#but it scratched so much it drew blood and i’m foaming from the mouth

[noladyme]

Chess. Chapter 2

Y/N never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. She only took what she needed, or what she felt others needed. She’d stayed out of sight for a long time, avoiding anything that could get her in to too much trouble. But for some reason Rick Flag shows up in her life, and in an instant, everything changes.

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TW: abuse, language, blood, sexual themes, harassment

The soldiers around me were scrambling, confused. I missed this, I admitted to myself.

G.I. – Flag, Boss Lady had called him – stood, mouth agape, still pointlessly aiming his silly gun, and I couldn’t help myself. I quietly snuck up behind his tall frame, got on my toes, and whispered.

“Cat got your tongue?”.

He quickly spun around, rage in his eyes, and I jumped back, as he struck towards the direction of my voice. His hand swiped at my midsection, fingers reaching the cut on my stomach. He felt it, and I moved backwards quietly, still concentrating on keeping up the mirage, through the pain. Looking at his fingers, he saw my blood on them.

“Goggles!”, he yelled. The Tweedles, and the soldiers storming out of the vans, put on some weird looking glasses. Flag put on his own, and turned towards me, looking straight into my face.

“There you are”, he smiled. Panicking, I ran. I could hear voices behind me, yelling at me to stop. Confusion hit me, as I didn’t hear any gunfire; but fear won me over, so without hesitation, I kept going.

Narrowly avoiding being grabbed by a Tweedle, I scaled the hood of one of their vans, stomping across the roof, and jumped onto the ground behind it.

“She’s outside my 30 foot range”, a voice behind me shouted, as another closer voice answered; “I still got her in sight”.

How are they seeing me?, I questioned myself, realizing their googles must have some temperature device connected to them. They must have gotten those from the Bat. Fuck, I thought. I just had to stay far enough away from them, so that my projection could blend in with the surroundings.

Knocking over a trash can, I sped down the sidewalk. Behind me I heard Flags voice.

“I got her. 20 feet ahead!”, he thundered, running impossibly fast, closing up on me.

I gotta quit smoking, I thought, feeling my heart desperately pump blood and oxygen through my system; keeping me moving, but also keeping up my mirage. I knew I wouldn’t last forever. I’d run out of energy too soon, having to keep up speed and invisibility.

Turning around another corner, I was greeted by a busy street, full of taxicabs and trucks. As it was after midnight, most normal people had gone inside, and were now sleeping behind their rolled down curtains. Had they been looking outside, they’d see a group of soldiers, clad in grey, storming down the street, machineguns lifted, aiming at someone who wasn’t there. I couldn’t help but see the humor in the scene.

Flag was gaining on me, his men following close behind. The sidewalk was cleared of people, except for the occasional lady of the night, offering her service to the cabdrivers. I ran into the street, and almost got hit by a truck whose driver couldn’t see me.

“Shit, she ran into traffic”, Flag yelled. ��Spread out! 3 o’clock, 15 feet”. I wanted to smash his stupid glasses into his handsome face.

Crossing the street, I turned, and ran down an alley. My chest heaved, and I had a metallic taste in my mouth. It was a dead end. I was greeted by a graffitied wall, displaying the image of a large grinning mouth, with golden teeth. “Ha Ha Ha” was written in bold script underneath it. This was Clown territory, and for a hot second I didn’t know whether to be more worried about that, than the soldiers behind me.

“Just stop, Chess!”, Flag called behind me. “You have nowhere to run. Just come with us. Now”. His gun raised, he stalked towards me, an angry sneer on his face.

In a corner of the alley, I saw an old dumpster, under a fire escape. “Don’t even think about it”, Flag said, voice calm.

My energy was almost gone. I knew I wouldn’t be able to make the jump, if I had to keep up the mirage. I allowed my body to reappear to him.

“I’m not going with you, Joe”, I said with a shaking voice.

“It’s Flag. Colonel Rick Flag. We’re not here to hurt you, but I will shoot, if you take another step”.

“No you won’t”, I said, and ran for the dumpster. I heard a gunshot, and felt the wind from the bullet graze past my head. I jumped onto the dumpster, bended my knees, and sprang upwards, grabbing at the ladder above. I almost reached it, but fell short a few inches, fingertips lightly touching the bottom of the ladder for a millisecond; before I fell back towards the ground, landing hard on my side. Pain shot through my hip, and not a second later; he was on me.

I screamed, growled and hissed, as he pinned my body down.

“Relax, kitten. Just stop”, he said, holding my wrists above my head, and intertwining his legs with mine, holding them in a painful position; worsening the pain in my hip.

“Get of me”, I shrieked. “Let me go. You’re hurting me!”.

I twisted my torso, forcing him to reposition his legs, and lock around mine. He drew my right arm down, and behind me, then forcing it upwards. His other arm locked around my torso, and I used my – now free – left hand, to claw at his face behind me, getting a hold of his hair.

There we were, wrestling in a weird bearhug; as his hips grinded forward, his groin meeting my backside.

“You’re enjoying this, you pervert”, I hissed.

“You wish”, he answered, and forced my right arm further upward, drawing another scream from me.

I made a last desperate attempt to break free, knocking my head backwards, aiming for his nose, but only meeting air; as his head was moved to the side.

“Give. Up.”. His voice was cold and determined.

He repositioned his body, one strong arm around my torso, holding both my arms in place in front of me.

“Get the tranq’”, he called, as a Tweedle came running towards us, with what looked like a piercing gun. I began to shake, not liking where this was heading. Flag grabbed the gun, held it to my neck, and pulled the trigger.

“Just sleep, now”.

Suddenly the world started to blur. I opened my mouth, but not a sound came out of it. I blinked once, but immediately regretted it, as opening my eyelids again was near impossible.

Behind me, I felt Flag loosening his grip on me. “That’s it”, his voice sounded, from far away. I felt his hand sliding down my side, then moving towards my stomach. Finally, opening my eyes, I looked down, head spinning; as he slid his hand down the front of my waistband. Strangely enjoying his touch, I was weirdly disappointed, when his hand moved up again, pulling out the money clip from before. “Get this back to the man at the club”, his faraway voice said.

He let go of me, and I rolled onto my back, breathing slowly. “Tease”, I chuckled at him. The last thing I saw, was him sending me a crooked smile. Then everything went black.

---

Everything after that happened in glimpses. My body was lifted from the ground, and placed in a truck.

I must have been out of it, because the next thing I remembered was my ears popping, and a sharp pain from a needle, being forced through my skin, stitching up the bleeding gash on my belly. I heard helicopter sounds, and felt the weird weightless emotion, of being lifted into the air, and flown; somewhere.

Next it was another vehicle, bumping down a road full of holes. I gasped from the pain in my hip and stomach, and tried to move, but my wrists were firmly held in place by cuffs, attached to the gurney I was laying on. Black again.

Sounds of gates. The smell of wet dirt. Something or someone growling. An accented voice yelling “We got a new toy, mates”. The smell of burning wood. Loud giggles from a voice I knew I’d heard before.

I finally came to, as my body was unceremoniously discarded on a hard floor. I opened my eyes, Examining the room, eyes reaching the door. Catching my breath, I tried to reach for it.

In the door opening stood the woman from the van in the alley, next to Flag, who’s eyes – for the first time – would not meet mine.

“Welcome to Belle Reve”, the woman said. “Once you’ve settled in, and come to your senses, we’ll be back to talk to you”.

I opened my mouth, and tilted my head, trying desperately to come up with a clever answer, but she interrupted my blurry train of thought.

“Y/N. I know you won’t believe me, but this is for the best. Welcome to the first day of your new life”.

The door slammed, and I heard them walking away.

I screamed. I banged the door. I pleaded. I called the people outside every profanity I knew. But it was no use, and I knew it. They’d caught me, and I wasn’t going anywhere for the foreseeable future.

Looking around the room, I saw that it was more prison cell, than hotel accommodation. In one corner there was a hole in the floor, with what was left of a toilet roll next to it. There were no windows, and the only thing resembling a bed, was a thin foam mattress, covered by a smelly blanket.

Suddenly, the lights went out, and it was pitch black.

“Hi, honey”, a voice called. “Look up. See that tiny red dot in the ceiling?”. I did. “That’s me. My name is Griggs, but you can call me Captain. All my best friends do; and, oh, we’re gonna be bffs in no time”. The snarling voice cackled, and then died out.

I was alone.

---

I don’t know how long I screamed, but my throat hurt, and after a while, my voice was hoarse and disappearing

I counted seconds, but lost track, I decided to feel my way around the room.

A scratch and a howl from the speaker next to the red dot interrupted me.

“Careful, sweetheart. We didn’t have time to cat-proof the room for you. There might be some exposed wires on the floor. Old buildings, you’ll understand”.

I crawled to the mattress, curling up in a seated position on it.

“It’s funny, I thought cats could see in the dark”, Griggs voice said. “Here’s the deal. I know you can make it so we can’t see you, so I decided to make it so that you can’t see anything”. I could hear him smile.

“Don’t worry. You’ll get three square meals a day, and I’ll be watching you through this fancy thermal camera Waller gave me, that makes it so I can make sure you’re perfectly safe”. He was leering at me. I could hear it. “I’ll be looking, or some of my guys here will. You’ll never be alone. Whatever you do, we’re here, keeping you company”.

My body was quivering. A small hatch in the bottom of the door opened, and someone slid a small box into the room.

“That right there is a prison grade uniform. I heard that you’re a dancer, so you’ll want to be able to move in it. I made some adjustments to it, just for you. Now put it on. Go on. I’ll turn on the lights, so it’s easier for you”.

The lights flickered on, and cut into my eyes. Inside the box was a tank top, cut, so that it would cover barely more than my chest. A pair of stained orange shorts, and worn slippers completed the outfit.

“I’m not wearing this”, I called out into the room.

“Come on, honey. You don’t want to piss me of”.

“Fuck you!”, I yelled, and kicked the box into the corner.

Loud music, some kind of weird trance/dubstep mashup, with a pounding bass played loudly enough for me to cover my ears.

“Put on the clothes, and put your own clothes in the box”, Griggs voice boomed. “This is my house, sweetbutt, and you’ll respect your host!”.

The music became impossibly louder, and I dived for the box, grabbing the clothes.

“That’s it. Now turn towards the camera, and let me see you”. I did as asked, and started to strip down to my underwear. I was still wearing my glittery dance bra, and ripped jeans; shedding the later, to reveal my black panties underneath.

“Now we’re talking, huh, boys”, Griggs voice laughed; and I heard other voices in the background, jeering along with him.

Quickly, I put on the prison “uniform”, and put my own clothes into the box, pushing it out of the hatch, that had reopened. The box disappeared, and was replaced with a small bowl; filled with small brown pellets, floating around in some water.

“Kibble time, puss”.

The lights went out again, and everything went silent.

[maple-writes]

[Image ID: Banner image reading: The City of Eventide, Chapter 30, Maple-writes. End ID]

I’ve been waiting ages for some of this chapter so I’m hoping it turned out nice!

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Warm. I was warm. Soft and warm and safe and dark. Feathers, a wing, draped over me like a cocoon, a den on a nest of blankets. My head felt slow, fuzzy, full of fog, so I didn’t move. I only shifted, curling up tighter and shutting my eyes again but then the feathers drew back and I squinted and groaned against soft light.

           “Ash?”

           Something pressed against my side, nudging me to sit against a warm feathery body. I whined. Every bit of me fell heavy like rocks through stagnant water. Everything fuzzy, fuzzy, so fuzzy. Thoughts moved slow, and I… Everything was so warm. So soft.

           “Come on, open your eyes.”

           I scrunched my face. That voice. I recognized that voice. Familiar. It rumbled soft against my back. Open my eyes? But I was tired. I grumbled and turned sideways, resting my cheek against the smooth feathers of his side. Feathers?

           “There you go.”

