultaneously excited and nauseous. You didn't know whether to throw your hands in the air or to throw up, and you swallowed the dryness that formed within your throat.

You forced a smile on your face.

The eyes lingered on you, and you gripped at the table, before switching to holding your paper cup. The executive briefed everyone else on their tasks, while you wondered if you weren't digging your own grave.

He saw you where you couldn't see him.

—

You arrived to the event early, an Opera. You figured Sunday must've enjoyed the themes of grandiose and grandeur, and all things classic and exquisite. Bloodhound's were known for their straight forwardness, yet even they couldn't escape the tug of culture and an air of normalcy that the Oak Family enforced onto others.

Before they would sign the agreements once more, due to the five year policy, Mr. Oak required the important personnel to accompany him to one of the Opera's hosted at the grand theatre of penacony. Unnecessarily so, as the real discussions were said to start in an entirely different spot once the theatre was over.

The act was one he picked.

The Bloodhound who informed you of it was kind enough to let you know that only Bloodhound's and the Oak Family knew of this arrangement. Then again the tickets were available to everyone, as the event wasn't private.

Of course you had to go. And of course you chose the VIP section.

Glancing at your wrist watch you realised there was half an hour left until the performance began, and once more, like at the orchestra, your seat was elevated just enough to oversee the stage. The actors prepared the props, the musicians their instruments, and you prepared your mind due to a weird sense of unease.

A waiter came over with a smile strangely stretched, and you accepted the offered drink. You placed it at the small table in front of you, glancing around the darkened cubicle.

People of importance enjoyed the privacy that the shadow provided, and this was no different. Only when the light is cut, only then can the roaches crawl from underneath the stones like vermin.

You finally picked up the glass, red wine. Your hand was flat against its bottom and your brow furrowed when you felt a strange texture against your skin, akin to experiencing the streaks of the wood in a tree.

The glass was raised to your eye level, the bottom of it engraved in a pattern of a rose. Your palm slid towards you gently, until your fingers could run over the intricate design. You haven't seen glasses like these before, but it wouldn't change the taste of wine, and it wouldn't change the outcome.

—

You were here before. But it was only right to be aware of the territory you stepped to. The Oak Family manor was usually open for guests in the parts accessible, alongside the specific offices you could go to if you wished to file a complaint.

You were overstepping. But all your control and observation? You had nothing to show for it—the wax and stamps you've collected didn't count. You received them at your work, after all, merely as means of exchanging envelopes with the family in regards to some matters you didn't care about.

There was a need for something closer. A fear of wanting to eat the entire cake after tasting a slice, but you'd control yourself.

Maybe you'd try to break into some space, just for the feeling of familiarity. Surely he had to have his office, and he had to have his belongings—you were utterly pathetic.

A crime in broad daylight. You stole the gloves that he accidentally left on the table after signing paperwork. One time you watched him press the wax into the envelopes that he sent.

And one time you saw him from a balcony at a gathering in a garden. It was truly a beautiful day.

The sky was clear, spare for a small amount of pristine white clouds, and the guests were more than happy to discuss things with him in the open air, a breath of life from the early spring.

Things didn't make sense anymore.

—

It wasn't enough. Public meetings, seeing him walk on the street; it wasn't enough to satiate the gnawing in you.

You wished to know him; as well as you could from a distance, as a researcher astronomer knows the stars, as well as a biologist knows the layers of an oak tree. For now you had to satiate on the scraps you were fed after sacrificing your dignity.

No amount was fulfilling enough—and this time, in foolish recklessness, you arranged an entry into one of the private parties of the Oak Family. It was hosted right in the famed manor, and you signed up for it a week or so before it even took place. It wasn't something members of other Families would do, but you couldn't think of the consequence. You've followed him to events before.

You've been where he was, and did what he did, and you admired the view of the city once when he was admiring it, in a skyscraper. He wasn't aware of your presence then. But that was before, and now is now. And just because someone ate dinner, didn't mean they didn't crave breakfast.

Who would blame you, though? You've been starved of his enlightening presence for over a week—he didn't partake in anything special over the time, and just seeing him in a library, or a cafe, or on his walk, or in his gardens; it wasn't as satiating.

In his lonesome moments he didn't speak. He had no reason to. If you engaged with him, would he converse with you? Would he wave you off?

Your decision was done in haste, in sheer animalistic desperation with no thought. You hesitated for a second only, before deciding to screw it all. What would you from nearly a year ago think of yourself now? You'd shame yourself.

And so, right when the announcement came a week ago, you signed up, handing over your information just to be granted entry. Just to see him.

You tried your best to force your hands into compliance, stiffening them when you showed a guard your identification document. As they took it from you to inspect, something incoherent lingered on their otherwise neutral face, before you were allowed to pass.

All Families had their property; not that the members lived there, it was more like a governmental building tied to the place where the officials stayed.

You were allowed into the general guest area, while the other parts of the manor were entirely blocked, accessible only from the outside entrances for these specific parts. As much as it gnawed onto you to travel around, despite the risk of being caught, it simply wasn't possible.

As all guests were led to the major hall of the event, you wondered how personal this one would be. The space was gentle blue and heavenly, the light wooden panels serving as the great basis for tall walls and windows, and the blue curtains which draped over like leaves on trees.

The chandelier was grand, and you looked upwards for a moment, its colours golden and rich. Squinting, you cast your gaze downward again.

The guests gathered round an important figure, gravitating towards him like planets around the sun, listening intently to all he said. With a shaky sigh you found your feet involuntarily leading you over to the nearest table at the disposal, your shoes inaudible against the noise of the people.

Your hand lingered on its pristine white surface, but you didn't sit. Slowly but surely your gaze resumed its walk forward, spotting an empty table right near the centre of all the fuss.

It felt strange. Your blood was turning cold, and you swallowed. With one last hesitation you stepped forward, claiming the empty seat within Sunday's vicinity, where there were gaps between the guests in the front.

That felt.. nice. He looked over at the people, and he was smiling. The champagne in his hand was merely a prop, and his sister stood beside him. She wore some sort of a nightgown that you didn't spare your time for— your eyes quickly drifted to Sunday.

It seemed he was comfortable here, the cold facade of stone and divinity dispersed like leaves on wind. He talked to the guests as if they knew each other closely, his halovian sister smiling. On occasion she nodded, and added to his sentences, having guests laugh.

Your eyes remained glued to his suit, a cold and ice shade of white, and then a hot blue tie, like the utmost bottom of an iceberg. His hair was neat as always, parts of it brushed back while the longer strands draped upon his shoulders like water which spilled from glasses.

Behind Sunday was a white piano to match the design, something you assumed to be only a piece of decor.

“Exactly that, dear. Though it makes me wonder what challenges we will face next. After all,” Sunday gestured to the crowd. “we can expect the unexpected from some, while some choose to be predictable.”

Robin nodded, tipping her head. “Well said, brother. It makes me all the more excited for the charmony festival this year—” her wings fluttered excitedly, contrary to his, which seemed to hardly respond to his emotional stimuli.

You leaned your elbow into the table, hand supporting your chin. Just hearing him talk made your earlier anxiety ease, the hands of darkness which peeled at the lining of your intestines having retreated far into the world unknown. Sunday was akin to a miracle cancer to a condition he himself caused upon you. Truly cruel.

Sunday hummed. A guest joined the discussion, an older man. “I haven't seen such development since the times of the old Gopher Wood, Sunday. You truly do live up to the promise!” a hearty laugh followed.

Despite how often he was praised in public, in the newspaper—oh, the newspaper. Once it called him the most handsome man in Penacony, followed by so many mentions of fan accounts. A celebrity of his caliber seen by so many. It made your throat tighten and an unreasonable anger rise in you, just thinking about it—

“Now, now. Let's not be excessive.” The head of the Oak Family stated, tone gentle and conversational. He did not speak to you, but it felt like it.

“Let's focus on things that truly matter. Now, I've been asked quite nicely by someone,” Sunday's face turned to his sister, who couldn't keep her face neutral, as a smile involuntarily formed on her face. “to play a piece for us tonight.”

He slightly side-stepped, giving view to the piano behind. Robin's wings gave a flutter, and she nodded.

Sunday straightened his suit a little. This was unlike the conferences between families, this was more casual. Personal. Private, intimate.

Why were you here?

He headed for the stool situated in front of the piano, opening it for all the guests to see. To keep the politeness, he was still turned sideways, his back straight. But a soft chuckle left him. It seemed he only now realised the piece he'd be playing, reading off the musical sheet right in front of him. And then his face turned towards the audience for a moment.

“As requested, I'll play Clair de Lune. To commemorate this eventful night—” he stated. “And to bring upon ease.”

The guests whispered for only a moment, and Robin stepped aside, letting her brother take the attention this time. You assumed it must've felt good when eyes weren't on you, as they always were.

His hand moved to the keys, the touch gentle as he pressed them. Sunday's gloved fingers moved with ease, trailing along the instrument with an unseen softness and care, each break between the note filled with an echo.

You forgot how to swallow for a moment, the saliva collecting in your mouth until you finally recalled how to perform functions such as breathing.

On an evening like this, the tune was most appropriate, liquified moonlight amplified by his instrument. Despite no change in light, it felt akin to the piano dispersing the reflected beam of the moon across the guests, and all seemed as in awe as you were.

It was breathing life into you, and an uncanny unease as well. No one dared interrupt nor speak, and you leaned forward, both your elbows resting upon the white table.

Sunday moved with grace. You could see his head slightly tilt, despite seeing mostly his back at such an angle. All it did was help you witness the measured and precise dance of his fingers, like droplets of water upon the moonlit lake, gentle and careful and carefree.

The tune was revitalising, and when the last note died, your body forced you to finally exhale. Small round of applause fell shortly after, which you didn't join.

Unexpectedly Sunday raised his hand. “Well, while I am at it, I do believe another piece would be appropriate?”

But he didn't look at the crowd. Hell, he didn't seem to want to hear what they had to say. Sunday tilted his face to Robin. And she nodded excitedly.

It was sweet in hindsight.

“Very well then. For the new beginnings, and for the ends which start them”

This time he didn't need a sheet in front of himself, playing an entirely different rhythm. Sharper.

And by the time the guests were satiated with Sunday humouring them, the party was coming to an end. It was hard to say where each melody began and when it ended, and while the guests slowly began to converse between each other, Sunday's play faded to the background.

It all ended. The guests were leaving, spare for you and few others. They drank, and you lingered in the after-taste of the moonlight you were hand fed. The hosts were leaving too, Robin first, and then Sunday. His conversation with one of the people came to an end, and he stepped to the exit, shoes softly sounding out as he made his way forward.

You realised you pushed your limits when he stopped in his tracks right next to your table. A flicker of amusement was all you were given, and he left soon after.

The liquified moonlight’s effect was cast away when the coldness of anxiety coated your skin once more.

Does he know?

If he does, why doesn't he say anything?

—

There is always a bigger fish, just as not all birds get eaten.

Some birds eat.

—

You didn't want to walk through, but it was as inevitable as a hawk stealing a lady's pampered dog.