           Bright blue eyes looked down at me from a dragon’s head. A crest of grey feathers ran down the center of his head, crowned with curling ram-like horns. Gull plumage covered his back, his shoulders, his wings tucked against his side and curled around mine. Storm grey scales ran along each leg ending in sharp dexterous talons, and down his underside except for the burned skin on his chest.

           I tried to sit up, only to give up and slump back against his side. “Cirrus?” I choked the word. “I…”

           His front leg was bandaged, wrapped tight in clean cloth. I did that. I did that, didn’t I? Nausea twisted deep in my stomach. There’d been blood. There’d been, was there… I, I’d tried to kill him. I’d tried to kill him and, had I? Had I? Had I? I tried to string the words together, to put them together to ask, to know, but they wouldn’t. Words floated uselessly out of my grasp and I gave up.

           The dragon—Cirrus, he had to be Cirrus—pushed his snout into my side, the feathers on his cheek tickling mine. “Yeah, it’s me.” He spoke from his throat, like a bird imitating human speech. “Are you okay?”

           Me? I stared, glassy-eyed and weak. My body hurt, muscles sore and chest aching deep and hollow with every sandpaper breath. I tried to shake my head out, tried to burn off the fog, but for nothing. For nothing. Nothing. At least Cirrus was warm. His feathers were soft. I closed my eyes again. Soft.

           Cirrus drew his head back and shook me with gentle teeth on my shoulder. “Hey! Wake up.”

           “Let him rest, your highness.” Another voice, softer in the quiet. “You don’t want to rush.”

           I scrunched my face and peeked at the newcomer. Another dragon, long and spindly and no taller than a small car. They lacked the feathers Cirrus had, all smooth scales.

           Cirrus sighed, ribs heaving at my back. He muttered an agreement and rested his head beside me on the cushions and blankets. I ran my hand over the edge of his wing, the feathers smooth between my fingers. Muted nerves seeped from him through my skin, laced with power finally housed in a proper-sized vessel. Finally free from his too-small human body, like a goldfish released from a tiny bowl to a cool shaded pond.

           Minutes crawled on, and slowly some of my thoughts started to move. I tried to take a deep breath, to flush the stale air from my lungs but pain in the center of my chest made me cough, doubling over and gasping. Cirrus looked up and opened his mouth but seemed to calm down when I caught my breath. It was still so sore though, sore, aching. Empty. Like there was nothing there, nothing filling the gap above my heart.

           “We weren’t sure you were ever going to wake up.”

           Cirrus spoke gently, pausing as I turned. Head resting on his crossed wrists, he watched. Fine feathers ran along his face, making way to intricate yellow scales on his lower jaw. He seemed to be waiting, waiting for me to say something, anything. I swallowed. What was there to say? What was I supposed to say after…

           No. My eyes widened and my blood ran cold. My hand, Striker’s throat, the cliff, “Where’s Striker?” Dread gathered heavy in the hollow of my stomach. He fell. He fell. He fell. I pushed, I pushed him. Where was he?

           I pushed off against Cirrus’ back, dragging myself to my feet. My legs wobbled and the floor spun and black spots danced across my eyes.

           “Damn it,” Cirrus got up as I lurched, letting me catch myself against his neck. “He’s fine. I scratched him a bit when I caught him but he’s alive.” He shoved me back to lean against his side. Standing on his feet he was about the height of a big horse at the shoulder, lame on his injured leg.

           Relief almost sent me back to the floor and I had to hold onto the edge of Cirrus’ wing to stay steady. He was alive. He was alive. Cirrus wavered a moment, hissing through his teeth until he found a balance that took weight away from his leg. The dread gave way to guilt. I did that to him, didn’t I? Why was he here? Why was he still caring for me like this?

           “So the little demon lives.”

           A low rumble of a voice came from the other end of the room as another dragon entered. At least three times bigger than Cirrus, with iridescent feathers from deep ocean blue to tropical turquoise that shimmered in the light like schools of tiny fish darting in and out of algal forests.

           Cirrus glanced back at me. “That’s my mother.”

           She nodded, oceanic eyes fixed down on me. “That I am.” She crossed the room on clawed feet capped with sea-foam feathers. “My son tells me you and your brother treated him well.” She snorted, jutting her head up and watching me down the end of her nose. “A little too well I think but I digress.”

           Cirrus barely hid a smirk and my jaw clenched. How dare she talk about him like that? As if she didn’t throw him down there, throw him defenseless into the ocean for anyone to find? She was lucky my tongue didn’t want to work with my thoughts enough to curse.

           If she’d noticed my contempt, she didn’t show it. “Don’t get too comfortable here, demon, as—”

           “Asher.” I spat the word, eyes narrowed and glaring. “My name is Asher.” I wanted to speak again, to tell her what I thought, but held back when Cirrus gave a deep sigh and a tired shake of his head.

           “Do not interrupt me.” She growled. “It doesn’t matter what you’re called because you will not return here and I will never speak to you again.” She turned from me to Cirrus. “Feed him if he’s hungry but I want him gone by nightfall.”

           Cirrus nodded and his mother left without another word. I took a tentative step, gripping the leading edge of his wing for balance. My legs shook and the ground seemed to shift with every step.

           “Here,” Cirrus knelt down, careful with his bandaged leg. “I’ll carry you.”

           He waited as I crawled my way onto his shoulder, onto his feathers, soft and warm. When he started to walk I could feel his shoulders moving in rhythm with his steps underneath me, smooth and fluid. We might have passed others but everything passed by in a bit of a blur. We went outside, I could tell that much by the sun on my back and the soft breeze through my hair.

           Cirrus tried to introduce me to his sisters, but I couldn’t keep track of them all, could barely keep my head up long enough to figure out what to say. They stuck around though as he tried to get me to eat. Like Cirrus, each had horns and plumage similar to a tern, a kingfisher, a cormorant, and a couple others I didn’t recognize. I couldn’t keep up with everything they said but all seemed at least kinder than their mother.

           The one with inky black cormorant feathers walked alongside us as the sun started to sink. A little taller than Cirrus, with a longer neck and stiff walk, she watched me and her brother with an unreadable expression. None of the other dragons we passed had feathers like Cirrus and his sisters, covered instead with overlapping scales. Most dipped their heads and stepped out of our way, but some gave me curious looks and whispered to their companions.

           “I apologize for our mother,” the cormorant sister finally broke her silence. “She can be, well, uncaring. If you didn’t hear it from her, we’re glad to have our brother home safe.” She swung her head around, bumping into Cirrus’ neck. “I thought sending him down there like that was, extreme, but the ocean doesn’t care for what anyone thinks.”

           I nodded along, trying but failing to think of anything to say. Now that I’d eaten I could feel my eyelids growing heavier and heavier with each minute that passed, bringing fatigued haze with it. Cirrus said something to her, too soft for me to hear though the sound rumbled gentle in his chest.

           We ducked out of the shade and into a wider pavilion, bigger than I could take in with squinted eyes against the low sun. Cirrus paused as his sister slowed. Even in the light her feathers stayed dark, slick black.

           She raised her head to face me. “Thank you, Asher. Take care.” With a dip of her head, she slipped back past us and disappeared back the way we came.

           Cirrus watched her go, craning his neck and a ripple running down the storm-grey feathers along his crest. Then his shook his head out and glanced up at me. “Do you think you can hold on well enough?”

           I frowned. Well enough for what?

           He must have noticed the confusion, sighing with a long blink. “Well, do your best and if you fall I’ll just grab you.”

           I worked my hands into his shoulders, finding a grip around the sides of his neck and sliding forward to hold on. After another quick look back at me, he spread glaucous-grey wings with a gentle shake and took off running before catching the wind and lifting into the air. He lurched and I clung tighter as the ground dropped further and further away with each down thrust of his outstretched wings.

           Cold winds buffeted my face. I ducked down against his neck and closed my eyes. It was too much to take in anyway. Sunlight shone too bright against white clouds below, the dark surface of the sea peeking out between hazy edges. Maybe if I weren’t already struggling to stay awake, if I’d had the clarity to string a sentence the dizziness and the height wouldn’t be so bad. Wouldn’t make my stomach turn, wouldn’t make my head spin.

           My ears popped as he glided lower on wide-spread wings. Cloud dew clung to my hair and beaded on my skin, sapping ever more heat from my already shivering body. I gasped, lungs aching and chest tighter and burning and broken.

           We dipped below the clouds and Cirrus glanced back at me. “Not long now.”

           Good. I lifted my head just a little and squinted down at the coast below. It was close enough, close enough I could start to pick out familiar buildings and streets and cars driving up and down the waterfront. Boats sat bobbing offshore in the calm waters without any hint of urgency. Circling seagulls watched with cocked heads and curious eyes. Some veered closer, gliding alongside Cirrus’ wingtips before peeling off to rejoin the others on a lazy updraft.

           He soared past the coastline, over the sea-side shops and parks and buildings. Despite the blur and black spots pulling at the edges of my sight I couldn’t look away. It didn’t seem real. The buildings thinned out at the edges of the city, shifting to the pines and firs of the foothills, but Cirrus wasn’t turning around.

           I twisted, looking back at the city disappearing behind us. “Cirrus, where…” My tongue fell heavy in my mouth. “Cirrus?”

           He ducked around a rocky outcrop on one of the mountains, brushing the tip of a moss-covered fir. “Ginger doesn’t want you home yet.” He dipped lower, just above the trees, head tilting as a small lake appeared in a clearing. “Hold on.”

           Cirrus flew over the lake, pulling back and beating his wings to slow down as we came over the water. I pressed myself against his neck as his shoulders bucked with the movement and shut my eyes against the dust and old foliage kicked up from the lake shore. He hit shallow water with a jolt that nearly threw me to the ground as his talons hit the rock below.

           Quiet filled my ears. Nothing but the gentle breeze in swaying trees and a distant bird song. Cirrus paced forward, claws landing with soft splashes in the lake until we reached the edge. Hidden within the trees, a cozy little cabin sat warm and still in the shade. Someone moved through the windows with Ginger’s long blonde hair. The front door creaked as she stepped out onto the worn wooden porch and stood for a moment, watching. I quickly looked down at Cirrus’ feathers, working my hands through their soft edges. Her arm rested against her body in a loose sling with a brace over top wound dressing peeking out past the sleeve of her jacket.

           I kept my head down as she approached, twigs and pinecones crunching under her feet. Maybe if I just hid, if I just stayed pressed down against Cirrus then nothing would happen. Nothing would…

           Ginger paused in front of Cirrus, peering around his head to see me before turning her attention back to him with a soft voice. “How is he?”

           Cirrus’ eyes flicked backwards to me for a heartbeat before answering. “Weak. He might help walking in.”

           She nodded, thanking him quietly as she came around his shoulder, looking me all over with an analytical eye. “Hey Asher, how are you feeling?”

           Shame burned deeper, and I couldn’t bring myself to face her. Why was she here? Why did she care after what I did? I bit the inside of my cheek. Why was she here after what I said to her?

           “We can talk later if you like,” she continued, continued as if I hadn’t tried to kill her. Hadn’t tried to kill her and everyone and anyone—“Let’s get you inside and I’ll tell you what’s going to happen once you’re settled, okay?”

           She waited, watching with the same kind of unreadable face as before. The kind of expression that suggested I didn’t have a choice. Even if I did… I nodded. I couldn’t fight it even if I wanted to.

           A small smile broke her mask and she pulled a pair of worn leather gloves from her jacket pocket. Cirrus crouched, tucking his feet underneath him and watched as Ginger helped me down onto my feet. Everything spun and my legs gave out. Ginger caught me with an arm around my waist, hauling me up to lean against her side. I grappled at the back of her jacket, holding on to the hood to steady myself.

           She guided me forward, over fallen branches and protruding roots. Cirrus hung back, watching as I struggled up the stairs onto the porch. He stayed put, watching, at least until Ginger swept me through the cabin door. She laid me down on what felt like a couch, draping a heavy quilt over me as muted wingbeats grew distant outside.