Then again you clung onto hope like a leech, hoping that maybe this really wasn't true. It sure felt like a dream, and it made you light headed with sickness. Your face turned to his to try and gauge any silent confirmation, but his eyes were glued to your face.

Lowering your eyes you walked through into the room with hesitation, acutely aware of the sound of his footsteps right behind you.

Before you was a rather large table, filled with blocks and models of sky-scrapers. The front of the model, Penacony's banner, was turned towards the doors. Such a mini city caused uncertainty to build in your throat, and your fingers twitched against each other as they folded before you.

The sound of a click cut through the air, and you didn't have to turn your face around to realise that the gates to salvation were long locked for you. Closed, never to be reopened again.

Above the grey model of the city was a lamp, leaving the room in a comfortable yet dim, warm yellow light. It did nothing to make you feel any warmer or any more welcome.

You were aware of sofas situated near each wall, it seemed like a gathering spot of sorts—spare for the way it's been mostly empty.

Aside from the two of you.

Sunday stepped from behind you, approaching the city model with an ease and certainty inappropriate for the situation. Using the opportunity you looked behind yourself once more, the engraved doors having been long shut as you had assumed.

The halovian cleared his throat, and your face shifted back to see the space before you. He stood at the side of the table, picking up the wine that was sitting conveniently next to him, a thing so normal yet out of place.

“Come,” his other hand gestured to you. “there is lots to discuss.”

As ambiguous and vague as it was, you had truly no choice. And so you took the first step, approaching the model. You were sure you were shaking despite the composed demeanor, one you held onto like a lifeline—your heart struck your ribcage with each frantic pump, but it felt like the blood coursing never gave enough air.

It was art to not hyperventilate right now, your senses dulled; as though the rush of your blood muted your ability to hear. And, yet, you heard him well.

You stood a good pace away from Sunday, but close enough to the table for him to have no objections. The bottle of wine was already open, and all he had to do was to take one of the glasses into his gloved hand, tilting it. The red liquid poured inside of it, rolling over the walls of the glass like a heart filling with blood.

He reached it out to you, and after a momentary period of stillness, your hand took the glass.

It did not spill, your oversensitive muscles however did not take kindly to the strain, the grip on the wine causing it to vibrate. It was not only humiliating, but just embarrassing. Your other hand joined the grip, moving underneath the glass’ bottom.

Sunday had his gaze glued to you, and the temporary shaking of the glass did not escape his gaze. Alas the corner of his mouth only moved up, before he cast his look down to the glass he was filling for himself.

Your skin felt the intricate design on the glass’ bottom, and you could swear your heart stopped. With eyes widened you took a peak downwards, and surely enough you saw that the bottom of it was engraved.

You would run out of here if you could. Even if it was pathetic, even if it was embarrassing and humiliating and even if you had to look like a prey to get out, you would. You'd leave Penacony, change your number, you could even change your face and identity. You'd—

“The city breathes, you know?” he began, causing your train of thought to derail entirely off the mountain. You swallowed, your confused expression causing the man to continue. “Not because it wants to. Because it must.”

The model before you was detailed, as a model could be that is. The buildings had their respective lights from the inside, even the Golden Hour held an unnerving degree of accuracy to it.

Sunday always made sure all buttons were in place. “Not in the way people do, of course not, but in a way that something vast and living shifts under its own weight.”

You were aware of his face turning to you for a moment, the silence stretching. It lingered on your face, before he tilted his head to the model, hand sitting loosely on one of the wider buildings. His index finger moved in a circle for a moment, but he didn't unnecessarily fidget.

“A change in the air, a tilt in the balance—no matter how small and insignificant, it's all felt somewhere.”

Your eyes glued themselves back to the model, and you felt tense, like a piece of wood waiting for the carpenter to arrive. No—the carpenter has arrived. And right now he was preparing his tools properly.

His hand moved towards one of the streets, pressing into one of the buildings. It dipped into the model's bottom, before clicking, and as his pressure released, the building loosened. Sunday picked it up with his hand, bringing it closer to his face.

It was a cafe, one too similar, and you felt like you were being mocked right now. Sunday sighed. “More often than not, it isn't the grand movements that matter, not the political ones either. It's the small ones that set the tune for the city's music. These ones—define its breath.”

He hummed, his finger running over the bottom of the mini building. With a click its light turned on, and he pushed it back into its appropriate place, slow and unrished, with no misstep.

Your fingers tightened against the glass, and you prayed you wouldn't shatter it. “Small steps like these measure up to grand tunes, be it a street closing early, or a whisper in the wrong ear,”

“even a shadow where there shouldn't be one.”

His gaze flickered to you, unreadable.

With a throat tight and mind spiralling, you couldn't hope to know what to say. It was no magic trick, you didn't know your last words.

“It doesn't take much to alter the shape of something—yes, even something as vast as this.”

He raised his glass in a silent toast, and you did not raise yours. You had no intention of consuming it, not from fear of it being drugged—Sunday did not play dirty. Rather, you were afraid your stomach would reject all that wasn't his flesh. Not from desperation, but sheer anger at the situation.

Sunday's eyes closed as he straightened, head tilting. His movement was slow and deliberate. “That makes watching interesting, don't you think? That's why I do what I do—”

“—it is most interesting to see what happens when someone changes the rhythm.”

He was calm, something contrary to your jerky movement as you set the wine glass down, the tension inside you snapping like a hairband; flying across the room like a miscalculated bullet of a faulty gun. “What's the meaning of all of this?”

Sunday didn't snap back. He smiled knowingly. Instead of responding immediately, he tilted his head slightly, as if considering whether to answer at all.

Informed and restrained, yet not forceful, as though the causality was something simple. He spoke at his own pace. “What is it, I wonder. Maybe you can tell me?”

The room felt all too small, and your words didn't change anything. Subtle amusement found itself passing on his face, yet he didn't wait for your response as you would've expected.

“I’ll admit—” he began. “I thought, for a time, that you belonged to someone else.” The halovian mused, his fingers lightly moving over the edge of a building, dancing forward towards the concert hall. “That you were someone's carefully placed piece.”

He exhaled, almost amused. Almost disappointed.

“But no.”

Sunday's fingers knew where to look, and you followed their movements as they pressed against a part of the structure of the building. The concert hall clicked, and its outside lights sprung to life like confetti bursting from pressure. This soft click, precise and deliberate, caused things to fall into place.

“You were moving on your own, weren't you?”

His gaze meets yours. Not in passing as before, Sunday truly looked at you, eyes flickering over your eyes, and the curve of your lips. A glance measured in centuries, in calculations that have already reached their conclusion long before you were aware of them taking place. His finger rested on the model, poised like he could collapse the entire thing with the slightest pressure.

“It's a dangerous thing,” he continues. “To move like that, without knowing whose board you're on.”

A beat of silence.

Sunday's hand leaves the city, and he lets it fall to his side, watching you with something unreadable.

“Then again you know what by now, don't you?”

There it is. The checkmate. A fail proof strategy which you thought you controlled, falling through your fingers like sand. The checkmate. The knowledge that this game—your game—was never yours to control.

Another pause, each stop between the notes of the tune made your heartstrings compensate for the silence. Then, just as the weight of it settles—

“Of course,” his voice is light, a shard of kindness in the otherwise cruel situation, as if he was offering you the last slither of dignity. “you could always try again.”

His lips curved into a smile.

“This time, perhaps, with me watching.”

—

There was a deliberate sense of being observed. It was unlike being watched by his mentor, and it was unlike being watched by a pesky Alfalfa spy.

Sunday showcased his abilities before; he could guide the masses, the grand symphonies—as easily as he guided singular figures and pawns.

He was a soloist as he was a conductor, and a conductor should know how to push things into place. He could lead the whole and he could lead the singular, yet there was something that was hidden in the darkness.

Sunday had realised it long before anyone else, and he saw through it long before being warned. Gopher's words, for the first time in a while, fell upon deaf ears.

And while originally it was his idea to introduce Sunday to the masses with orchestra, to have him make the repertoire, it wasn't his idea to drag the game longer than necessary. Much to your displeasure—if you ever did find out—the air of the order around Sunday pulled dirt out from the darkness without having to be prompted.

And, while you initially saw your steps as infallible—instead of covering them up like branches used to cover traces in the snow, you only highlighted your path.

With his resources it was a game of cards. Many names have repeated before, it was to be expected that same members visited the same events more often than necessary.

But there were things which were not accidental. Why would a spy have to follow him to a library? Sunday, when he was young, learned that the only way to understand mechanisms was to push all the buttons. He did not do that anymore of course, he preferred instructions, but it's not how it worked with people.

In your blinded following you chased after him everywhere he led you, without realising it. Sunday found it amusing—you were no good of a spy.

And then, he came to find you weren't anything like that at all. You were pathetic.

[milkbreadandtadpoles]

soup and stars

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snip: you keep sukuna's favorite after workout drink in your fridge. and no, you don't frequent that store. sukuna looks at you like you hung the moon and painted the sky yourself when you're either on the brink of death or not paying attention (it's only with his eyes, though. he's a certified rbf). the two of you have been hooking up for over a year with little conversation outside of snarky comments and emojis he doesn't get.

and he sometimes takes care of you when you're sick for five hours only.

warnings: suggestive language, sukuna being a parallel of this guy i used to hookup with who was srsly emotionally constipated and really milked my daddy issues, reader being dumb (lol me), probably a lot of run on sentences and weird descriptions but i am not srry ab it, no Y/N here, a lot of parentheses for some reason

authors note: omg hey. i have this a03 and i thought i'd put a tumblr to pair it together cuz i had an old tumblr but i was kinda done w her (may she rest in peace!) anywayyy my name is lillie, hi again. hope u enjoy this!! luv me some sukuna who reminds me of all my bad flings.

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Since when did you get sick like this?

This time, not that time you lied to your boss, you have an actual stomach bug. Stomach thing. Food poisoning from bad sushi. You don't know.

What you do know, however, is that everything smells bad, you can’t stomach anything other than a handful of saltine crackers. You couldn’t even finish your coffee yesterday morning; you’re just coming down from a fever. Everything is hot and cold, nothing feels right on your skin. Noises are too loud, but the silence is making your ears bleed. 

Curled up into the sheets, you shiver. It rocks over you, feeling cold despite your body burning off whatever infection is brewing in your gut. Your skin feels crusty yet damp, scalp itchy and pulled back into two haphazard buns. Stray strands lay over your forehead that twinkles with cold sweat.

Vampire Diaries plays in the background, volume loud enough so you can hear where you’re at within the series but quiet enough to give you grace if you wish to take another four hour nap. You don’t even want to get on your phone, ignoring the occasional, silent buzzes and flashing light that draw your eyes away from the fuzz of your blanket.

Time passes in a druken haze, not knowing whether you slept or not, not feeling entirely there at all. You fail to count the amount of times you got up to throw up or sit on the toilet, thankful the walls are snug enough to rest your head on the wall of it to contemplate if it’s worth passing out before you gather your wits and crawl back into bed.

There’s a rustle in your sheets, a distant sound of intro music for the vampire show.

“You still watchin’ this shit?” A gruff voice sounds from above you.

Your brows furrow in your sleepy haze- you don’t have energy to fight an intruder, pulling the sheets over your head that throbs from lack of everything. Horribly big hands paw at the clothed dip in your waist. And you let out a mixture of a whine and huff at the realization that your little fling (if you could even call it that) picked a horrible day to play.

“Sukuna,” You murmur, drawing the blankets higher above the crown of your head before he has a chance to yank it down and see your very unprepared self, “Not a good time.”

Sukuna, an occasional fuck and lackluster addition to your friend group, scoffs a laugh, muttering something about you really being a freak, something about thanking your dad for giving you all these issues that only he can handle as he gropes the flesh of your ass.

And it would feel so lovely if you weren’t on the brink of death.

“Eggroll. All the eggrolls.”

He groans, lifting his hand away from you in agreement to the safe word (because that one time when the two of you didn't have one and you reacted that way actually scared the shit out of him). 

“I’m sick.” You add quietly, urging your body to morph into a tighter ball. If Sukuna were his younger brother, or his younger brother’s friend, you’d ask either of them to cover you with another blanket. Or to refill your water bottle. Maybe even run to the store down the road and grab you some soup. But this is Sukuna, and-

There’s a harsh tug at the blanket covering your head, and you try to weakly grip the fabric in place.

“That’s why you didn’t answer my text? ‘Cause you’re all disgusting and shit?” He questions, giving one more quick tug to reveal your messy hair, the tint to the apples of your cheeks. The way his gaze feels makes the very top of your gut churn, and you scrunch your face as you decide whether or not you need to puke again.

“Mhm.” You nod, begging for the fabric back with a soft tug. Sukuna relents, snorting as you cover your head back up.

His body weight makes your bed frame squeak as he repositions himself to slouch next to you, and you peer at him through the crack of the blanket. He pulls out his phone, typing on it lazily. Through your bubbling stomach, confusion festers simply because he isn’t moving.

“Thought you not replying was you trying to be cute ’n shit.” A hand makes its way onto your lower back, the weight of it making your eyes bulge in silent surprise. With all your strength, you shake your head and whisper a soft sorry. He tuts, like all weirdly immature but mature, rude but nice and confusing older brother types do, dismissing your apology with a little pat on your back.

Another pat, and you’re snuggling into the blankets and letting your eyes close, mapping the way his hand feels and ignoring the way your stomach cramps. You hear the distant sound of a picture being taken, only being able to mutter a humiliated groan. There's a vibration where your phone is, and you know that the group chat has been notified of your predicament. 

“You eat? Take a shower?” Sukuna asks, mastering the art of making his concern dismissive. The silence on your end answers everything he needs to know, humming in acknowledgement. You’re a stubborn little shit who likes to suffer in isolation, he’ll give you that.

He synchs a basketball game to your TV, adamantly rotating between patting and rubbing your back until you’re snoring and curled up next to his lap.

When you wake up, you’re still cold, still sweating off your fever. You peers towards the bed, noticing the empty spot but the basketball game still softly playing on the screen. For a moment, you let your head slump back into the mattress before you force yourself out of bed to pee.

The weight in your body is too overwhelming to be horrified by your appearance when you emerge to make your way into a shared bathroom with your roommate. They’re all gone for work, and you don’t have the wit to ask where Sukuna got the time off to come fuck you in the middle of the day. Or why he was looking at your location. 

“I forgot how much of a bitchy face you have.” He comments, voice a note softer than you would usually hear, as you pad towards the bathroom. You grumble a quiet fuck you, slinking towards the bathroom.

You fix your hair to the best of your ability- standing up too long made you throw up. Your abdomen feels like it’s gone to three HIT classes in a row, hardly having any reserves to help you stand and brush your teeth. So you do it knelt over the bathtub, making sure to lock the door to make sure that stupid person of interest doesn’t see you so weak.

Rinsing your mouth out knelt over a tub is a new low, spitting the globs of toothpaste and water into the drain before you turn it off and brace the sides of the tub to stand and wander back out into the kitchen. Your bones feel like brittle, a bowling ball in your stomach forcing your posture to look horrifyingly old. It's been two days but you've aged thirty years. 

“Hi.” You greet weakly, rubbing your eyes before putting your arms back down as swiftly as you can. When was the last time you shaved?

Sukuna nods back, digging through a plastic bag. It’s only a few seconds before you’re sitting on the floor. The tile makes you twitch, and you wonder how you’re going to get up without looking like a hobbling mess. Maybe you’ll just crawl.

Soup and some electrolyte drinks are set out on the counter- along with your favorite candy. For a moment, your brows furrow, and then your lip wobbles in realization.

“Did you get that for me?”

“Can’t fuck you if you’re all pitiful and disgusting.” Is all he says, but his lip twitches into a bewitching smirk as your eyes well with tears and you sniffle out a sweet thank you. "Of course you’d cry over stupid shit like this." He adds, shaking his head. 

His shoes click bluntly against the floor, and he peers down at you with that devastatingly handsome, horribly mean face.

“You could just go fuck another girl.” You murmur sappily, lip jutting into a pout. And it’s true, you know it. The two of you have established that. He throws it in your face, too, when you tell him you’re busy or you’re too sleepy. Or when you simply don’t want to deal with his attitude.

His laugh tickles your heart, staring at him with wide, watery eyes as he bends down and gathers you into his arms. You squirm, or try to, holding any pride and ego close to your chest like a rabid animal as you let out a faux uncomfortable noise. There’s a familiar tap to your ass that urges you to stop, and you sink into Sukuna’s terrifyingly comfortable embrace as he carries you back to your room. The two of you have hardly cuddled before, the absolute most being him begrudgingly letting you cling onto him after one particularly rough night- only to shove you off five minutes later, giving you a pat on the head as if to say good job, thanks for the head, before leaving.

So this is new, awkward, when your semi friend with semi benefits sets you down with the upmost genteel fashion and retreats back into the kitchen. He comes back with an armful of products moments later. Soup, your favorite cup filled with mystery get well liquid, a straw and a big spoon.

“I don’t like big spoons.”

“That’s too fuckin’ bad because that’s what I got- stop pouting like that, it's disgusting.”

Sukuna sets everything down and defiantly does not grab another spoon for you. You make a noise in the back of your throat when he reaches over and urges you to sit up with a silent look that you’re expected to figure out. He lets you maneuver a pillow behind your back, lets you curl a blanket around your body and change the TV back to Vampire Diaries- he does not let you feed yourself.

When you reach for the bowl of soup (your favorite- chicken and stars), he uses only a percentage of his strength to swat your hand away, giving you another demand to stop sulking like a little kid before he’s crawling (crawling!) across the bed. Bowl of soup and too big of spoon in hand, he sits across from and in front of your view from the show.

He leans forward in a sort of endearing way, brows furrowed in a certain concentration as he scoops the perfect spoonful of soup and stars, holding it to your mouth. And he watches when you open your mouth with furrowed brows, lips closing around the dipped metal so that nothing drips down your chin. The broth warms your mouth, your stomach in an instant, making your face relax and your back slump into the pillow that supports you.

There’s a prickle of humiliation on the apples of your cheeks, something Sukuna would likely make fun of if you weren’t half asleep by the time he finishes spoon feeding you. And yea, there was one singular instance of him swiping away fallen liquid away with his thumb. And yea, you’re going to remember that forever. And most definitely are you going to internalize this as something more between the two of you than just friends who fuck (friend being a huge overstatement).

“I don’t like you.” You find yourself murmuring as Sukuna thrusts your clunky, metal, pink water bottle in your face. Obediently, as you always are, you sip at the liquid, swallowing down any grimace as he stares right at you while you swallow.

“You’re not my favorite, either.” He grunts, picking the cup up as soon as you set it down and representing it to you with a face.

“I’m at least second to your video game console.” Your grumble with pursed lips, taking another measly sip. When Sukuna raises his brows, you take a few more.

“Third. Second is pot. And it’s a PS4- fucking nerd.”

The part of your stomach that isn’t cramping to shit flutters, your fever probably rises, and you smile to yourself as you take a big gulp of the electrolyte solution. You swallow before he says the softest atta girl and takes the cup to set it back down.

Sukuna helps you shuffle under three big blankets, gives you your phone and goes to wash the soup bowl. You text Satoru with sick enthusiasm, to which he reiterates it in your (other) group chat where everyone just starts sending silly fangirlish memes. Shoko isn’t phased, Suguru isn’t pleased, either. But there’s an icky smile on your face, the thought of when it’ll end and Sukuna will go back to, well, Sukuna, gnawing at the back of your throat.

But you’ll pretend for today, like you do everyday.

“Are you leaving?” You ask when he comes back into the room, question answered when the bed dips once more.

He grunts a no, to shut up and sleep as he synchs up another sports game. You don’t mind, turning your head so you’re facing him. His back rests against a pillow with a floral case, one of your weighted stuffed animals squished between the weight of his back and the metal bed frame.

You stare with lidded eyes and hot cheeks, tracing the musculature of his shoulders and the sharpness of his face in the same pattern you do after he’s done making you quiver and shake and cry. The plush of the blanket is a perfect excuse for the sheen of sweat on your face, your stomach still molten lava and convulsing.

But it’s just a little more than a dull ache with Sukuna here, bored face and all.

For a moment, before you fall asleep for a third time today, you feel his fingertips, hard and gruff and soft, brush against your cheek, your chapped lips. You’re too tired to hide or quip at him in the static-like fashion that makes him laugh.

You swear you see his lips twitch when you hum affectionately. There’s a text waiting for your friends, a mental scoreboard to update. Smile number two. Four days apart. From holding a sparkler and ogling at it like a child at Satoru’s New Year’s Eve party to laying in bed sick, purring like a cat as he pets you.

“Stop looking like you’re going to die.” He all but requests, covering your face with a sliver of the blanket and looking back at the game. Grabbing the remote, he turns the volume up a few more notches to ignore your itty bitty, very sleepy laugh.

Seconds away from sleep, Sukuna uncovers it- you. His lingering gaze tingles your nose, all the way down to the tips of your toes. Your infatuation with him might as well be the cure to cancer from the faintest spark of energy it gave you.

He’s not there when you wake up. It could have been a fever dream for all you know if it wasn’t for the refilled hydro flask and oddly neat note scribbled for you to ‘drink the fuck up’ on one of your Sanrio sticky notes. There's a brief look of horror on your face knowing that he looked through your drawers to find one. 

You drink it all and take a gruesome looking picture, sending it to him with a silly caption- your way of saying thank you. Sukuna doesn’t respond, but the read receipts are on. And he doesn’t talk to you for awhile, as if he curates the perfect way to make you stay by letting the bubbling like for him simmer into nothing, only for it to come back in full force when asks if you’re awake three Thursdays later.He asks if he can still use the key you gave him to come by after the gym to shower because his little brother and friends are over and he doesn’t want to hear them blubber while they figure out their alcohol tolerance (or lack thereof).