 Bird song woke me next, morning white light filtering through the cabin’s small windows. The quilt slid down as I shifted, groaning against leaden muscles. Where… I pushed against the cushions, sitting up and blinking the dryness from my eyes. A small room, two sets of couches on either side of a low table and a fireplace the other end glowing with flickering embers.

           “Good morning.”

           I twisted to face Ginger, stepping in from the other room with a glass of water in her hand. She set it down with a gentle clunk on the table and sat on the couch across from me.

           “Feeling any better?” She asked carefully, softly, as if she might have tried this conversation with me more than once.

           I took a deep breath but it turned to a cough when my chest tightened, sharp pain shooting right between my lungs. A hand went to the spot, right where Ginger had, where she’d…

           “Does it still hurt?” Ginger’s shoulders fell when I nodded a response. “I’m sorry Asher. I, I should have tried harder to avoid this. I thought you were too far gone.” She sighed. “It should fade over time, though I can’t be sure how long. You’re going to have to take it easy for a while.”

           Gradually my breathing slowed, and some of the pain started to retreat to a background ache seeping between the muscles and vessels in my chest. My legs shook as I pulled them around to sit up, leaning all the way against the back of the couch.

           “Ginger,” I winced at my voice, thin and weak. “Where, where are we?”

“’Bout an hour out of town.” She gestured up around the cabin. “Charlotte and some of her family own this place. She’s letting us borrow it as long as we need it.”

           Only an hour? I glanced around the room and its old-style upholstery. Outside the only thing I could see were trees, trees and moss and misty beams of light and shadow. Like the middle of nowhere. I swallowed, lowering my head to the floor. Maybe it was for the best. Hiding me away, keeping me far from the rest of the city just in case… But for how long?

           “Listen, Asher.” Ginger uncrossed her legs and leaned forward across the table. “I don’t know how to say this, but I can’t let you go home yet. Striker agrees, and I called him last night to tell him you’re here and safe. I have your phone if you want to talk to anyone but you’re not going to leave here for a while.” She paused a moment, watching for my reaction but kept going when I stayed quiet. “I don’t want to make you feel like you’re a prisoner here, or like I’m punishing you. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

           I nodded, keeping my head down. The first signs of tears started to press behind my eyes and my throat tightened. She spoke, watched me with such a caring tone, like I hadn’t hurt her. Like I hadn’t ripped her arm apart, like I hadn’t done anything wrong. The other couch creaked, and her quiet footsteps echoed through the little room.

           Ginger sat down next to me. “Hey, look at me.”

           She waited. Quiet weighed heavy on my shoulders and I hunched forward. Arms braced against my legs I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t face her. Not yet. Not yet. I could feel her watching, waiting, waiting for me to look. To move. To do anything but what was there to do?

           Finally, she nodded. “That’s okay. Do you want to go back to sleep? We can keep talking later if you like.”

           “What,” I choked on the words. “Happened to Striker? Is he okay?”

           Ginger nodded in the blurred edge of my vision. “He’s alive. Cirrus managed to catch him before he hit the ground.” She hesitated, as if thinking of what to tell me. “I’m not going to lie, he was in rough shape when I saw him last. The werewolf, I can’t remember her name but she’s staying over at your house with him some nights I’ve heard. I’ve also set him up with a counsellor who’s worked with me before.”

           I could still almost feel his throat in my hands, his weight pulling at my shoulders. What would have happened if Ginger wasn’t there? If Cirrus hadn’t risked his life? I buried my face in my hands, clenching my teeth as my breath caught in my throat. Both of them, I would have killed them both. Me. Tears slipped from closed eyes, hot and sticky against my own hands.

           Ginger reached forward, laying a gloved hand on my shoulder. “Asher, I know its hard but try not to blame yourself. No one believes you wanted any of this.”

           “I could have killed them, I was, I was going to, I—” My shoulders shook and my breath hitched with the first real sobs. “I said things, I, I hurt them and I would have kept going, I would have, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know!”

           “Easy Asher,” Ginger murmured. “Breathe, it’s alright. No one died, everyone is going to be fine. You did your best and I’m glad you got yourself somewhere isolated while you still could.”

           So what? So what if this one time everything worked out? So what if this time I had the sense to run away? What would happen next time? And the time after that? And after that and after that and after that… I clenched my teeth. What was she playing at? What could she possibly hope to do for me? There was nothing, nothing she could do. Anger reared in my chest, searing between my lungs. How dare she act like she cared, act like she cared what happened to me after what she did. After she drove her blade through me like I was nothing, like I was nothing.

           “I should have killed you!” I snarled, twisting to glare up at her face. “Killed you like Wendy failed to, should have kept going, shouldn’t have listened to a word you said.” The words came faster, faster with the beating of my heart. “I can kill you now, no one would know. Not out here. Not now. No one’s expecting—”

           “Asher stop talking.” Ginger stood, voice dropping low and demanding. “Stay seated and do not move. I am going to hand you some water. Drink it if you like.”

           She waited a moment, eyes flickering over me. Evaluating, thinking, before reaching down and pressing the glass from the table and pressed it into my shaking hands. It was cold against my skin, clammy from my own salt tears smeared across my palms. I glared down at it, tongue running over the points of sharpening teeth. How dare she tell me what to do, order me around like—

           “How are we now?” Ginger cut me off from my own thoughts and I looked up from the cup.

           No, no. My face twisted and I folded over the glass of water in my hands. No no no. Not here. Not now. This was Ginger. Not again. Not again.

           The cushion dipped as she settled back down beside me. “Talk to me.”

           What was there to say? I sucked in a breath and shook my head. “I, I’m sorry. I don’t know, I didn’t mean to, I…” I didn’t know what to say.

           “Hey, it’s okay.” Ginger assured, soft and sure. “We’ll work on it. I can’t say it’s going to be easy, but we’ll figure it out, okay?”

           I nodded, but could she really? Maybe. Maybe. What other option was there? Ginger nudged me to sit up, unfurl and lean back against the couch. It was soft, worn by years and years of use. My eyes burned, still leaking streaks down my face.

           “I’ll be right back.” Ginger slipped out of the room a moment, returning with a colourful box of tissues and setting it down beside me. “I think for now, you should drink some water and get some more rest.” She smiled. “Hopefully by the time you wake up I’ll have figured out how to hook up the DVD player. It looks like Charlotte has quite a collection.”

           That… That sounded nice. I carefully brought the glass up, taking small sips of the cool water. Hands unsteady, I didn’t finish it before laying back down under the quilt on the couch and falling asleep again.

[sincerelybluevase]

A Danvich fic: the Somnambulist

A/N A sad, smutty one-shot. Mature! Tagging the usual crowd: @alice1nwond3rland @need-not @emptymasks @thegirlisuedtobe @solattea @halewynslady @ladynephthyss

I ran; he pursued.

Through the west wing, along the minstrel gallery, down down down the stairs I fled.

His strong feet followed me.

I was impossible to grab, like holding a handful of water. Salt water he’d think me no doubt, the brine choking, enough to ruin a man should he mistake me for something purer and drink me down.

Fool him, for thinking he could consume me whole.

Over the lawn I sped, into the woods.

He followed me there, and I knew that I had been the fool all along; did I think I would find shelter amongst the oaks? There was no place on this plot of land that would harbour me; this soil held no secrets from him, for it was his, and he loved it wickedly, obsessively, until there was no love left to give and he grew cold and twisted.

A clinging sob escaped my lips. He had found me, my demon, my tormentor, my husband…

A hand closed around my upper arm. I screamed and tried to pull away, but my attacker wouldn’t let go. I scratched at that pale long hand bruising my flesh, drawing blood, but it might as well have been made of wax, for it didn’t seem to have any effect. He spoke to me, but I couldn’t make out any words. I was so afraid I feared I might faint or die.

“Let go let go let go…” I sobbed, prising at the thin fingers.

A fierce slap against my temple stunned and silenced me. I looked up into a white, skull-like face, and did not recognise it at once. When I did, I thought I might weep.

“Mrs Danvers,” I said.

She still held my arm in her bleeding hand, the other locked around my wrist. All around me the air smelled of sap and green things and salt. Trees swayed around us in the wind coming from the sea, their gnarled stems creaking and groaning. I felt dizzy and had to sit down. I almost pulled her down with me. She had very long hair, pleated for bed. It slithered down her shoulder and swung against my chest like a twist of rope.

“Where are we? Where have you taken me?” I asked, still tugging at her fingers.

“I didn’t take you anywhere,” she snapped, “you were sleepwalking, Madam. God knows how you’ve done it, but you’ve sleepwalked straight out of the house and into the woods. I saw you crossing the lawn from my bedroom window as I made to fasten the shutters.”

Ah. That explained why we were outside in the dark surrounded by moaning trees; we were in the Manderley woods.

I felt so ashamed I might weep. Such a thing as this had never happened with Rebecca, of this I was sure. It was a common, vulgar thing, somnambulism, an affliction that plagued the weak of heart and mind.

“Why did you wake me? Don’t you know it’s dangerous to wake a sleepwalker?”

Finally she let go of my arm and wrapped a handkerchief round her hand. “I have noticed,” she said. The blood bloomed through the cotton.

Guilt smote me. “I’m so sorry. Does it hurt terribly? I didn’t mean to scratch you. Well, I meant to scratch you, but if I had known it was you, I wouldn’t have, of course,” I babbled. The ground was wet with dew, making my nightgown stick to my legs. I shivered and hugged myself.

Mrs Danvers did not answer. She pulled me to my feet and draped her shawl over my shoulders. It smelled like her. It was a strangely intimate thing, that piece of fabric to which her scent and warmth clung lying against my throat and shoulders.

“Come,” she said.

I followed her. We went slowly; I wasn’t wearing any shoes, and now that I was awake I felt every pebble, every twig cutting into the soft soles of my feet. We reached a gurgling stream and halted there, Mrs Danvers dipping her hand into it and gasping; the water was brackish. I bit my nails, tugging at the slivers of skin that had caught under there, a little bit of Mrs Danvers in my mouth. She shook her hand. Drops dripped from her fingers like diamonds. She wound the handkerchief back round her hand. I tried to help her knot it, but she pulled her hand back with the swift, waspish motion of one incensed with their own weakness.

I felt I had to explain myself to her. “I thought you were attacking me. I was dreaming.”

“What were you dreaming of?”

I hesitated, then said, “Of her. I was so afraid…”

Mrs Danvers turned to look at me. In the wan moonlight, her face was smooth as bone. She had a hungry look on her face, her eyes smouldering. “Afraid, Madam? Why, what did you dream? Did she mean you harm?”

I shook my head. “No, Mrs Danvers. She wasn’t the one attacking me.” I would say no more and averted my face. After a while, she dried her fingers on her nightgown and led me on. I did my best not to be scared by the groaning trees with their laced branches forming a vaulted ceiling over our heads, or by the strange sounds coming from deep inside.

I thought she was taking me back to the house, and so when the woods gave way and we found ourselves suddenly on the shingled beach, it came as a nasty sort of shock. The wind was fierce, whipping the waves till they foamed.

“Mrs Danvers, this is the wrong way,” I said, clutching her shawl round me. My wet nightgown snapped round my legs like a sail.

She did not respond but went ahead to the boathouse I knew was forbidden to me. Since I was too much of a coward to find my way back to Maxim by myself, and since I was cold and scared, I had no choice but to follow her.

“Careful; don’t cut your feet,” she said. When we reached the boathouse she struggled with the door, having to open it against the wind. She shouldered it aside and bade me enter first.

The boathouse was dirty, dusty, smelling of mould and salt. There was a stillness to it all, not so much a slumber as the careful lying-in-wait of a predator ready to pounce. Yet at the same time I knew I was being fanciful, for it was no more than a decaying boathouse, its books and furniture spoilt by time and damp.