A pearly, well built increment of yourself hopes it’s so he’ll check up on you, too, after he slinks into your room and fucks you just the way he likes- because he knows you like it, too.

And you say yes, like you always do. Tell him about this new body wash you got that he can use, that you just so happened to get his favorite drink from the store he get his protein powder and supplements from when you went grocery shopping.

you don’t even like that store lmfao

found a new prebiotic there! Saw it on Pintrest

sure

Sukuna is not immune to exploiting your obvious cartwheels to please him. He’ll never say thank you, and you won’t ever ask him to. You do it for all your friends, you tell him. Shoko’s toothbrush brand is in your bathroom cabinet when she sleeps over. Satoru’s moisturizer and favorite tooth-rotting snacks. Suguru’s blanket because he gets cold at movie nights. But Sukuna knows he could have whatever he asked for within the hour.

He’ll never address that he took care of you when you were sick. Both times. Or that there's a packet of your favorite gum in the console of his car. And he'd rather be dead than you, shit, anyone, find out that there's a hidden album of little you's in his phone. 

i’m just a good friend  *ੈ♡⸝⸝🪐༘⋆

we’re not friends.

It doesn’t hurt your feelings. Because you know he’s emotionally constipated, that no one’s ever really cared. Except Yuji, but little brothers always care. That whatever affection and consideration thrown his way will be burnt to a crisp, that he’ll only ever look at you like you hung the stars when no one’s looking, or only think about you at night when the weed isn’t helping him sleep. 

uh huh, we sure aren’t. see you later! make sure to stretch before you lift!!

stop texting me, it's fucking up my music

₊˚🖇️✩ ₊˚🎧⊹♡

?

[unicorn-virus-syndrome]

Felt a little bored so here are some incorrect quotes! (Mostly about the Jury of Nine because I’m going insane about them lately. Could take place either in Mystreet or Minecraft Diaries.)

———————————

Zane: Time for plan G. Jeffory: Don’t you mean plan B? Zane: No, we tried plan B a long time ago. I had to skip over plan C due to technical difficulties. Ivan: What about plan D? Zane: Plan D was that desperate disguise attempt half an hour ago. Janus: What about plan E? Zane: I’m hoping not to use it. Katelyn dies in plan E. Ivy: I like plan E. Katelyn: >:/

——— Zane: Posts a super low-quality image to the group chat Janus: If I had a dollar for every pixel in this image, I’d have 15 cents Zane: If I had a dollar for every ounce of rage I felt in my body after I read this text, I would have enough money to buy a cannon to fire at you! :] Lillian: Actually I did the math, Janus would have $225, not $0.15. Janus: Fam I’m right here…. Katelyn: If I had a dollar I would buy a can of soda. Jeffory: while you’re there could you buy me an apply juice please? Katelyn: Sorry I only have a dollar. Jeffory: :[ Iavn: Hey I just realized Lillian is right, Janus would have $22,500 because it's a dollar for every pixel, not a cent. Katelyn: If I had $22,500 I would buy a can of soda and an apply juice. Ivy: You can buy anything you want with $22,500? Ivan: Yeah and they want soda and apply juice. Ivy: Apply juice to what??? Katelyn: Directly to the forehead Zane: Great chat everyone.

———

Jeffory: I've got a weapon, and I'm… admittedly VERY afraid to use it!

——— Ivan: eh, I don’t go looking for trouble. Trouble usually finds me first.

———

Jeffory, skipping rocks on a lake with Katelyn: It’s such a beautiful evening. Katelyn: Yeah, it is. Katelyn: whispering Take that you fucking lake.

———

Ivy: Okay, can we all stop saying stupid shit for a moment, please?! Zane: Alright. Ivan: Hey, I- Ivy: SHUT UP! Ivan: I HAVEN'T EVEN FINISHED MY SENTENCE!! Zane: It was bound to be stupid.

———

While planning to break in somewhere Janus: Hey, let's do "Get Help!" Zane: What? Janus: "Get Help." Zane: No. Janus: C'mon, you love it! Zane: I hate it. Janus: It's great! It works every time! Zane: It's humiliating. Janus: Do you have a better plan? Zane: No. Janus: We're doing it! Zane: We are not doing "Get Help!" A Minute Later Janus, carrying Zane: Get help! Please! He’s dying! Help him! throws Zane at guards, knocking them out Janus: Ahh, classic! Zane: gets up I still hate it. It's humiliating. Janus, laughing: Not for me, it's not.

———

Jeffory; Isn’t it a bit dangerous? Ivy: Jeffory, please. We’ve in a lot of unexpected predicaments before and we always escape unhurt. Jeffory: … Ivy: Okay, we sometimes escape unhurt. Jeffory: … Ivy: Alright, we escaped unhurt once… Then we hurt ourselves on the way home.

——— Katelyn: I wouldn’t wish that upon my worse enemy! Katelyn: Unless of course. . We’re talking about my enemy, Ivy. Fuck you Ivy, you know what you did!

———

Zenix: Hey, check out my Spongebob umbrella! Zenix opens his umbrella while indoors Sasha: Zenix, that’s bad luck… Jeffory: Chill out, dude!- Ghost Janus, kicking down the door: WHO SUMMONED ME?!?! Zenix, Sasha, and Gene: SCREAMS

———

Lillian: What's with the new hat? Ivy: Oh, this? It's nothing. Janus: It's the loudest nothing I ever saw. Katelyn: Ivy, you just can't mosey in here with a brand-new hat and act like you're not wearing a brand-new hat. Ivy: Look, I'm trying something new, okay? Just take it easy. Ivan: She’s right, guys. Come on, let's not go down this path. It's ugly… Kinda like that hat– Ivy: I got this from a nice store! Ivan: What store? The one before you exit the Al Capone Museum? Zane, entering the room: Good Evening— Ivy? Did you just finish Bling Ring-ing Bruno Mars' closet? Ivy: I'm being brave, okay? You guys are sheep. You may want to take a long, hard look in the mirror. Katelyn: Better us than you. You look like a park ranger from a cartoon. Ivy: Jeffory, do you think the hat looks bad? Jeffory: Oh, uh, me? Um, I… I wouldn't say it was bad. Like, I think it's just different, like something you would wear in Indiana… Jones and the Temple of Bad Hats.

———

Janus: Dude, we can get mythical animals! Maybe I’ll get a penguin! Lillian: Penguins are real. Janus: That’s the spirit, Lillian! They’re real to me too!

——— Ivy: I feel awful about killing you. Katelyn: … Ivy: Even though technically you never even died, so I don’t know what you’re bitching about.

——— Jeffory: You know you can die from that, right? <:[ Ivan: smoking a cigarette. That’s the point. Katelyn: drinking alcohol. We’re trying to speed this up. Lillian: Eating raw cookie dough and nodding.

———

Zane: So uh, for this party and everything, do you, uh… Lillian, sighing: You don't know how to dress for this, do you? Zane, panicked: WHAT IS CLOTHES??? Ó_Ò

———

Katelyn: Respect my trans homies or I’m gonna identify as a fucking problem. Janus: :] Ivan: >:D Lillaim: ….Slowly gives a thumbs up.

———

Ivan; Lucinda has no idea I’m high. Lucinda: ..You’re high? Ivan: Oh, I’m sorry. Ivan, leaning over to Lillian: Lucinda has no idea I’m high.

———

Zane: What’s your greatest weakness? Lillian: Interpreting the semantics of a question, but ignoring the pragmatics. Zane: Could you give an example? Lillian: Yes, I could.

———

In the Early Days of The Jury of Nine Katelyn: Fight me! Ivy: gets on one knee and pulls out a ring Ivy: Fight me for the rest of our lives? Katelyn: 0///0 Jeffory: …Well this can’t be healthy. Ivan: Oh absolutely not this can only go down in flames.

———

Ivy: Tell them to eat shit, Lillian. Lillian: Tell them yourself. Ivy: Eat shit, asshole. Fall off your horse.

———

Ivan, handing a balloon to Lillian: I have no soul. Have a good day! Lillian, walking off: I don't have one either.

———

Lillian: What's wrong with you? Ivan: Off the top of my head, I'd say low self-esteem, a lack of paternal affection, and a genetic predisposition for anxiety and depression.

———

Zane: My favorite thing about big dogs is that when you push them over, they're all like "Oh, I'm lying down now! Someone might scratch my stomach! I might nap! Endless possibilities!" Zane: …whereas, when you push little dogs over, they're all like, "Vengeance! Death before dishonor!" Lillian: Is this just your way of describing Janus, the tallest in our friend group, and Ivan, the shortest in our friend group? Zane: Yes.

———

Ivy: Aww, what's your dog's name? Aph: Celestia! ^^ Ivy, yelling to Lillian: TRY CELESTIA! Lillian, on the computer: DIDN'T WORK! Ivy: … Ivy: What's your favorite number?

———

Jeffory; Uhh.. Zane just asked if we want to… Jeffory: ”Fell the mighty before their time and display their carcasses in our homes?” Lillian, not even looking up from her phone: He’s asking if you wanna cut down Christmas Trees. Jeffory: Oh, that makes more sense.

———

Jeffory; I have a problem. Katelyn: Kill it. Ivy: Kill it. Janus: Kill it. Ivan: Kill it. Zane: Kill it. Lillian: Kill it. Jeffory: …Can you all chill for like, two seconds?

———

Zane: Where's Janus? Ivy: Don't worry, I'll find them. Ivy, shouting: Zane sucks! Janus, distantly: Zane is the best man to ever live! Fuck you!! Ivy: Found them.

———

Zane: The ritual. To preform it requires a sacrifice… Lillian: Sacrifice? I nominate Ivan. Ivan: Wait, what?! Janus: Because you're little, you'll fit on a pentagram. Ivan: I'm 5'9, that’s like the average height in Ru’an! Zane: Its not that kind of sacrifice guys!!!

———

Ivy: Janus learned how to fold origami penguins from Lillian the other day. I told them, “I feel a little bad for the penguins, it’s hot here”, and the next day he put the penguins in the fridge.

———

Katelyn: Look, Zane, it's the third time this week you had a mental breakdown and its Monday.