Mrs Danvers lit a lamp. There was another one with us in that haunted shack then, a pale wraith who drew back when I did. Startled, my hand flew to my mouth; hers did, too. I could’ve laughed, then, had it not frightened me so badly; I had taken my reflection for a ghost.

Mrs Danvers threw back the covers on the bed. They smelled musty and slightly of camphor, but though their edges were frayed, they were serviceable. “We shall wait here till it becomes light,” she said. “I’ll go to the house then and fetch some clothes and shoes for you. How are your feet? Have you cut them on the shingle? You must remove your nightgown, or you’ll be chilled. Don’t be afraid; I won’t look.”

I dragged the sodden nightgown over my head, wiped my feet with it, and draped it over a chair, wrapping Mrs Danvers’ shawl around me.

I saw my every move in the looking glass. I stilled and studied myself. The flicker of the lamp made it seem as if my features swam and shifted, an ebb and flow of rippling change. My face, and then another’s, and back again.

Mrs Danvers appeared in the mirror behind me. She stood so close to me I felt the heat beat off of her. Her breathing was deep and regular. It blew over my cheek and ear, very softly, stirring the little curls of baby hair that grew at my temple. Why I didn’t know, but it was pleasant, that soft ghosting against the cockle of my ear.

It’s because Maxim doesn’t touch me, I thought, it’s because I’m a bride of three months and still as immaculate as when he found me in Monte Carlo.

“You think of her often, don’t you?” she whispered. “I know you do; I know it from the things you say, the way you hold yourself. It’s all right, Madam; I think of her incessantly, too.”

Gooseflesh rippled over my body.

Mrs Danvers wet her lips with her tongue. Her features rippled in the mirror, too. “Do you think the dead watch the living?”

“I don’t know.” My voice was a small thing, curled up and quivering.

“I think she watches us. I wonder what she thinks of you. Sometimes, I fancy she tries to break through the veil that separates her world from ours.” Mrs Danvers took a lock of lanky hair between her fingers and pushed it behind my ear, careful not to touch skin. “Sometimes,” she went on, “I fancy she tries to possess you. There are signs. I look at you, and she’s there in the way you shake your pen to get the ink flowing, in the way you unscrew your earrings, or call to the dogs. Once, I thought she looked at me through your eyes. They were so alive, so vibrant. Only for a short spell, though; then they dulled, and I knew she had gone, her power spent. Does Mr de Winter see it, too?”

“No,” I said.

“Of course not. He’s a man, and they are naturally blind and deaf. But you see it, don’t you? You feel her presence as much as I do. I thought you sly at first; then I thought you dull and stupid. But you are none of those things, now are you?”

“There’s strength in passivity, Mrs Danvers,” I said, quite calmly, quite rationally, as if this was normal.

We locked eyes in the mirror. Her breathing came quick now. The space between my legs clenched painfully. “Is it you?” she whispered. There was pain in her voice, and urgency. “Madam, is that you?”

Perhaps I truly was possessed then, for I let the shawl covering me tumble to the ground so she could see my body in the guttering light. I clasped her wounded hand so fiercely she hissed and guided it to that place she had caused to contract with want. For a moment it lay limp against me, a cold, dead thing. Then it stirred. She parted my folds and pressed a cool, long finger against me. I moaned and arched up against her.

She drew circles very gently until I tightened my grip on her hand; she rubbed me quite fiercely then, the cotton of her handkerchief rough against me. I took her other hand and placed it on my breast, twisting my face round so I could kiss her.

She was so fierce she made me tremble, but then I suppose I wasn’t gentle, either. I thrust against her hand, moaned into her mouth. She groped and bruised and rubbed. Something inside me coiled and strained, tighter, tighter, tighter…

I cried out when it broke; I could not help it. My legs went so weak I could hardly stand. I trembled, then stumbled. She twisted me round and held me against her, kissing my face, my hair. Her hand had begun to bleed again. She pushed her fingers in my mouth. “Bite me and I’ll slap you,” she said.

I sucked on them. They tasted sharp, like vinegar, like brine.

Like blood.

She withdrew them, wiping them on her nightgown. I rested my face against her throat. She was damp with sweat. The blood beat in her throat; I felt it jump about in her veins.

We stood together like that for a while, both trembling and panting. “Madam,” she said, but I would not raise my head to look at her. “Madam,” she repeated, cupping my chin and forcing me to look at her. She studied my features, her eyes darting like quick, hungry things. For a moment I could see right inside her; the rage, the desire, the hope, all barely supressed. Then, her face fell, and all was strangled down and swept out of side, her face a white mask, still and beautiful but utterly lifeless, as if made of wax or bone. She let go of me and began to fiddle with the lamp.

“Danny,” I pleaded, placing my hand on her shoulder. She jerked away as if stung.

“Don’t you ever call me that!” she hissed. “Don’t you dare!”

My throat constricted. Tears coursed down my cheeks. I wiped at them with the back of my hand. I felt cold and dirty.

Mrs Danvers turned her back to me. I tried to stifle a sob and couldn’t.

“You must sleep,” she said, her voice cold. “We shall forget this has ever happened.”

I picked up her shawl and wrapped myself in it, then lay down on the bed, my face to the wall. I bit on the edge of her shawl in an effort to stopper my mouth, but my weeping crawled through the fabric. Outside, the wind howled and whined, whistling through the crannies of the boathouse.

It could not drown out the sound of Mrs Danvers keening.

[annerly-san]

Our Happy Ending | Risotto Nero | Chapters 1-7

A03 Link:  https://archiveofourown.org/works/25862377/chapters/62838787

The warmth aroma of freshly baked bread and the wafting smells of the starting day’s espresso carried itself in the air of Naples.

She inhaled with great vigor before contently letting her breath out with elated content.

It was the smallest things that she appreciated in her life.

Whether it was the sun shining brightly as it peered over the horizon and began its way across the clear blue sky to reach its pinnacle straight above her head, the wind gently ruffling the loose fabric at the hems of her sleeves, or the quiet scratching of pen against paper as she wrote out fantastical stories where she could aptly convey the best imagery and tales that her mind could muster.

A street musician was playing in the background of the patio she sat in.

The server had arrived with a freshly baked cornetto-- a golden brown that shone with the glisten of butter on top-- as well as a cappuccino with a gracefully drawn flower in the foam of the milk.

Her pen inked the final letter of the word she had just finished writing before she allowed for the pen to be set down against the notebook.

Gratefully thanking the waiter, she wrapped the band of the notebook around the cover as to bind its contents neatly together before stowing the book into her bag.

The sensation of light, bubbly foam transitioning to warm, creamy milk and then hot, bitter espresso glided over her palette as she took a sip of her cappuccino.  The croissant, not going unattended, was soon picked up, peeled back to reveal its many flaky and steaming layers, and nibbled at.

The solace of this routine gave her an ease of mind as she finished up the last of her breakfast -- leaving her payment on the table before clutching her satchel and heading towards the streets.

She wondered where she would go today.

Perhaps the seashore and the rhythmic clashing of waves could lull her to a new productivity as she put her pen to work on the final chapters of her novel.  Or maybe the gentle ambience of a meadow by the orchid of lemon trees and its growing fruits would provide the relaxation to conclude her story with a satisfying end.

Her recent novel about an underdog of a high-crime syndicate working his ends off for his greedy and self-serving superior had been a massive hit with the masses.  The most recent book had the gang-member killing his capo in retaliation for the endless bloodshed and crimes that he had stained his hands with by the order of the higher ups.

The story was intense and interlaced with drama and the general reception of the mafia novel had been so well-received that she was urged to write the sequel or a follow-up to the poor man’s tale.

Her mind wandered as she walked down the busy sidewalk-- catching glance of her reflection in a boutique’s window as a strange inspiration struck her.

Maybe she would write to the tale of him returning to his family.  A father coming back to see the wife and daughter that he had left behind as a means to keep her safe from the mafia.

The thought prickled at her heart with a gleeful delight and a resonating ache of reflection as she wondered if that was why her father had abandoned her mother so long ago.  Her mother had long since passed, but her lips remained still on who her father was and why he had left them.  The curiosity of her mind grasped at straws and drew traces in her imagination as she pondered if there was ever a chance she had a father entangled in the mafia.

She found herself smiling happily at the notion and, by extension, the idea of a father leaving his family behind for their safety.  The reflection of herself smiled back-- lips parted slightly and turned upwards in a faint smile.  But as she stared in the glass, the corner of her eyes noticed a pair of intense red irises surrounded by an obsidian sclera glowing in the background of her reflection.

Alarmed, she turned around.

There was nothing.

Perhaps it was just a figment of her imagination, but she couldn’t not help but feel the quickening pace of her heart and slight shivers running down her back.  She turned back to the glass to only see herself and nothing else.

Blinking the remainder of the daydreams from her mind, she turned back to the direction that she was walking in and continued strolling down the street-- telling herself to calm the rapidly growing pace of her heartbeats and the prickling sensation on her back that made her feel like she was being watched.

She found herself at the entrance of an alleyway as she immediately began to panic.

This was one of the furthest places from a shoreline or meadow that she had hoped to be in to continue writing the extension of her novel.  In hindsight, the moment she felt some sort of discomfort and indication that she was being followed, she should have immediately gone to a busier place with the police nearby.

She needed to leave.

While she didn’t dare enter the alley, she somehow managed to walk down a more quiet street with less foot traffic.  Internally hoping that good luck and fortune would grace her, she turned around only to bump into an invisible force that caused her to stumble backwards from the collision.

She felt herself being dragged into the darkness of the alleyway.

A scream grew in her throat, but before it could leave, a hand almost twice the size of her entire face clamped over her mouth and forced her stumbling backwards in the direction of its force.

Her back was slammed against the brick wall of the building and she felt the stinging press of a thin cold metal at her throat.

A knife.

A jolt of scalding cold blood pulsated through her veins as her body tremored uncontrollably from fear.

The fear that she had hopes to convey in the eloquent words of her novel were nothing compared to the actual reality.  No matter how well and fluent she was with her words, they were reduced to simple lines and phrases that bordered on the threshold of incoherency.

“P-please, if it’s money you want-”  She looked down at her side and stumbled to grab her wallet from her satchel.  “Y-you can have it!  P-please!  I-I’m just a novelist!”

The blade pressed against her throat with greater pressure as a dull sting broke across the surface of her skin and a disturbing sensation of warm fluid was felt trickling down her neck.

Her eyes pressed shut as she retreated back to feeble resignation of being held at the mercy of her aggressor.

Shuddering and forcing her eyes to pry open, she was met with the eyes of the reaper.

Towering above her, she had to strain her neck at an uncomfortable angle to meet his eyes.  And those eyes.

Haunting.

A pair of crystalline rubies floating in a pool of endless obsidian.

Eerily beautiful.

Had she not been so initially encaptivated by the intensity of his eyes, its contrasting play of colors that elicited fear and radiated threat, she would have sooner noticed the sharp features of his face.  His expression was solemn.  Nearly devoid of human emotion to the extent where she would be compelled to believe in tales of demons and grim reapers that were sent to fetch the souls of humans to torment in the afterlife.  The grim death glare that he had would have been sufficient on its own to send her into a horrible mess of tears and intelligible pleas for him to just kill her quickly as to not have her suffer whatever amount of torture and torment he was capable of.

But with that ominous look on his face, the overbearing presence that radiated off of him to the point of suffocating her, as well as the knife that was drawing blood from her neck, there was simply too much simulation for her brain to handle.

And as often the case in dangerous situations, the fright, anxiety, pain and shock caused the blood pressure in her body to drop.  Combined with the quick intake and exchange of oxygen in her lungs as a result of hyperventilation, she felt light-headed.

There was a sudden brightness that there wasn’t supposed to be in a dark alleyway as the sensation of falling flooded into her senses.

She fainted.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~END CHP 1 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Risotto wasn’t sure what to do with the unconscious woman.