[poetry-i-live-for]

Lyrics of Starseed by Catie Trainor

I don′t know how to be anything other than honest

I have lived in Nashville four years now come this summer

Which means I have not spoken to my brother in almost six

Time sure does fly while rearranging kitchen drawers to make new spoons fit

I Venmo'd my dealer last week for some weed to help finish this poem

How many licks to the center of a hypocrite

All the same, I have been dropping masterpiece after masterpiece

I put out three over the course of one year

When California asks, I tell her I′ve been stitching together poems so big

They could be thrown over entire countries to keep them warm

And I could give a fuck about a trend

I want to be the word so universally healing

That generation after generation will keep running back to them

Because ever since I was a child

I had always felt like there was somewhere I needed to be

So when I'm feeling burnt out in an industry that is anything but gentle

I think back to my youth

Libraries as lunchrooms

I throw my soul to her fountain and wash, rinse, repeat

And I've been told some of you are wondering, and yes

I just keep on getting better at resuscitating memories with words that run like water

twenty years inside the books, now I shall never be alone again

By noon I′m ruling Rome, I built my own up from the ashes

They mistake me for the apple without knowing I′m the seed

As in which any earth I'm planted, fruit is harvested around me

And it′s funny the way they will treat you once they realize your mind is worth money

Sand dollars are found out past the break of every wave, but that is also where the sharks are

Cracking under pressure, too much liquor, forgetting all my words at slam

I promise you this, I will never again allow that shit to happen

But after all, I'm only human, only flesh and blood imperfection

And you′re bound to hit some turbulence when a bad bitch is about to shatter through a glass ceiling

Keep your eyes on the credits of the rock charts, your girls' name is about to be all over them

That′s why I never tell them what I'm doing till it's done

And the only name you′ll ever catch me dropping is my own

They say imitation is flattery, but I say it′s thievery

And sympathy is bitter depending on which pair of fangs you taste it from

If you sip on my stars, I will swallow the sun

You are limited only to what I have already done

Some see me as competition, but I see them as all my children

Because as writers, we must hold our immortality with the greatest reverence

The holy crack in the spines of our books, forever embedded in their memory

Just like Stephen said, approaching every pen in any way but lightly

So your cadence may be mildly entertaining, but what are you actually saying

That's the thing about the quiet of a page. you can′t hide from it

Strip away the smoke and mirrors of performance, let us see the quality of your sentences

So mark my words, my children and my children's children

Will never again know the weight of this brokenness

It ends with me here, so let us be this

A love letter etched into an old notebook

Tucked away on a bookcase

A collection of soul rearranged, inked into words

In hope that someone may read them

Find healing in the shape on a page

Memories found in palms I will never trace

Once I finally lay at the feet of rest

We will soon be an echo, so

Let this page be proof that I have lived

And I have loved, so good

[demetria-wayne]

Kidnapping?

¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬

Demetria was very dizzy, she can't see anything, her face is covered with a blindfold. There's a bad smell in the air, her body is tied up with something tight and it's hurting her a little bit, a chain maybe. She's trying to regain her senses but is kinda difficult, try to keep herself calm, focusing on whatever she can hear. There's no voices or even sound of someone moving, but she can hear water noise. Maybe she is in a sewer? Not sure each, her mind is not working properly.

How did she even get here? If she thinks a lot about it, she can remember what happened.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Phone in the one hand, messaging Alex, talking about the movie they did watch yesterday.

A: You did sleep at the end of the movie, will you even want to watch the second today?

You: Yes, you can tell me later what happened at the end of it.

Demetria replies and then puts her phone in her pocket, she just left a store after buying somethings for her since she is in that days. Carrying a bag and walking through Gotham's streets, there's not a lot of people in the street, not unusual, maybe she should see Harley? Haven't visited her in some days. Lost in thoughts until she hears a scream.

"HELP! PLEASE, SOMEBODY HELP!" A girl voice, sounding very young, she's scared.

Demetria decide to follow where the voice coming from, putting on her hood and hiding her face a bit, she may not be in the best disguise, but she won't pretend to be deaf and blind to what's going on. Leaving the bag on the ground, she sees a man probably in his 40s trying to silence a girl, she's seens like 10. Demetria observes the scene to see what exactly she can do about it, there's some small rocks near her on the ground, this may serve to draw his attention, she grabs some rocks, positioning himself and then throwing them at the man's head, a little hard to maybe try to pass him out. The man hisses when the rocks hits him directly in the head, letting go of the girl, the little girl then hits the man right in the balls before pushing him and running away, Demetria smiles at the reaction, watching the man grunts in pain while now in the floor, she will not let him there of course, not without a little threat.

The teen grabs a shard of glass that was on the ground, approaching the man from behind and soon grabbing his hair pulling hard and holding the shard close to his neck, deepening her voice slightly. "Tsk Tsk... You're luck it was me and not someone else, what you were trying to do, certainly was utterly disgusting. I could just kill you right here, Gotham doesn't need more people like you." Her voice is serious while just etching the shard on the man's neck, making it bleed a little. The man seens very scared by it not saying a word. ".. But, i'm not a judge and can't give you a death sentence as much you deserve it. I'll give you a chance to do better but if you try to do it again, there's no kindness coming from me." Her voice is more calm but still threatening. Then she hears soft steps coming from behind her, when she was about to look around whoever it was, pulls her hood down and shoves something in her neck, getting something inside her body. Demetria pushes the man away and using the shard she hits the person, making them bleed, Putting a hand on his neck where he had felt something pointy being placed, maybe it was poison or something to make she sleep, she doesn't have time to check before running away from there, whatever it is, definitely not safe. Throwing the shard away and grabbing her phone, she can feel herself slowly or rapidly falling asleep, typing too fast her password, not getting it right, it's infuriating! She keep trying, sometimes looking back to check if they decided to follow, honest she didn't pay attention to where she went, but certainly was a more darker area of Gotham. When she finally unlocks her phone before she can even type something she ends up hitting her head in a wall, the phone flys A little far away and she falls to the floor, her vision is dizzy and her head is hurting, there's someone giggling approaching her. Why did she decided to be the hero? Stupid idea.

Demetria slowly closes her eyes, her consciousness going away.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Demetria scoffs after remembering what mostly happened not exactly everything but what mattered. 'Stupid way to get caught, i' m a vigilante and a former assassin! That's such a shame. Father will be dissapointed. ' She mentally reprimands herself. The teen is waiting for the sign of her kidnapper, they are not here each, why? In that free time, she should try to get free.

¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬

[wellthebardsdead]

To deny godhood part 1

———

Shamat: *wakes up on the wooden floor of a cell, the room slowly rocking side by side making him think he’s drunk* hnuh?… h-huh?… where? Kaidan?… y-yaksha? Inigo- *remembers what happened before blacking out… he’d ignored Kaidans warnings of leaving the city alone having seen strange figures eyeing him up after an even stranger encounter with Indoril nerevar in the whiterun market. And went to go check on the homestead outside the city after hearing about a giant bothering the nearby farm, only to be grabbed from behind by several figures, a funny smelling cloth over his nose, and he was unconscious* …where am I?…

*Creaking of wood as the door to the room opens, allowing a golden armoured figure to enter*

Indoril Nerevar: *holding a tray of food, quietly inspecting the dunmer in front of him* you’re awake… *sighs* I’m sorry it had to be this way, Voryn. *places the food in the cell*

Shamat: *backing away slowly from the bars and against the far wall* l-lord nerevar p-please I’m begging you I-I’m not Voryn Dagoth y-you have the wrong person.

Nerevar: Believe me my friend. I really don’t… *sighs* no matter. You’ll remember soon enough… please eat, and cooperate. I’ve been lenient with you but the temple priests may not extend that kindness to you. I have responsibilities to my name and rules I cannot bend even for you… *stares at him through the bars* I’m sorry to keep you caged like this, it must bring back bad memories of your past…

Shamat: y-you know of my sentencing?…

Nerevar: I do. By the time I’d found out about it though, you were long gone… last I heard you’d sailed for skyrim, so I followed.

Shamat: why? Why me? I’m the dragonborn I can’t be dagoth ur. How could I have his soul in me and the soul of a dragon-

Nerevar: *laughs softly not believing him* very funny Voryn, you’re not going to trick me into letting you go. *turns and walks to the door* eat… we’ll be arriving home soon enough, the guards will be in to dress you in your house robes. The 6th house will be honoured again with your arrival.

*a few hours later*

Nerevar: We’re home at last… are you ready to greet your people?…

Shamat: *flanked by two guards and standing behind Nerevar, dressed in long and heavy dunmer ceremonial robes inscribed with the insignia of house dagoth, long enough to hide the shackles binding his feet and keeping him from running* … *looks down silently*

Nerevar: *gently takes his face in his hand* you’re mad at me now. But you’ll be thankful soon, Voryn. *looks his arm around his and walks with him off the ship with his men to see the streets leading to the temple lined with dunmer waiting to see Nerevars return, and the leader of the 6th house reborn*

Shamat: *looking visibly afraid, steps back a little*

Nerevar: it’s alright… they’re waiting for us… just walk…

Shamat: *swallows a lump in his throat and walks beside him past the crowds, all of them suddenly cheering out for the nerevars return. Members of the 6th house suddenly dropping to their knees and grovelling in the dirt as they pass by, but beyond all the celebration several more voices screaming death threats and promises of violence to the one walking as the sharmat*

Heckler: OI! SHARMAT YOU CUNT! *throws a rotten ash yam*

Shamat: *looks up thinking he said Shamat* huh? *looks in time to see it coming only for it to be blocked by nerevars shield*

The crowd: *suddenly falls very silent*

Nerevar: *looks back at his men* …Execute that man. *continues leading Shamat to the temple as his guards disburse into the crowd grabbing the man and anyone holding rotten food or rocks*

The crowd: *all start cheering helping the guards grab the attacker and his accomplices, all of them working into a frenzy*

Shamat: n-no wait- I’m- he- it’s not worth his life! *winces as nerevar pulls him along ignoring his pleas* nerevar please the insult isn’t worth their lives- *looks around as the crowd gets louder and the sound of the drum like heart beat pounds in his head making everything seem dizzy as the temple doors get closer and closer* ENOUGH!!!

Everyone: *hits the deck as a ball of flame erupts from the Dunmer’s throat, a dragon shout*

Nerevar: *let go of him in surprise. Recognising the voice that escaped from the up until then very soft spoken elf, but still not understanding how he breathed fire* Voryn, calm down… *looks to his guards and gestures for them to let the hecklers go* Are you happy now?…

Shamat: *unable to answer, the drum too loud he can hear it in tandem with his heartbeat, just shakes his head holding his face as the birthmark on his forehead begins to sting* no- im- I’m not- I’m not- I’m not- him.

Nerevar: *sensing dagoth urs presence slowly taking over shamats body* …you will be. In time. *takes hold of him and leads him inside, closing the temple doors behind him*

[cass1x1]

💋 (sonia/miles)

send  “💋”  for four times my muse thought about kissing yours, and the one time they actually did. 

i.

It's so late by the time they make it to Sonia's apartment. The night is cool and still and extremely private, as though they are the only two people left awake in the entire city. Despite the hour, and despite the fact that she'd worked an entire shift before Miles picked her up, she isn't even tired. No, she'd become energized spending time with him. She could've danced-danced-danced all night.

"So..." Miles says, not finishing the sentence.

Sonia rocks back on her heels. "So...thanks for walking me home."

"Yeah." The word hangs between them, waiting for one of them to do something.

For a moment, Sonia does. She thinks--she knows--that from the outside, this looks like the end of a date. It certainly feels like one. She rocks forward slightly, and then thinks better of it. "So..." It feels like they have gone in a circle, now. "I'll see you tomorrow, I guess."

Miles answers slowly, like he didn't realize she was speaking. "Yeah, see you tomorrow."

She turns and puts the key in her door, and doesn't look to see if he watched her go.

ii.

It is, Sonia tells herself, a mistake she makes because she is tipsy. She is warm and the edges of her world have softened, making them something she can hold. Tonight, she does not feel too childish or pathetic for believing in love--how can she, when it is all around her? And so, with her defenses down, when she sees Miles walk in, she hops up, throwing herself around him.

"You came!" she cooed into his neck, where she has buried her face. His hands come up to hold her back. "I'm so glad you came."

Miles chuckles, and she can feel it against her whole torso. "Of course. I wouldn't have missed it."

There is something in his words, a tone that her off-kilter brain can't process, and so she leans back to read it on his face. The mistake; not only is Miles notoriously hard for her to read, but at this angle, she knows she could just--

Something brightens in his eyes, and she sees herself reflected in it. Catches herself. Pulls herself back down, the unnamed decision still swimming in her brain. "I'm so glad you're here," she reiterates, as though that might explain her behavior. "Come on back! We've got tequila and....hmmm rum, maybe? I forget."

Miles chuckles and allows himself to be pulled over to the makeshift bar. If he noticed her little almost slip-up there, he doesn't say anything.

iii.

Sonia wants to kiss Miles. Both in the general sense--she has for a long time, no matter how hard she tells herself not to--and in the specific sense. Right now, right here, in front of all the diners and her coworkers, Sonia wants to kiss Miles. It is an urge that has struck her so hard, so suddenly, that she finds herself leaning down toward him, despite every reason that she has held this desire back for months.

It's something about the way his face looks this morning. Kissable. He looks so kissable, that it has clearly knocked the sense out of Sonia. His mouth is relaxed, the shape of his lips not quite forming a smile. His soft, pillowy-looking lips. His jaw isn't set like it is on a bad date or straining like it is when work isn't going well. It's just relaxed. His forehead, his eyes, he seems so at peace, and Sonia wants desperately to kiss him.

She may well have, if he hadn't spoken up when he did. "Hey, you, uh..." He reaches up to brush something off her arm. Sonia didn't see what, but the moment shatters around her, and she feels heat rise in her cheeks. She hopes, perversely, that what he'd shooed off was a fly, so that she has something to be embarrassed about.

"Thanks," she says. "You need a refill?" She glances at his cup, only about half-drunk. "I can get that for you." She turns away, forcing herself to take measured steps back to the kitchen.

iv

She loves this feeling, being wrapped in Miles's arms. He's so warm, and she can feel the soft beat of his heart against her back. She can hide when the on-screen action gets too scary. She can be as close to him as she wants, and pretend for a moment that she doesn't want it to be something it's not. In a way, she doesn't. Being tucked into him like this is perfect, exactly as it is.

The only problem is that it has been a long week, for both of them, and she can feel him start to lull above her. It's not a problem for her comfort, per se, but it feels more intimate, if he is asleep. She doesn't know why; it just does. For a moment, she considers pretending not to notice. But guilt nags at her, and eventually, she realizes she must do something.

It's not clear to her exactly what she's going to do--just that she's going to do it--when she twists to face him. It is, apparently, enough on its own. Miles stirs. His eyes flutter open, so strikingly blue that it hits her in the gut again. He mutters something too soft for her to hear. Sonia tilts her head up to listen, and then realizes how close they are. There's barely any distance between them. If she arches her back up slightly, there would be none at all. Face to face. Skin to skin. Lip to lip.

She turns away almost as soon as the realization hits. Almost. She gives herself a moment to relish that feeling, to memorize what it's like to be in his arms and know that she can close that distance. And then she twists back to facing the TV before sliding herself out from his arms slightly. An immediate chill slides through where his body was, a moment ago. "I should probably be heading home," she says, voice barely above a whisper. "It's pretty late and I have class in the morning." It's a lie--she doesn't have class until late in the day--but it saves him from having to apologize for falling asleep on her, nearly literally. "Good night, Miles."

"Night," he whispers back, so bewildered that it fills her with confidence that he has no idea what happened.

v

Miles lights up a room when he is animated. Well, Sonia thinks he always lights up a room, but never more so than when he is animated. She can feel energy radiating off of him as he describes the new design technique, the way the solar panels can be inlaid to work seamlessly into the roofing. He is is own sun in these moments, absolutely glowing with energy.

She listens for a moment before she feels that same stir inside her, that dangerous feeling that she has fended off so many times before. She has told herself every lie in the book--that she is just lonely, that she's out of practice having friends like this, that everyone feels this way about their friends sometimes. That she doesn't want to kiss him.

Whatever lie she is about to conjure for herself begins to bubble up when a realization stops her. She doesn't need to do this. Instead, she cups a hand on his cheek, which does stop him talking for the moment, leans in, and catches his lips with hers.

It's a gentle kiss. Miles is not much for PDA, but he leans into her, kissing back. There's no tongue or hands, just a sweet press between them, and when she pulls back, she is almost laughing.

"What was that for?" he asks.

Sonia smiles, knowing full well that she is flushed despite how soft the kiss was and not even caring. "I don't know, I just wanted to."

[thecottageinthedark]

#so saying moogle casually threw aside a large rock#had me in the first sentence but yes this is a big reason i don't really ID as a proshipper anymore#the other biggest one being that the proship movement/community has over time become self-selecting for its own callous; reactionary#anti-intellectual purity politics; which are detached from reality; and throw the entire party line behind NO ENGAGEMENT WITH FICTION CAN B#SHITTY EVER EXCEPT MISTAGGING SOMETIMES; SO YOU SHOULDN'T TELL PEOPLE TO KILL THEMSELVES OVER FICTION#instead of like. going. okay yes sometimes people can in fact be shitty about how they engage with fiction. to varying degrees.#you still shouldn't tell them to fucking kill themselves over it#and like. about how to build community norms + infrastructure that encourage grace and good faith; that's neither 'no bad actors can exist'#nor 'you wrote something kind of hurtful; and therefore if you grovel publicly you might get harassed less when we stalk you for years'#and also the idea that *criticism itself is not above criticism. the way in which you Have a Problem with Something can do harm.*#and that that can be the case with the best will in the world; and deserves grace as well even if the correction is not sugar-coated#and building community infrastructure that says okay how are you going to keep people safe if they *do* face harmful criticism that the#discourse du jour leans in favor of harming. how do you plan to protect marginalized ppl from being concern-trolled by racists and fatphobe#and transphobes and biphobes and people who try to kill survivors for writing abt their experiences. what are your safety measures for them#and more! and instead any kind of conversation about that gets shut down in favor of lovebombing antis' victims so that they're terrified t#so much as say 'i think [media] handled this abuse trope in a shitty way' or else face mass dogpiling and harassment and ostracization for#'anti rhetoric'; because then they will be excommunicated from the only community they have that doesn't want them fucking exterminated

#proshippers may not generally suicide bait you; but their communities are rampant with violence and abuse; bc someone dares have an opinion#about their blorbos they don't like. so yeah that's a big fucking reason. but also antis are the gamergate of transformative fandom and a#thousand times worse and more urgent to deal with; for many reasons including that they are a major arm of conservative ideals + legislatio#people like to say they're just a trickledown but they are ACTIVELY HUGELY ENABLING that legislation and making sure the way is paved for i#antis are why we're at the point where we've got fucking KOSA looming overhead bc if the internet had been up in arms en masse years ago#instead of not just shrugging at the net being tightened but actively cheering it on/enforcing it; i *know* shit would not have got this fa#just. yeah. i think 'antis' is important not to let fall out of circulation bc it is vital not to forget where this angle of attack started#but 'proship' does not encompass what's at stake here or the scale of it; it keeps the focus way too small. the iranian yogurt needs to be#thrown out because it's a problem that it's rotting and becoming a health hazard; keep trashing it; but it's not The Problem#antis cw#the salt files#harassment cw#current events cw

not proshipper not anti but a secret third thing (person who has a career in the media and, through covering legislative politics, has watched "associating with problematic fiction or entertainment is an indicator of moral degeneracy" rapidly become a mainstream GOP position that they are encoding in legislation to target the queer community under the guise of protecting children, thus coming to the conclusion that positioning the "can people enjoy things that would be immoral IRL in their fiction" debate as a proship v anti fandom debate is akin to pretending that "should we have the death penalty" is a discussion that only matters in Death Note discourse — the extent and manner to which fiction affects reality is an issue that is immediately relevant to today's US politics, and to summarize my opinions on the matter in fandom terms would be to diminish the ways this debate is affecting america Right The Fuck Now. and i have stopped taking "this person is bad for shipping the wrong anime thing and being horny about it" in any sort of good faith ever since I saw it literally used as part of a GOP smear campaign against a transgender state legislature in an attempt to defend the right from backlash after they used their supermajority in the Montana house to prevent her from speaking on the floor. Anyway I think everyone on this site, especially Americans, could benefit from ceasing to think in proship v anti vocabulary and instead developing coherent political positions on the nature of fiction that do not directly align with current fascist political tactics)

[thesinglesjukebox]

BON IVER - "S P E Y S I D E"

"Speyside is not a place; speyside is a person that you get stuck with; speyside is a pain that you cannot erase." - /r/boniver

[4.77]

Tim de Reuse: For Emma, forever and ever, ad infinitum. A tedious spiral of Emma, on and on, rhyming "good" with "could" with "stood", rhyming "me" with "sor-Ry," wallowing in unspecific folksy grayness, cashing in on his own bubble fifteen years too late. For Emma, an ourobouros. [2]

Taylor Alatorre: Leaning into it, playing to type, giving the people what they want -- there's something about hitting age 40 that brings out public displays of commitment to an inescapable bit. As with Vampire Weekend's latest offering, "S P E Y S I D E" is built on the idea that what has been deconstructed can be reconstructed again, using the master's postmodernism to bring Ithaka back to its pre-violated state, or something like it. The title and artwork are fake-outs, as is the producer credit for Jim-E Stack, whose role is to engineer the kind of quarantined sparseness that's traditionally cast as the arch-enemy of artifice. It never was, but it's still fun to pretend, and Vernon's lyrics retain their power even when interpreted as a self-conscious bid for authenticity. If you've ever sent a decade-late apology letter to someone, you know that honesty is a fool's game there, that every attempt to avoid trickery will lead to it popping up in some other sentence. "I hope you look" is not a good enough reason on its own to hit "send," but if you can turn a good phrase and do a good falsetto, it sometimes can be. [7]

Alfred Soto: Satisfied with their 2023 Pitchfork Music Festival appearance after years of mockery, I sat down, linen napkin folded on my lap, awaiting tastier goodies. "Tasty" is right, or, rather, "tasteful": acoustic guitar and strings! This isn't for me, but I'll note that "What is wrong with me/I'm so sorry" shows a humility absent from his passive-aggressive peers. [6]

Andrew Karpan: Described by Mr. Iver as “an apology to a couple of people he loved and hurt,” the idea conceptually brings to mind the indy rock generation’s version of Em’s Recovery.  [5]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: smh I can't believe another white electronic pop artist is pivoting to mid acoustic folk music in his late career. what happened to integrity? this Justin Vernon guy is such a culture vulture.  [5]