He had the orders to kill her.

But from his judgement, the lady seemed to be a completely innocent civilian.

Was the information incorrect?

The orders from his capo were based on an arguably flimsy correlation.  The murder of one of Passione’s capo’s by a lower-ranked gang member that had defected was linked to a similar description in one of the recently published novels about mafia drama.

He was ordered to find the author and eliminate her if she was indeed the culprit that spurred the treacherous deed to fruition.

“...It seems that the two occurences just happened to be coincidental.”

He examined her.  Having caught her right before she crumpled to the ground and saving her from a potential concussion from hitting her head on the concrete floor.

Risotto made sure to scrutinize her carefully.

There wasn’t a trace of violence or ill-will evident.  The way that she passed out at the slightest threat and his appearance was also proof that she had no prior exposure to violence or threats of any kind.

It was either she had no hand in the betrayal and murder of one of Passione’s capos, or she did play a part-- but was unaware.

While the members of Passione were ordered to avoid civilian casualties the best they could-- and Risotto would rather not kill an innocent civilian unless he was forced to-- the prospect of her potentially involved in the capo’s death made him lean towards the choice of gathering more information on her before doing anything decisive.

He took ahold of her a little better-- easily picking her up and holding her body to rest horizontally in his arms.  Using Metallica to attract microscopic iron filaments in the surrounding alleyway, he cloaked the both of them in iron to conceal their visible presence before heading off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a dull ache that awoke her.

Her limbs felt weak and she had a strange shake in her hands.  There was little to no energy left in her.

Adjusting her eyes and blinking a few times to clear them of the foggy layer that had obscured their vision, she made out her surroundings.

She was resting on a bed in what seemed to be an apartment room.  She tried to sit up.

“You’re awake.”

The abrupt sound of a low and deep voice startled her as she yelped in surprise only to flinch at the sudden pain in her neck.

“The cut isn’t deep, but you should be fine,” the voice continued.  “I’ve cleaned it and wrapped it already for you.”

She was suddenly aware of the gauze wrapped around her throat as her fingers gingerly touched the wrapping as her stomach sank.

The prickling sensation of eyes staring into her back was present again.  There was a reluctance to verify the identity of the person that was speaking to her.

That timbre.  That cold tone.  It was unfamiliar to her, but she had an inkling as to who it belonged to.

She forced herself to turn around and look at her reaper in the eyes.

There were those eyes again.  The eyes were considered the windows to the soul and often the first place where people would focus their attention when they stared at someone’s face for the first time.

Those brilliant red and black eyes tantalized her with coinciding emotions of crippling fear as well as dangerous curiosity.

Her abductor leaned against the wall by the windowsill locking eye contact with her.

She was surprised that she could still speak.

“D-did you need something from me?”

She wasn’t sure if she imagined the slightest quirk of his lips into a smile.

“That’s the first thing you choose to ask?”

She wasn’t sure how to respond, but it didn’t seem that he was expecting an answer from her.

“I want you to write a story for me.”

If he had not taken ahold of her fear and attention by suddenly approaching the bedside to place himself close to her, she would have questioned the absurdity of his request.

Before she had the time to inquire, he already continued speaking.

“What do you need to write?  I’d like for you to have it done for me by… tomorrow morning.  Does that sound fair?  It can be a short story”  He seemed to be freely speaking now.  The words flowed from his lips naturally as it swayed in sync with his thoughts.  “Can you write the story exactly how I ask for it?   I want it to be about someone.  And I want something very specific to happen to this man in your work.”

She didn’t register his hands enveloping hers as he placed a pen and notebook in her hands.

Going purely off of the texture, size and feel of the items, these weren’t hers.

Where did he put them?

The pen had fallen out of her hand, bouncing off the bed and rolling to a halt on the floor.  She was shaking too much it seemed.

He let out an almost silent sigh before picking it up for her.

“I won’t hurt you.”  His voice made her shiver.  His voice was gruff, low and deep.  It made the ribs in her chest vibrate with each syllable that he enunciated.  “But I need you to do this for me.  I also can’t have you go anywhere until you finish either.”

Those intense eyes captured hers again.

She wasn’t sure how to interpret the emotions in his eyes.  Was there sincerity?  A sign that she could trust him to his words?

The endless black voids of his eyes answered with nothing.

She looked at the pen he held out for her and took in carefully.

This was a compromised situation.

If she did as she was told, it could only increase the percentage of her leaving unscathed.  But that didn’t necessarily mean that she was given an absolute guarantee either.

She cautiously uncapped the pen and tried to stabilize her hand over the notebook.  The pen pressed against the paper-- leaving a pooling circle of ink on the otherwise pristinely clean page.

She inhaled sharply before letting in an uneven exhale.

Looking at him, she mustered the courage to ask.

“W-who is this person I’m writing about…?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Risotto had phoned Melone and Ghiaccio to uncover more information on the woman before he decided his next course of action.

“She’s a civilian.  It doesn’t seem that she’s even remotely aware of Passione, much less the capo’s death,” Risotto reported.  “Can you provide me any other information?”

The results were interesting.

The novel that the woman had published was written a good amount of time before the capo’s murder which could only mean that the only possible link would be that the defector took inspiration from the novel a month after it was published and took to betraying the gang.

She was also blood-related to a higher-ranked official of Passione that had passed away a couple of years ago during a drug deal heist.  There was no motive that could have spurred her to create discord within the organization.

Risotto hung up.

He’s come across something valuable.  He only needed to affirm it.

Walking back into the bedroom of the apartment that he had reserved for instances of missions such as this, he took a quick glance at the bed to see that the woman was still out cold.

Arriving at the nightstand, he cleared away the roll of gauze, scissors, and antiseptic before taking note of the woman’s satchel which he had set on the floor earlier.

Opening it, he noticed the notebook which seemed to be her journal of notes, stories and excerpts that she wrote in.

The outlines were detailed; it listed everything from the characters relationships to symbolism to plot development and even chapter to chapter layout.

He noticed the small movements on the bed-- an indication that she was stirring closer to consciousness.  Risotto quickly stashed the notebook away.  He would look through it at his leisure later.

As she began to stir awake, he began to ponder the various prospects of her ability.

A novel that correlated to a gang member’s betrayal.  A blood relation to a potential stand user.

He needed to test her abilities and confirm it for himself.

Watching her stumble to sit herself up and look around, he leaned against the wall-- spectating with mild amusement.  The look of horror in her eyes as she met his, the fumbling of her words as she asked him what he needed something from her made him, and the nervous fidget of her fingers gripping for the comfort of something that wasn’t there drew out the rarest and faintest of smiles from him.

“I want you to write a story for me.”

He would test his theory.

There was a pending assignment for the assasination of a politician that had been lobbying for certain policies that would levy power against Passione.  This was a perfect opportunity.

He found a pen and empty notebook on the shelf nearby and handed it to her-- watching as she took it in shaky hands.

She dropped it.

He would need to be a little more careful when speaking to her.

The intimidation that he was so used to pressuring on others always served him well in this field of work.  This was probably the first time that it happened to put him at a disadvantage.

Risotto let out a soft sigh as he picked up the pen and placed it in her hands.

“I won’t hurt you.”  Given how their first encounter played out, he didn’t place blame on the high amount of guard and caution she put up to defend against him.  He tried to soften his tone.  “But I need you to do this for me.  I also can’t have you go anywhere until you finish either.”  He stared at her in the eyes, internally commending her for her ability to hold his rather daunting gaze.

He noted the way she tried to steady her hands almost feeling some penance of guilt for putting her in such a compromised situation.

But he couldn’t help but feel a touch of pride and satisfaction for her as she looked straight at him and asked, “Who is this person I’m writing about?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   END CHP 2 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She never liked politics in the first place.

The name of the protagonist that her abductor wanted her to write about sounded familiar, but she wasn’t in touch with the exact details of his office or campaign.

“Have him die of a heart attack or something.”  He had told her.  “Car accident, anything really…”

The pen was making a trail of flowing ink on her paper as she thought.

She sat at a desk with pen in hand and a blank notebook opened and resting in front of her.  Her kidnapper sat in a chair by her side as to watch her write.

Her mind was semi-occupied as to why this man had specifically requested this story of her, and the other part of her mind, the writer’s imagination, wondered how the politician should die, what death he deserved and how to play it out.

Maybe the man hated this politician.  Psychologically, a method of coping is to simply project your more unacceptable wishes and desires into other mediums such as art or writing in order to create some sense of ease to cope with an unfair reality.

Regardless of his reason, she was asked to write.

It wasn’t an unreasonable request to demand of her.

“What does he look like?”

Her abductor raised an eyebrow before pulling out a photo and handing it to her.

The image was that of a man in his early thirties with bright eyes and a wide smile.  Dressed in a plain dress shirt, he seemed to be in the middle of a political rally lobbying for the good of the common folk.

“...he looks like a nice person…” she commented to no one but herself.

“Does he now?”

She almost forgot that he was there and dropped the image in surprise.  The paper floated down and landed against the notebook, and she left it there for reference.

“He doesn’t seem like the type of person that would have a lot of enemies…” she pondered as she stared at the fallen photograph on the desk.  She had already immersed herself into thought and paid no heed to the intent onlook of the man at her side.

“What if he got poisoned?  Who would poison him?  A political rival?” she began to mutter to herself.  “But that wouldn’t make for an interesting story, don’t you think?  What if he got murdered by someone who didn’t support his campaign?”  Her pen met contact on the paper as words slowly started to appear with each loop of her hand.

Unintentionally, her thought processes ran too close to reality.  A large hand had grabbed hers preventing her from writing any further.

“No.”

Despite being startled by the sudden interjection, the grip on her pen and the stability of her hand floating above the paper did not falter.

“I-I’m sorry?”

His gaze was unreadable.  Despite his overbearing strength and ability to snap her wrist with ease, the hold on her hand was surprisingly more gentle than what she thought he could be capable of.

“Don’t make it a murder.  An accident.  Do something like that.”

“B-but-” she wasn’t sure what compelled her to fortify her mental resilience to dispute him.

“But?”  He didn’t seem to mind the pushback against his commands.  She interpreted the slight tilt of his head and the relinquish of his grip on her wrist as an unspoken urge for her to continue.

“...That won’t make for an interesting story…”

He laughed.

She felt her face redden.  It was unclear as to whether that could solely be attributed to embarrassment.  He had a low pitch laugh that seemed to reverberate in his chest.

The sound caught her breath.

“W-what’s so funny about wanting to write something interesting?” she mumbled to herself.  She placed her pen down and placed her balled-up hands down on the desk.  “I’m an author after all...”

He let out a couple more chuckles before picking her pen with one hand and her hand with the other.  Carefully uncurling her fingers and setting the pen in he asked, “Why don’t we come up with an interesting way to kill him together, hm?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He found her intriguing.

“What if you made him jump off a building?”  This was the tenth suggestion that he had made for her so far.

The utter look of dissatisfaction that she gave him was enough to make him chuckle again.  When was the last time he managed to laugh like this?

“...that’s it?  ...you’re unbelievably boring…”

He raised an eyebrow at the whispered comment.

“I’m boring?”

She must have not meant for him to hear that as she flusteredly denied her words and stated that she’ll write about a politician jumping out from the twentieth story of a building.

Risotto grabbed her wrist again.

“How would you go about killing him then?” he asked.

“W-well.  I just think that there should be a reason-” her words came out in a stammer.  “M-maybe I’d make him drink a little too much and get into a car accident.”  The nervousness was out of her tone now.  “He kills an innocent pedestrian which makes him lose his favor with the public.”  She had turned towards him with a inquisitive look in her eyes-- seeking his opinion.  “He then spirals into despair, and flings himself off of the tallest building he could enter!  What do you think?”

There was a strange, but alluring, sparkle in her eyes as she poured forth her imagination and ideas to him.  He gave her a rare smile.