Nortey Dowuona: Bon Iver's plaintive, taut guitar playing seems at first to provide wrenching emotional bloodletting, but the lyrics quietly cloak it behind metaphor: "as I fill my book, what a waste of wood," "I can't rest on no dynasty, yeah, what is wrong with me?". The gentle string arrangements from Rob Moose weep where his words are not allowed to. The 4/4 line verses feel more and more apologetic as they go on, but the apology is still cloaked, hidden despite the light, frail feeling of the music. The deeper you dig into the words, the more they scarper, the more they obfuscate, until you throw up your hands. It is a message for someone, but that might only be you if you were offered a parley at a quay with someone who just kept retreating from you the closer they got. [6]

Jel Bugle: I have to admit that I got chills when the guy started singing -- not good chills, to be fair. I just can’t get into this country music that isn’t country music, I’d rather listen to Brad Paisley or Zac Brown, someone who could sing this kind of thing with a bit of pep, a bit of sparkle. The wail of modernity is just not for me, the new shoegaze, staring inconsolably at your shoes and airing your most miserable of thoughts. [2]

Mark Sinker: Bon feeling sorry for himself, me not feeling even a bit sorry for him. Yes I do interpret “Speyside Quay” to mean he was on a whiskey-fuelled bender and did something unacceptable. The words are bad, and so is the treatment on his voice. [2]

Aaron Bergstrom: If Justin Vernon has a little dial that goes from "Haunting" to "Haunted," this may be the furthest into the red that he's ever pushed it. [6]

Dave Moore: Docking a point for the annoying stylized spaces between each letter. Not as bad as "L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N." in title formatting or sound -- inoffensive somber busker shit -- but not much to recommend it, either.  [4]

Ian Mathers: Hi, it's me! I'm the guy who didn't pay much attention to Bon Iver until something made me check out 22, A Million, and it kind of blew me away. I'm a real person, and I exist! Then "Hey, Ma" had none of that record's weird power, and I stopped paying attention again. Is this what he sounds like these days? It's pretty, and the lyrics are decently moving, but it's kind of boring. [5]

Harlan Talib Ockey: Instrumentally direct like For Emma, Forever Ago, lyrically direct in a way Justin Vernon almost never is. Perhaps not distinctively Bon Iver, but still well-crafted. [7]

Katherine St. Asaph: 2:00. That's when you realize that this surprisingly stately grown-folks folk was Bon Iver all along. [5]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[goodnightmemes]

TIKTOK SENTENCE STARTERS PART FIVE

some of these are quotes from tiktok creators, and some are from various other forms of media that were popular audios/trends on tiktok  

❛ My dad’s always asking me “what are you on?”...probably the spectrum. I don’t know man, I just act like this. ❜

❛ The smoke is just when I start the car. Don’t worry. It’ll go away soon. ❜

❛ It’s not gonna happen, but that seat has been fully ejected from the car a couple of times. So just make sure you’re locked in. Okay? ❜

❛ I don’t like watching normal sports where they throw the ball. I like watching sports where the car go really fast, and turns. IT’S SO FAST! And look it! He turns too! ❜

❛ Tacos and sushi! Tacos and sushi! Tachos and sushi and anti-depresants! ❜

❛ Saaaaay ten! …oh my god, Satan! ❜

❛ Action man? Who the hell is act- oh my god. No. It’s John Wick. ❜

❛ Open the door or I’m gonna throw rocks through your window you dumb whore. ❜

❛ Ma’am, this is an elevator. ❜

❛ Tis I! For when the hour of the midnight munch doth descend upon me, I must embark upon a noble quest to the 7th of the 11th. ❜

❛ If you ever have - if you’re ever having a bad day just…just…just remember that - just remember that there’s a, uhhh, a brighter side, uhh, it may not be that day or the next week or the next month or the next year or the next, it may, uh… ❜

❛ And look! Very nice box! For my trinkets. Another box for my trinkets! What’s going on? It’s trinketville! ❜

❛ Girlfriend really just came out here, came onto the field, she dug a ditch and then she buried the bar. Cause honestly, I could not have gone any lower. ❜

❛ Motherfucking, where is it?? Where is it?! I swear to god - you laughing? You trying to laugh? Is this funny? ❜

❛ The sign says ‘no weenies allowed’ and buddy I’m sniffing a weenie. Get out. ❜

❛ I’m over here dissociating and you want to walk over and say ‘hi’, and just remind a motherfucker that they exist? That is rude. How dare you perceive me, bitch. ❜

❛ Buy your own apple. I’m a peasant person. I don’t have any money. ❜

❛ The flame calls to me, not by its warmth or its pumpkin-spiced aroma, but by its desire for calamity and destruction. ❜

❛ The high ground means nothing. We are squabbling one v one on asphalt. ❜

❛ The dust is a part of the ambiance. ❜

❛ Oh shit! It’s fucking Mambo #5! ❜

❛ I’m on a benedryl and a red eye right now, which I like to call: the sober speedball. ❜

❛ So let’s get one thing straight and two things gay… ❜

❛ You’re supposed to wait an hour, some people wait more, if you’re not afraid of death come back in 20 minutes. ❜

❛ If my reputation in this town gets out that I’m woke then I will be ruined and I won’t be able to sell fire extinguishers! ❜

❛ They call me West Virginia because I’m always mountin’ mamas. ❜

❛ Everyone be careful because I just found a needle in my kids candy and also seven different sized allen wrenches. ❜

❛ We are not getting distracted by nonsense today, we are laser focused. Okay, that being said, I need more chicken knights. I’m forming an army! ❜

❛ I’ve got about 10 more minutes until 40 mili-vanilly-grams of this adderall kick in. Let me tell you something, I’m feeling pretty intelligent right now. ❜

❛ Good thing I’m wearing my safety crocs. ❜

[things-arent-what-they-seem66]

Don't touch him.

This idea just wouldn't leave me alone so here I am lol

Content Warning: Cursing, implied sexual themes, Adam is his own warning, so is Val. Adamsapple

Adam was many things, the first man, Dickmaster, the first human soul into heaven, likely the world's biggest rock fan and overall amazing fucking person in his opinion.

What he was NOT was a fucking mind reader. He has been at the hotel for a while now but that didn't mean he knew where everything was in that shit hole.

It was like Charlie just expected him to know. Stupid bitch. Adam has a vague memory of her explaining everything to him but that doesn't fucking matter, he shouldn't have to do this community service bullshit to begin with. How in the fuck were peeling potatoes going to get him home to heaven?

For the last twenty minutes Adam had been looking for the stupid peeler. He swore they moved it around on him just to be a bunch of little assholes. He slammed the drawer shut and stomped out of the kitchen. "Charlie! Where the fuck are you?" He yelled out. He hated having to fucking ask her where shit was but he'd be in the all damn day. It took him a whole afternoon to figure out the can opener and he's still pissed about it.

Adam heard voices coming from the lobby. Of course little miss princess was off having a nice relaxing time, probably with her bitch girlfriend. Adam ground him teeth together at the thought. He deserves relaxation too!

Adam angrily made his way to the lobby. "Charlie, where the fuck is--" The sentence died in his throat when he came into the room. This was bad. Standing over Angel Dust who was on the couch curled up in fear was a moth like looking man. Valentino, Adams mind supplied. One of the few people Lucifer and Charlie told him to stay the fuck away from.

Now Adam would never back down from a fight, but he wasn't a complete idiot. The look Valentino gave him when his red eyes locked with Adams golden ones made a sick pit feeling in his gut. He should leave, NOW. "You're not Charlie, I'll go."

"Not so fast." In a blink of an eye the moth was directly in front of Adam. "What's the hurry? Adam, right? First man, angel turned sinner?"

"Val, leave him alo-" Angel Dust chimed in.

"Shut up cunt!" Val roared, eyes flashing with malicious intent. Angel winced.

Now, Adam and Angel weren't exactly friends, but hearing this fucker talk to him that way didn't sit right with Adam.

"Hey! Lay off of him twat stain." Adam growled. The only regret was now he had Val's full attention.

Val took a long drag off of his cigarette and blew the red smoke into Adams face. Adam coughed and tried to shoo the smoke away. Adam has never smoked before, cigarettes didn't exist when he was on earth and they didn't have any type of drugs in heaven.

Val circled him like a shark as he spoke. "I could make you a huge star you know? You are a very attractive man, you'd make it big. Maybe as big as Angel Dust over there." He chuckled darkly. The smell of the smoke was making Adam dizzy, but he kept his glare in place. Val stopped in front of him again. " You may look the part of a sinner, but your eyes," he leaned in closer to Adam. "Give you away, they are heavenly."

Adam thought he was going to throw up. His heart beat hard against his ribcage. He was so fucking angry but he knew this guy could kill him before he even got his first in the air.

"Hmm~ Yes a fallen angel, that's bound to be somebody's kink~" Val stroked Adams jaw line with the tip of his finger until in rested under his chin, smile cruel and hungry.

It was as if lightening had struck down, that is how fast Lucifer was there to be in-between Val and Adam. Not only did this surprise Adam, but Lucifers full demon form was out on full display, horns and all. He had one hand on Adams chest keeping him out of Val's reach while the other was fisted in the moths ugly sweater. "Yeah? Well my kink is smashing bugs, roach." Lucifers voice was even full demonic.

Val started to shake a cower, the gravity of the situation hitting him. "Y-your Highness! I had no idea you had interest in him."

"My interest in him is none of you're fucking business. If you know what's good for you, you'll never come back to this hotel and forget you ever saw him. CLEAR?"

"Y-yes my king." Val squeaked when he was dropped and fell on the floor. When he cleaned himself up he cast a look over to Angel Dust. "I'll see you Monday." Then he was gone.

The next thing Adam knew he was being pulled down the hall and into his room. Before he could get a word out, Lucifer pinned him to the door. "What the-"

Lucifer smashed their lips together in a bruising kiss. Adam returned the kiss, his arms snaking around Lucifers shoulders. The king picked him up by his waist and Adam wrapped his legs around him as Lucifer moved him from the wall to the bed.

Adam moaned into the kiss when the king gripped his jaw. Not painfully, just firm.

Lucifer broke the kiss and left a trail on Adams neck who sighed contently. Lucifer pulled away to look Adam in the face. "What in the hell were you doing near that piece of shit?"

"I was looking for Charlie! I had a fucking question."

Lucifer growled, "You smell like him."

"What?"

"That prick, you smell like his nasty cigarette smoke. You should only ever smell like yourself or..." He trailed off but Adam knew what he meant.

Like him. Luci only wanted his scent on him.

Adam smirked, "jealous much?"

"Oh sweetheart, when I'm done with you there will be no mistake on who you belong to." Lucifer traced his finger along Adams jaw line, this time a pleasant shiver went down his spine.

Potatoes would have to wait.

(Then they fucked and it was awesome lol)

What about someone outside the Hotel shamelessly flirting with Adam and Lucifer getting jealous and putting them in their place?