“I think it’s great.”

The corners of her lips turned upwards into a wide smile expressing her joy.  She made a content hum of agreement as turned back to the desk and immediately began to write-- completely immersed in her own world.

Risotto left her to work.  The scratching of pen against paper filled the room as he left quietly so as to not disturb her.

She had an endearing smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  END CHP 3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She didn’t notice the blanket on her shoulders at first as she stirred awake.  It slid off and pooled around her waist as she sat up straight on her chair, wiping the drool that had pooled down her cheek while she was sleeping.

Her neck and back ached.  It was an all-too-familiar sensation of the times she fell into a trance of high concentration and wrote until her head hit the table from pure sleepiness and exhaustion.

The door creak helped pull her from the morning grogginess and daze.

She blinked a few times at the man who stood in the doorway-- taking a few moments to recollect the events of yesterday.

He walked over towards her, setting down a plate of pastries on the table.

“I-It’s finished-” she began as she picked up the several sheets of paper covered with her writing on it.  The last page, which she had denoted with an elegant print of the word ‘finish’, was taken from the top of the stack and neatly placed at the bottom and handed over.

“Thank you.”  He gratefully took the story and pulled up a chair to sit beside her.   “I brought you breakfast.  Eat up.”

“T-thanks.”  She picked up a blueberry lemon scone with large crystals of sugar baked into the top and took a bite.  The refreshing combination of tart lemon and sweet blueberries tingled in her mouth as she watched him read her work with an intense interest.

She watched the rise and fall of his breaths as he read.  Those crimson irises moved back and forth in his dark shadowy sclera as they traced over the lines of her words.  She watched as he would raise a brow or quirk his lips as he reached the different parts or climatic events of her work.

The blueberry lemon scone, as delicious as it was, was deprived of her attention as she was solely focused on him reading each penned word.

She watched as he arrived at the last page; eyes lingering on the final word before he shuffled the papers back in order and looked up at her.

“Thank you for this.  It was very well written.”  His voice was soft, as if he was careful to not break the comfortable lull of silence they had between the both of them.

The praise gave birth to a warm blossom in her chest as elation filled her heart and lungs.

“I’m glad to deliver,” she spoke with a smile.

He captured her attention with his eyes as he leaned in and asked, “Can I ask for you to stay here for a couple more days?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  END CHP 4 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She thought that she would be able to leave by now.

After he had finished reading her work, he keeped content with what she had produced and didn’t ask for her to write anything more.

The two of them sat at the dining table in silence as she drank her coffee and ate the rest of her scone.  He sat across from her reading her most recent novel-- the one about the underdog in the mafia killing his boss.  He was close to the end; the book was probably already started on before he had gone to abduct her that day.

Did he kidnap her because he liked her work?

Her mind tried to grasp at any reason without regard to how flimsy the logic was.  Why else did he simply kidnap her to write a story for him?  There wasn’t any further attempt to maim, hurt or kill her.  In fact, he seemed to be extremely civil once she agreed to his request to write him a story of his choosing.

She took a sip from her coffee again as her mind wandered off.

“What happened to him at the end?”

She looked up to see that he had already finished the novel.  He was a quick reader.

The tone was inquisitive.  She smiled.

“What do you think happened to him?” she asked him back.

He scoffed.  “The likelihood of him being hunted down for killing his capo and brutally killed is nearly a hundred percent.”  The book cover closed shut with a soft thud.  He set it on the table and slid it towards her.

She let herself smile at his immediate response grounded in reality with no leeway for creative freedom.  “But that’d be boring, don’t you think?”

“You say that a lot,” he mused.  

A faint smile was barely visible on his lips.  She couldn’t help her mind from wandering about what his own story was to lead him here today.

It was contagious.  She couldn’t help but follow in his steps as her smile widened further.

“But wouldn’t you agree?  As close to the truth as reality would have it, a story -- with its infinestinal possibilities that extend beyond the scopes of the real world-- should be interesting!”  She waved both hands up to exaggerate her point.  “If we can’t live out the dreams that we seek in reality, shouldn’t we at least be able to escape to a world of our creation and mold it however we wish?  And that world should be at least interesting!”

She was proud of her speech.  It was rare that she could verbally string together words and convey herself beyond the medium of pen and paper.

Her listener was watching her with interest and she felt even more pride swell up in the fact that she managed to provide enough entertainment for him to continue smiling.

“That makes a lot of sense,” he contemplated.  She noticed the mild distraction in his eyes as he seemed to be speaking to a different matter.

She let out a sigh, picking at the last of her scone.

“My editor told me to write a sequel for him…  I don’t want to do that at first… I always like to leave the endings up for interpretation by the readers.  Did he get caught?  Did he escape?  No one knows, and therefore anything could happen.”

She noticed the small shift in his attention.  He seemed to be pondering something.

He finally looked up at her after some time, capturing her attention with those hauntingly alluring eyes.  Lips parted, his low voice smoothly articulated his next few words.

“Can I ask you to write another story for me?”

She was surprised that her kidnapper-- an intimidating, gigantic man with red and black eyes-- could come up with something of this caliber.

He sat next to her as he told her about each character to write about.

“Formaggio.  He has a buzz cut.  Short guy.”  His large hands almost entirely enveloped the pen she was holding as he drew a -- shockingly good-- sketch of a man with an easy going smirk on his face.

“His name is Formaggio...?”  She wondered how he decided to name someone after cheese.  He was more creative and less boring than what she had originally given him credit for.

He continued.  “This one is Melone.”  He drew a man wearing a transparent mask covering his right eye and his tongue deviously sticking out.  “He’s… interesting… says ‘Di Molto’ a lot.”

She resisted the urge to laugh when he was trying so hard to draw and explain these characters to her.

“Ghiaccio… short-tempered… has a problem with metaphors and analogies and gets angry when he takes them too literally…”

She listened attentively as he continued to draw and explain the various cast of characters that he wanted her to write about.

There was Pesci, Prosciutto, Gelato, Sorbet, Illuso, Formaggio, Melone, and Ghiaccio.  She found the description of them to be very endearing.

“What would you like for them to do?”

There was a pause as he seemed to gather his thoughts.

“I want you to write a story where they find the man in your novel.”  He seemed to want a short one-shot story on the capture of her previous protagonist.

“Ahahaha!  How could you ask me to kill my other character off like that?”  She burst into laughter as he spoke of his request.  “Ok, ok!  I’ll do it.”

It’s been awhile since she wrote a more light-hearted comedical piece.  This was a good change of pace.  There were apparently some fantastical elements that he wished to capture as well.  Using a power called “a stand”, each character had their own stand which they could utilize to get the job done.  She was told in detail how each of the powers worked.

He stared at her intently as she took notes.

As she neared the end of her complex web of story mapping and outlines, she felt a small poke at her shoulder.

“When they’re done with the job, maybe their boss can give them a raise.”

The pen twirled around in her fingers as she chuckled.  “They did do a good job-”  The tip of the pen met the surface of the paper again as it was noted down.  “But what would they do with the extra money?”

The man beside her was silent.  Taking a glance at him, she noticed he looked a little abashed as he mumbled, “...maybe they can get their leader a present.”

She laughed at the unexpected answer.  “Which one’s the leader?  Is it Prosciutto?  Ghiaccio?”  She was ready to have the team get a solid gold nameplate embossed with ‘Best Leader’.

She looked at him for an answer.

It was interesting to see him get a bit flustered as he avoided her inquiring eyes.

“...Just have them stop complaining and fighting for a week or two after they get the raise…”

She couldn’t suppress her mirth as she grinned widely and giggled to herself-- writing down that the team would celebrate their pay raise, giving their leader his much deserved credit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  END CHP 5 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The man who caused this entire situation to unfold was still on the run.

No one was able to catch him.

After reading the novel and asking the author of the man’s situation once the deed was done, it all made sense.

A day or two after Risotto had asked her to write on the politician’s death, everything played out in the exact manner of the story she wrote.

He was dumbfounded.

It was good foresight on his end to have her stay in the apartment for a little while longer while he confirmed his theories.

He took a deep breath.

The ability to change reality based on writing…  It was a formidable power.

It was a power that he should keep to himself as leverage against his enemies down the road-- especially since no one else knew of her ability aside from him.

It was an hour after dawn broke and Risotto knew that she would still be sleeping in from staying awake all night on the story he commissioned from her.

It gave him enough time to do several things.

Upon giving orders to the rest of the team to chase after the man who had killed the capo, Risotto left the base to pick up a few items before proceeding to the apartment.

Passing by the bakery, he picked up a variety of pastries-- specifically asking for blueberry lemon scones.  His eyes caught the shining glint of a gold and black metal pen with red crystals in it on display at a store and decided to purchase it on impulse.  He asked for it to be wrapped nicely and tucked it into the bottom of his bag where it would be safe and secure for the rest of his trip.  Right before he left the shopping district, he picked up a small bag of freshly ground espresso to bring back to brew.

It didn’t take long for him to arrive at the apartment.

Unlocking the door as quietly as he could, the slight creak of the door was unavoidable as he stepped inside.

He set the bags on the dining table before taking a quick peek into the bedroom.

She was asleep in the chair again.

Her face was completely flush against the table with her hand still somehow clutching the pen upright.

Risotto let out a small sigh as he walked over towards her and removed the pen from her grip.

Carefully, he picked her up and placed her on the bed-- pulling a blanket over her as she snoozed through the entire operation.

He walked over to the table and rearranged the papers and tools.

The story seemed finished.

A curiosity and rare excitement filled him as his eyes lingered on the papers that he had rearranged and set nicely on the table.

He shook his head.

He can wait.

Risotto made sure that she was comfortable in the bed before he headed back out to the dining room.

She was out for another two or three hours, and it gave Risotto enough time to run out again and grab some groceries to fill the fridge with.

Since she couldn’t leave the apartment, he asked her what kinds of food she liked so he could at least bring her some sustenance and not leave her to starve to death.

She had told him that she liked to make pasta; it was like making a story since the process is the same but you could make as many dishes as you want by simply changing the ingredients, sauce and pasta shape.

He bought around five different types of pasta.

Arriving back home, he started to begin brewing coffee as he heard her begin to move about in the other room.

He started to put all of the produce away and laid out breakfast on the table for her in anticipation for when she came out.

As he began to put the bags away, he realized that he had left the gift-wrapped pen at the bottom of one of the bags completely forgotten.

He tucked it away in one of his hidden pockets, making a mental note to remember to take it out and give it to her before he left.

She walked into the dining room trying to rub the sleep from her eyes.

“Good morninggg-” she droned as she stumbled towards her chair at the table.

“Good morning,” Risotto greeted back.

“Oh, a scone!  A blueberry lemon scone!”  She picked up the scone that he had set out on a plate for her and watched her take a bite at it.  “M-mhm!  My favorite…”

Risotto let himself smile as he walked over with a just-brewed, hot cup of espresso.  “Here.  To wake you up.”

The cup was eagerly taken with much gratitude and sipped from.  A few blinks of her eyes restored her full consciousness.

“Oh, thank you!” she hummed.

She had warmed up to him considerably in the past couple of days.  Given how he had abducted her from the normalcy of her life, wounded her in the process, made her follow through with his requests and refused to let her go home, he was surprised with her more friendly and easy-going behavior.

“Oh, the story you wanted is done!”  She got up from her chair and rushed back to the bedroom-- emerging only seconds later with the stack of papers that Risotto had cleaned up for her earlier.

He was handed the pages with an eager look of anticipation.  She sat down at the table and picked up her coffee cup again; her eyes didn’t leave his as she seemed to sit at the edge of her seat, waiting for his reactions as he started to read the words she wrote for him.

Risotto rarely laughed.

These past few days were interesting as he found himself letting his more scarce emotions show.

Her story made him laugh several times.

The way that she happened to depict each one of his team members impeccably down to their smallest habits or features made him feel as though he had been by their side watching them bicker in the moments before they stumbled into the man they sought to capture.