Oops, he touched him

[eepy-pleepy]

It’s Not Everest (No Vacancy)

The neon “NO” is hidden behind an overgrown shrub, so Dean pulls the Impala into the motel parking lot before they can see that it is, in fact, lit.

“Awesome.” Dean says in a tone that clearly doesn’t think so, and whips the car around to pull back onto the dark road. They immediately hit a pothole and Sam’s head bumps the ceiling.

“Ow, wait, Dean, we didn't go check with the office, maybe they just left the sign lit because they can’t freaking see it–”

“No, Sam, every goddamn motel in this godless town is full up and I don’t particularly feel like walking into another musty fucking office just to have them tell me I need to learn how to read. It’s too damn late, I’m too damn tired, I’m just gonna find a pull-off where the cops won’t feel the need to be our 5AM wake-up call and we’re sleeping in Baby. Fuck it.” He emphasizes the last sentence by throwing the car into park, all seventeen feet of shiny black metal successfully hidden behind a bank of tall, scraggly shrubs off the shoulder of the road. Dean kills the engine and the early summer evening rises to fill the silence with the musical stylings of several hundred crickets.

“Dean.”

“We’ve done it before, Sam.”

“I know we have. What about Cas?”

Dean looks over at the passenger’s side. Sitting shotgun, Cas looks back at him, his eyes just a dark glint in the moonlight.

“I can just... keep watch outside.” He says.

“Bad fucking idea.” Dean snaps. “I wake up in the middle of the night and see you out there lurking, I might shoot you between the eyes. You’re staying in the damn car.”

“Dean, there’s not enough roo–”

“Look, Sammy, passing out is passing out, sitting or lying down. This is a molehill, not Everest. I just need my four hours, damn.”

Dean crams up against the driver’s side door, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning his bent knees against the back of the seat between himself and Cas. He’ll worry about bootprints on the leather upholstery when he isn’t so fucking exhausted.

“Jerk.” Sam mutters from the backseat, almost inaudible.

“Goodnight, bitch.”

“Goodnight, Dean. Sam.” Cas murmurs.

“Don’t make it weird, Cas.”

"Goodnight, Cas."

"Thank you, Sam."

Dean gives a little huff through his nose. Cas folds his hands in his lap and turns his head forward to watch the fireflies.

Dean doesn’t like it when Cas watches him sleep. Cas knows this.

But if he doesn't want eyes on him, he shouldn’t be drawing so much attention to himself. This is the fourth time inside of an hour that he’s shifted around, clearly uncomfortable with his sleeping arrangement, six feet of full-grown man trying to figure out how to make three feet work for him.

It's clearly not working out.

Dean's head has fallen against Castiel’s arm. He’s snoring gently, Cas can feel his breath warm through the sleeve of his trench coat.

He shuts his eyes. Pulls his focus down to just this, the upper lefthand side of his body. Feels the weight of Dean's head, the unyielding shape of his skull, the softness of his cheek. Cas turns his head towards him, just to better assess the situation. Not at all to feel the soft tickle of Dean’s hair against his nose and lips. That’s just an... accidental consequence.

Cas feels too big for his own skin. It’s something a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent should be entirely familiar with, but this isn't the feeling of cramming a Chrysler building into a 5-foot-11-inch frame.

This is bigger than that.

The slump of Dean’s body across the seat means that his head is the only thing supported, and it has his neck at a bad angle. If Dean's an angry sleeper, he's even worse with a crick in his neck and Cas doesn't love the idea of being stuck in a car with that tomorrow. He can't pull Dean more flush against his side without the risk of waking him and sending him into a conniption of bruised heterosexuality, so instead, he carefully lifts his arm. It works perfectly: Dean slides forward, falling to lying down with his head in Cas' lap.

The effect is immediate. The uncomfortable pinch between Dean's brows smooths away and he takes a deep, slow breath, settling against his new pillow and sinking into an easier sleep.

Cas hasn't realized he's smiling, yet. It's a tiny, soft thing, the one he gets when he's looking at something precious.

He is.

The moonlight catches the sweep of Dean's eyelashes, the top of his cheek, the shell of his ear, gilding them silver. His lips are parted, plush and dark in the contrast of the pale light. He's slightly curled up on the bench seat and Cas knows it's to fit the small space but that doesn't mean it's not the most fucking endearing thing he's ever seen.

The short hair over Dean's ear is mussed from the way he was slumped like a grumpy turtle past the collars of his shirt and jacket. Delicate, Cas brushes it right again.

Dean shifts, pressing up into his ghost of a touch. Cas draws back, afraid he's been caught doing something definitely not on Dean's approved list of Things Just Friends Do, but Dean doesn't wake. Cas' hand hovers.

He shouldn't. He should return to looking out of the front windshield and prepare the diffusion for when Dean wakes up to find himself sleeping in Cas' lap. That's what he should do.

The trouble is, nothing short of a fucking catastrophe could pull his eyes away from this. Dean is so beautiful, so calm and easy in his slumber, and he's right here, safe and close and warm. Literally right in his lap.

Cas pets Dean's hair, feeling that dangerous constriction again, something so huge and profound it might very well burst him. Dean sleeps on.

"You should tell him."

Sam's voice from the backseat is so quiet it's barely a whisper, but it startles Cas like a gunshot. He turns his head a margin to find Sam watching him, head and shoulders against the back driver's side door, arms crossed over his chest.

"Did you say something?" Cas tries, matching Sam's barely-there whisper.

"You heard me."

"Tell him what?"

"You love him."

Cas turns his head further so he's not just looking at Sam out of his periphery. There's nothing accusatory in Sam's tone, quiet as it is, or in his posture, cramped as it may be. He looks back at Cas with nothing but the same easy camaraderie he's always shown him, like they're discussing a good book or the lovely weather, not a complete paradigm shift.

In his lap, Dean tucks one hand under Cas' thigh and nuzzles his face deeper against the fabric of his pants. Cas looks down at him again and feels ready to explode into several new galaxies.

"I can't." He breathes.

"Why not?"

"You know your brother, Sam.” Cas says, unable to stop himself from stroking light fingers through Dean’s hair again. “And I’m happy. I refuse to risk losing him in pursuit of something I don’t need from him.”

“You’re right, I do know my brother. Probably better than he’d like to believe.” Sam says. “And I think he might surprise you, given the chance.”

Cas looks back at Sam like he wants to argue, but then just closes his mouth, his jaw bunching. Sam gives a little shrug and sits forward, reaching behind himself for the door handle.

“Just some, uh… food for thought.” He says. “I’m gonna hit the head. I’ll take my time. No particular reason.”

“Sam.”

But Sam’s already unfolding out into the night air, the car rocking as his weight shifts. The crickets are suddenly much louder, invading their little bubble of quiet. In Cas’ lap, Dean twitches.

Sam shuts the car door and Dean sits bolt upright. His gun, dropped in the footwell before he fell asleep, is in his grasp in a blink.

“Sam's just gone to relieve his bladder.” Cas says next to him. Dean squints at him and sniffs, wiping at his groggy eyes, then flicks the safety back on. The gun hits the footwell again with a dull thunk.

"God. Like a damn cashew. You'd think with all that height there'd be more... storage."

Cas is carefully looking forward, and not at the red mark on Dean’s cheek that’s the same shape as the warm spot rapidly cooling on his thigh. Dean rubs at that side of his face.

“Was I…?” He clears his throat. “Uh.”

“Asleep? Yes. I thought that was the idea.”

“Lying on you.”

“You needed to stretch out.”

Dean gives a frustrated sigh. “No, Cas, man, that’s your personal space. You should have shoved me off.”

“It was easier on your neck.” Cas says, still looking straight ahead. “You weren’t bothering me.”

“That’s not the point. You gotta have boundaries.”

“What’s mine is yours, Dean. I have no qualms sharing everything I have with you.”

Dean scoffs, leaning forward over the steering wheel and tilting to pop his spine. “Jesus. You ol’ romantic.”

Cas turns his head to look at Dean. The slightly uncomfortable smirk slowly slips off of Dean’s face. His eyes drop to Cas' lips before he catches himself, and he makes a weak attempt to laugh the charge out of the air between them.

“Man, you gotta figure out your levels. Last person who looked at me like that had me thinking marriage."

“Dean, why do you say things like that?”

Dean’s shoulders shove up under his ears. “You turn eyes like that on some innocent girl she’s gonna up and devote her entire life to you, Cas, I’m just letting you know you gotta tone it down!”

“Why would I turn eyes like this on some innocent girl?”

“Because you’re doin’ it to me like you think it’s a normal thing to do!”

“Dean, maybe you need to figure out how to receive a signal without assuming the other person isn't aware of what they're broadcasting." Cas snaps, then subsides as something like fear flickers across his face.

Dean’s jaw hangs uselessly for a stunned moment.

"Cas. You–"

Cas watches him in the manner of a gazelle waiting for a sudden deadly movement. Dean's gaze flits to Cas’ lips again.

"You. Uh." He says eloquently, and his tongue darts out in a nervous motion. This makes his lips impossible to ignore, shiny and wet in the moonlight.

“It's not Everest." Cas whispers.

"It kinda fuckin' is." Dean says, hoarse.

“Forget it. You should go back to sleep.” Cas says, reaching towards Dean with two fingers. It’s his fighter’s instinct that makes Dean grab them before they can touch his forehead, but it’s something else entirely that bunches his other hand in the front of Cas’ coat and yanks him forward. Cas tumbles gracelessly on top of Dean, and Dean doesn’t give either of them time to think.

At the first touch of Dean’s lips, Cas melts. A tiny sound escapes him, not quite a sigh, not quite a moan, and he’s grasping Dean’s shoulder like it’s the only thing preventing him from falling into the footwell. Their mouths part with a soft, wet noise and Cas meets Dean’s eyes, almost too close to focus on.

His arm is pressed across Dean’s chest from his fall. He can feel Dean’s heartbeat, galloping like an outlaw with the sheriff on his tail, and he understands the feeling.

“Dean.” He croaks.

“Yeah.”

“Do that again.”

Dean nuzzles their noses together, nudges Cas’ mouth in a barely-there brush of lips. Cas touches Dean’s face, dizzy with it, feeling stubble rough on the skin of Dean's jaw. He presses forward, holding Dean’s face like the beloved thing it is, and kisses him reverently. Dean sinks against the door until he’s lying across the seats and shoves his arms up under Cas’ suit jacket, encircling his back.

The crickets play them a love song. It’s entirely lost on them.

When Sam returns, approaching the Impala with caution, he finds his brother asleep with his angel hugged against him like a large, man-shaped teddy bear. Cas glances up, clocking the motion of Sam leaning over to peer through the driver’s window, and there’s a smile on his face that Sam’s never seen on him before.

If happy was what he had been, then this? This is pure, unfiltered bliss.

Sam slides carefully into the back seat and shuts the door as gently as he can.

“I’ll save my I Told You So, but only because you look so cute.” He whispers.

“Sam.”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

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