It wasn’t before long that he had found himself deep into the fantastical world of writing that she had written; his mind let go of his surroundings for the first time as he completely immersed himself following his men through their journey.

There was a slight frustration at the end when his eyes reached the clean print of ‘finish’ at the bottom of the last page.

His eyes narrowed and he let out a sharp breath.

“U-um-”

Risotto didn’t notice the attempt to grab his attention at first as his eyes began to flip back through the story for a second time.

“U-uh, Signore-?”  She was fumbling with her words, but Risotto’s attention was solely focused on the print of the pages.  It wasn’t until he heard a small squeak and a slightly louder voice call for him that he realized that she was attempting to get his attention. 

“Mr. Kidnapper?”

He quirked his eyebrows at the title she had given him as he looked up to see the interesting expression on her face.  Risotto couldn’t suppress the coy smile that grew on his.

Was that what she decided to call him?

In all fairness, he never did once tell her his name.  And he did indeed kidnap her.

A low chuckle rumbled in his throat before he set the papers down to lock eyes with her.

“Risotto.”  He watched as her eyes widened and she tilted her head just the slightest bit.  “My name is Risotto.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There were a few times in her life that she was left speechless and without the constant distraction of her mind running amok with how to phrase, describe or speak of certain things that happened around her.

This was one of those times.

Her kidnapper typically would read her story and comment on certain things after he finished reading-- providing her a great joy in how he would relay his appreciation of certain characters, plot choices and decisions she made throughout the work.

Perhaps the singular instance of his feedback on her work, a rare instance in which her reader would tell her their thoughts on the story, made her feel needy to garner his thoughts immediately after he read it.

To her mild horror, he didn’t say anything and started to re-read through her pages again.

She knew that this man didn’t express much emotions, so she took immense joy at the instances in which he would let out a small chuckle or show the faintest smile on his lips.

The chair must have turned into pins and needles as she watched the very evident dissatisfaction and annoyance grow on his face near the end of the last page; he had immediately turned the page over and started to re-read the entire thing again.

“U-um-”  She wanted to ask him what was wrong.

Did she write an unsatisfactory ending?  Was there something that he didn’t like?

Her anxiety spun uncontrollably as the mere thought of him being dissatisfied made her stomach uncomfortable as she could nearly feel the blueberries and coffee churn in the pit of her abdomen.

“U-uh, Signore?”  She tried to get his attention again.  She could feel the trembles and shivers of anxiousness manifesting itself in physical form as she failed to get him to respond to her yet again.

He didn’t tell her his name.  How was she to call for him.

Without thinking too much, she said the most immediate thing that came to her mind.

“Mr. Kidnapper?”

He finally looked up at her.

Did that actually make him respond to her.  A mixture of shock, embarrassment and satisfaction at finally getting him to look up must have made for the world’s most silly face.

The small upturn of his lips into a coy smile and the tilt of his eyebrow in mild amusement obliterated any coherent thought from her mind as her ears were enveloped with the sudden thundering of her heart.

The low chuckle that resonated in the silent room sent radiating shivers down her spine.

To her, it seemed like an eternity before he decided to speak.

“Risotto.”

Risotto?  Her eyes widened and her head tilted in mild confusion.

“My name is Risotto,” she heard him speak again.

“R-risotto,” she felt his name annunciate on her tongue.

He smiled at her-- interlacing his fingers in front of him as he leaned in slightly towards her.  “Yes?”

Despite her lips moving to mouth the words she wanted to speak, her voice came out unsteady and the only thing that could be heard was a jumble of mumbles and stammers that lack comprehensible composition.

“It was a good story.”  He seemed to already know what she wanted to ask.  “I thought that there would be more to the end, that’s all.”

Ah, so that was it.

She was still flustered.  Her cheeks were still hot as she marinated and stewed her emotions.

Tucked away in a corner of her notebook was a small blurb for the story’s ending.  She had left it out of the sheets of the story that she had presented, but wrote it to give her some amount of closure and peace of mind.

Walking back to the bedroom and finding the folded sheet of paper that she had tucked away in the nightstand, she handed it to him shyly.

The change in his expressions were encaptivating as he saw his eyes glimmer with faint amusement when he took the paper from her.

But before he had the chance to open it and read the contents, his phone rang.

She watched as he quickly stood up and left the room to answer it, slightly bothered by the postponement of watching him read and react.

She barely heard his voice in the other room, but it didn’t seem as though he spoke much.  He soon came back.

“I have something to attend to, but I’ll be back to check up on you in the evening.”

There was a slight disappointment that befell her as she felt an irksome prickle in her chest that closely resembled annoyance.

“O-oh ok-”

“Do you need anything?  I brought you some groceries earlier this morning, but if you want, I can get you whatever else you’d like.”

He had put his phone away and was preparing to depart.

A small portion of her mind wanted to ask him if she was allowed to go home finally, but there was a strange reluctance to form that thought into words.

“N-no, I’m alright.  Thank you,” she managed to say instead.

She watched as he made his way towards the door-- an uncomfortable feeling clenched at her chest.

“Ah.”  His grip on the door knob slackened as he turned around to face her.  “I almost forgot this.”

Reaching into a nearly unnoticeable pocket on his coat, he pulled out a meticulously wrapped parcel and held it out for her.

“I got you this.”

Her eyes widened as she took the gift into her hands with pleasant surprise.

“O-oh!  T-Thank you.”

He smiled before turning back around and closing the door shut behind him.

There was almost no time for her to react otherwise.

She stood there for a few moments, simply staring at the door before she was brought back to reality.

A smile found itself onto her face as she clutched the box fondly.

She wondered what he got her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ END CHP 6 ~~~~~~~~~~~

Risotto was surprised to get the call from Ghiaccio telling him that they managed to catch the guy.

He had just read the story detailing their mission just moments prior and was shocked at how quick the execution was.

“AND WE FINALLY GOT THAT FUCKIN’ PAY RAISE-!” he heard Ghiaccio scream to him over the phone.  “IT’S ABOUT TIME WE GOT SOME FUCKIN’ RECOGNITION FOR ALL OF THE FUCKIN’ WORK WE DO!”

Risotto had to hold the phone several centimeters away from his ear to avoid going deaf as he continued to listen to Ghiaccio explain the success of them being able to trace down the traitor.  The boss, surprised that the team had gone out of their own accord to hunt down the traitor for him, wired a good sum of money straight into the team’s account alongside an email expressing his thanks.

Risotto was sure that good fortune such as this would have never graced them if he had not an external force in play.

“I’ll be there in an hour,” was his response.

He hung up the phone and made his way back into the dining room area where he saw her anxiously looking at him to ascertain the situation.

“I have something to attend to, but I’ll be back to check up on you in the evening.”  He avoided looking at her and kept his words brief.

The cold and calculating side of him spoke words of reassurance that he didn’t need to feel anything for tricking her into doing stuff like this for him.  She would technically be dead by now if it weren’t for him.

But those words did nothing to console him as a strange guilt rooted itself in his mind.

Her stuttered words imbued with confusion nagged at a conscience that he had thought he lost many years ago.

He found himself with his hand on the door and ready to leave before he knew it.

Right as he began to turn the knob, he could feel the slight press of a box against his leg.

Her present.

 “Ah.  I forgot this,” he muttered to himself.  He let go of the doorknob and pulled the present out from his pocket.  “I got you this.”

He watched as her expression morphed into appreciation and gratitude as she took it from him-- happiness evident on her face.

Risotto felt a smile unconsciously manifest onto his face.  It was unfortunate that he couldn’t stick around for too much longer.

He opened the front door and left.

He watched as his men cheered and celebrated around the center table.

Risotto had taken out the whisky-- pouring it into the rarely used glass cups that was only taken out for extremely special occasions.

“Let’s make a toast to celebrate our achievements today.”

Glasses were raised as everyone took a swig of the strong alcohol.

“Pesci, Pesci, Pesci, you got to learn how to drink.” “I’m sorry, bro!”  Pesci was already queasy when he took the first sip and Prosciutto was already criticizing him for it.  “It burns my throat…”

Formaggio laughed as he pat Prosciutto on the shoulder.  “Cmon, don’t give Pesci a hard time!  We’re supposed to be happy!  It’s a celebration!”  He was on his second cup already and had gotten twice as loud in his festivities.

Prosciutto sighed as he leaned back against the couch, leaving Pesci to swirl his cup around and watch the amber drink race around the clear glass.

“Fine.”  He ran his hand through his blonde hair, careful to not undo and mess up the tight braids that held his hair neatly back.  “This is a rare celebration.  To think that we were the ones that caught the bastard…”

“Right?”  Illuso smirked as he leaned forward to input his fair share of the gossip.  “All the other teams that the boss sent couldn’t catch the guy.  But we-”  he put heavy emphasis on the ‘we’.  “We did.”

“OF COURSE WE DID!”  Ghiaccio slammed down his glass on the table.  “WE’RE BETTER THAN ALL OF THOSE OTHER BASTARDS!  WE’RE THE HITMAN TEAM!  THE BOSS SHOULD HAVE SENT FIRST!”

“That is our job, after all,” Sorbet mused as he poured Gelato some more whiskey.  “I don’t know why he chose to send every other team besides us?”

“He doesn’t trust us, probably,” came Gelato’s begrudging answer.  The lighter haired man stared at the whiskey in his glass with distaste.  “This turn of events definitely helped us though.”

“Wouldn’t that mean Risotto telling us to go catch the guy was rather risky on his part then?”  Melone mused as he reclined back in his seat.

Suddenly all eyes were on him.

Risotto took a sip of the whiskey in his glass and didn’t answer.

He couldn’t tell them that he made things play out in this exact fashion.  He had already sent them out to gather information on the man yesterday afternoon before he had even commissioned the story.  From having the man successfully evade the other teams that the boss had sent, giving Risotto the ability to gain permission from the boss to send in his team, and having his team flawlessly capture the target leaving the boss completely satisfied with the work done, everything played out perfectly.

He smirked as he pondered over the thoughts.

His team took that for an answer as they all looked at him in awe.

He knew that he had his secret little author to attribute this success to.  Risotto would get her something nice later.

Speaking of which, despite thoroughly enjoying the celebration of his team’s success, he wanted to get back to her as soon as possible.

He excused himself from the room and proceeded up to his office to finish up some paperwork before heading off.

He entered the office quietly, noting that there was something on his desk for him.

It was a small, wrapped parcel waiting for him on his desk, and he wondered if one of his men had left it there.

Unwrapping the parcel, he was met with the sight of a mahogany name plate with the words, ‘Best Leader’ embossed on the gold plate.

Risotto let out a perplexed chuckle wondering if this event had any correlation to the writings that had essentially dictated his day thus far.

Pulling the small sheet of paper out from his coat and unfurling it, he looked down at the neat print of the paper tucked in his hands and read:

‘Together, the team put together their funds and before their leader arrived back at base, they placed their present on his desk for him.  In the best wrapping job that they could muster, the nameplate that they had picked out for him to commemorate their success.  This would be the one of their first steps in attaining the respect that they deserved.’

Risotto smiled as he tucked the paper away and arranged the nameplate to a good spot on his desk.

“You could have had them just shut up for a week,” he mused.

~~~~~~~~ END CHP 7 ~~~~~~~~~~

[slash-em-up]

With Apologies to Necroscia Sparaxes pt. 2: Collector X Reader Smut

Here’s part 2!! The smut starts now. 😈

Read part 1 here:

https://slash-em-up.tumblr.com/post/189337211228/with-apologies-to-necroscia-sparaxes-pt-1

Once again, the biggest of OOFs to @dashinslashin for their bangin Asa sketch which inspired this mess...

———————————————

The sound of the clicking lock of his office door was like music to Asa’s ears.

He took a moment, staring at the wooden frame in contemplation, wondering just how hard it would be to murder the new intern without getting caught.

Not even collect her.

She had been here less than a week and he was already exhausted by her constant questions and invasion of his personal space.

He’d tried so many times to foist her off on one of the other doctors; but somehow she had managed to attach herself to him like a leech.

That blonde annoyance had not only caused him to miss lunch, but now dinner as well.

Asa was a man of his word, and missing dinner with you while also spending the few minutes you’d spent visiting trying to field questions from a nosy intern was impossibly vexing.

He shrugged out of his lab coat and carefully hung it on the rack next to his door. The tie and button down he wore feeling incredibly restrictive after such a long tense day.

The utility foam and fabric that composed his desk chair were more relaxing than he thought they’d ever been before; and even the tall stack of papers waiting for his review didn’t look quite as daunting as they had before the door had locked.

A knock sounded at the door and Asa had to hold himself back from slamming his fist on the desk in annoyance.

“What?” Asa barked out brusquely.

“Dr. Emory, I’m about to head out for the night…”

God damn Sarah.

“…was there anything else I could do for you? Anything at all?”

Asa sighed – something he found himself doing more and more frequently since the intern had started – and stood to open the door.

The blonde student stood, hip cocked and eyes lidded in the entrance to his office. Looking at him with something he couldn’t quite identify; but suspected wasn’t an emotion he should - or would- return in kind.

He stared down at the girl, imagining ripping her intestines from her body and watching her writhe on the floor.

Or perhaps he’d filet her – soft skin parting smoothly to the sharp blade of his knife until she was nothing but blood and muscle…

He came back to himself as a pair of sticky gloss-covered lips pressed against his own.

Reacting without thinking, Asa shoved the girl away from him, internally smirking at the loud thump that sounded throughout his office as the young woman’s back hit the doorframe hard.

“What the fuck?!”

Asa didn’t respond, moving quickly to throw the door open and usher the student back out into the hall.

His only indication of surprise at finding you waiting directly outside was a slight pause before turning on his heel and pointing out towards the exit with a look he usually reserved for naughty dogs. Canine or not.

You stood to the side, casually crossing your arms and trying to keep the smile from your lips as Sarah slunk past the both of you; looking deeply embarrassed.

Once the office door was closed behind you, you let the smile seep onto your lips, giving a small chuckle at Asa’s frazzled expression.

“So… no extra credit, huh?”

Asa ran a hand through his hair, mussing the sandy mop out if it’s normal side-part.

“… don’t be surprised if she goes missing very soon.”

You laughed again, setting your purse to the side and removing your own coat.

Moving to lean over the back of the desk chair you began to loosen Asa’s tie and unbutton his collar.

“I can’t really blame her, even if it did make me jealous… I’d have a crush on you too if you were my professor.”

Asa twitched as your hand ran under his shirt and down his chest.

“I’m not a professor.”

“Well she’d probably have been just as happy to play ‘doctor’.”

Black eyes narrowed and turned towards you over his broad shoulder.

Your free hand rose and ran across Asa’s plush lower lip, taking the leftover lipgloss with it.

You frowned.

“Not really your color, baby.”

Before you could say another word you felt your feet leave the ground as Asa sprang like a panther, lifting you up and holding you between the wall and his body.

You wrapped your legs around his hips and attacked his lips in an aggressive kiss. Pouring every ounce of possessive anger and jealousy into your movements.

If Asa was surprised by your ferocity he didn’t let it show, meeting your tongue and teeth with bites and groans of pleasure.

You lowered your legs and used your momentum and Asa’s distraction to push against his chest with as much force as you could muster.

Asa stumbled back a few steps, coming to rest against his desk – looking ready to launch himself back at you.

Raising one leg, you pressed a foot to his midsection, shocking him enough to stay in place as you caught your breath.

“Not so fast. You owe me an apology.”

Pearl eyes narrowed.

“For?”

You smirked – now you had him.

“You blew me off at lunch, you didn’t come home for dinner, and now I find you covered in some hussy’s lip gloss?”

Asa growled.

“You did say you’d make it up to me…”

Obsidian eyes flashed at you in the low lamplight of the office.

“How should I apologize?”

You walked slowly over to your purse, keeping an eye on Asa just in case he decided not to play along with your little game.

You reached in and withdrew the small leather case you both knew held your strap-on harness.

Asa snarled, baring his teeth as you drew close once more.

Though you’d begun to incorporate pegging into your sexual repertoire with more regularity, it was still a battle (both internal and external) to get Asa to submit.

You maintained eye contact as you slowly reached out to unbuckle his belt and unzip his fly.

“Turn around and put your hands on the desk.”

He didn’t move.

Now it was your turn to snarl.

Leaning in, you hissed into Asa’s ear.

“Do it, or I’ll make sure you’re really sorry.”

Asa stepped closer to you, his towering frame dwarfing yours as he pulled your hips to grind against his own.

He leaned in.

“Don’t you dare go easy on me.”

You bit his earlobe harshly and whispered “You know I won’t.”

Nodding, Asa turned and spread his fingers across his wood desk, tilting his head to watch you out of the corner of his eye.

Pulling his slacks down to his thighs, you gave him a rough slap, grinning at the deep grunt pulled from his mouth at the sudden impact.

Quickly tearing open a condom from your purse, you slid it over your fingers and squirted a bit of lube over the latex.

At the first press of your fingers against his opening Asa inhaled sharply, hips jolting away from the pressure.

You made quick work of stretching his ass and stripped out of your own clothes to slide the strap-on up your thighs.

Broad shoulders rose and fell harshly as Asa tried to collect himself after your rapid fingering, but fell still as you pressed yourself against him.

Barely daring to breath, you slid your slicked length between his muscular ass, periodically catching at his pucker, making the man in front of you twitch as if he didn’t know whether he wanted to press back or jerk away.

“You want me to fuck you, Asa?”

“Mmmm…”

“I can’t hear you.”

You wrapped a hand around and slid a hand down his own hard cock, making him toss his head back and gasp.

“Ask me to fuck you.”

“… Fuck… fuck… please.”

“Please what?”

“… please fuck me hard.”

Your smile was predatory as you grasped him by his hipbones and pressed forward.

“With pleasure, baby.”

Asa exhaled like he’d been punched as you bottomed out against his ass - thick length filling him to capacity and hitting every sensitive inch of his insides.

You gave no quarter and no time to recover as your hips began a quick and hard thrusting rhythm.

It was easy to tell when you hit Asa’s prostate.

He had yet to master keeping his solemn demeanor intact when you were fucking into his ass, and the sensitive gland in particular drove him to moan and cry out in pleasure with each thrust.

You began scratching your nails across his outer thighs and this additional stimulation ran like electricity through Asa’s body – his spine straightened and you took the opportunity to wrap your hand through his loosened tie and use it like a leash to arch his spine further towards your body.

Satisfied with his stance you reached around and grasped at his chest, using the leverage to drive even harder into his hole.

You could tell Asa was getting close to his finish as his cries grew louder and louder, hands scrabbling at his desk and spreading paperwork across the surface and onto the floor.

“You gonna cum for me baby?”

Asa turned his head to look at you – eyes glazed in pleasure as he nodded rapidly.

Humming your approval, your hand slid down to once again grasp at his twitching cock, hand twisting up and down in tempo with your continued thrusts.

A gasp and rough shiver was all the warning you were given before you felt Asa’s warm seed spurt into your palm.

His body collapsed forward onto his desk, forehead resting against the cool wood as your motions against him slowed.

You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his sweat-covered shirt.

Asa exhaled as you slowly withdrew from his body, turning to face you fully. His shirt was a wrinkled, ruined mess, and his tie was still twisted around to lay over his shoulder.

His slacks rested open on his shaking thighs, cock bright red and slick as his body recovered from your intimate attacks.

You stepped into his space and threaded your arms around his body, smiling softly as not a moment later you were surrounded by Asa’s strong embrace, feeling his nose bury itself into your hair.

He was getting more and more comfortable accepting affection, and to have him barely hesitate to return it gave you a warm feeling in your chest.

His hands began to run over your exposed skin, making you aware of your own dripping sex – fully and painfully turned on after having observed his pleasure.

Asa pulled you back to sit across his lap as he sunk down into his desk chair.

Kissing his lips softly, you moaned into his mouth as his fingers slid down in between your thighs, feeling your slick cunt against his skin.

All thoughts of jealousy or anger fleeing your mind entirely as Asa spread your thighs across his own, sliding two thick fingers into you and bringing his other hand up to massage your breast.

In-between soft, passionate kisses Asa gave you his signature close-lipped smile.

“Thank you.”

You were breathless as a low rolling orgasm ran through your body - brought to your finish by talented fingers and soft eyes.

Your head fell to rest against his shoulder. Kissing his exposed neck, you giggled softly, happier in that moment than you could recall being in a very long time.

“Anytime.”

[platypanthewriter]

Up the fairy mountain, seeking

The Keg-King of Elfland’s Sword, Chapter three

with @neonlaynes​, for @ihni​

Billy’s horse shifted, as a wave thudded the ferry against the dock, and Harrington glanced over to meet his wide eyes.

He laughed. “The river comes down from the mountain,” he explained, pointing ahead to where Billy could see the peak rising through the fog, “—but the sea mixes with it.” He waved off into the mist. “One day, when I was a child, a wave took the old town. You can see the roofs, on clear days. Things swimming in and out of the windows.”

A shiver ran down Billy’s spine, and his horse whickered, shifting at his unease. He leaned to stroke its shoulder.

Once everyone else was aboard—Thomas and Perkins sitting with heads hanging over the water, and their knuckles clenched over the edge of the planks—Wheeler paid the ferrywoman for the use of her boat. She nodded, swallowing, and wished them luck.

Buckley and Harrington took oars. Billy moved to, sliding off his pony, but Wheeler stepped up beside him, crossing her arms.

“It would be wise for a human to carry iron,” she said, and he croaked out a laugh, waving away her gloved hand offering a nail. She raised her eyebrows, then drew them together. “...where did you say you were from? How long have you been here?”

“I-I—will be fine.” Billy took a step backwards, and his shoulderblades bumped against his horse.

“He touched mine.” Harrington’s voice came from the other side of Billy’s horse. “Last night.”

“He could’ve switched it,” Perkins yelled, then bent her head back over the side, and Thomas rubbed her back, watching Billy.

He forced a smile, and held his hand out for the nail.

She dropped it in his hand, watching his face, and he squeezed it, keeping his shoulders loose, feeling the edges bite into his hand as he smiled. It always helped that it was a slow, cramping ache.

She took a deep breath, rubbing her face. “I apologize. I am—we did—return with Barb, we—thought. But it was not—my friend. Not human. I am jumping at shadows.” She walked over to grab an oar, patting the horses she squeezed between.

“...Billy,” came Harrington’s voice, in a whisper, and Billy glanced up from his fistful of cold iron. “Come here, I’ll show you how to punt.”

Billy wandered over, nudging Harrington with his shoulder. “My given name?” he whispered back, grinning, then nearly yelped as Harrington’s fingers slid between his and took the nail. He didn’t say anything, and after a while watching him row, Billy took a deep breath.

“...you were going to teach me to—”

“Why are you lying?” Harrington whispered, his eyes on the river and the slowly surrounding fog. “Why don’t you want it?”

It’s a strain of hysteria, passed from my mother, Billy considered saying. She died in a sanatorium, claiming she was Morgan le Fay. Or maybe it was all true, and I am a mongrel. They say you see what the Fair Folk wish. It could be this face is fake, and I look like that monster last night. Or is it that I know what I truly am, and know it would expose my lies, strip away the pretty illusion and show the grasping monster I— “There may have been Fair Folk in my bloodline, somewhere,” he laughed, tilting his head so his eyes sparkled appealingly. “My mother was born here, you know? It’s probably my imagination, but I swear it makes my fingers go all pins and needles, as though I slept on my arm.”

Harrington laughed, nodding, and bit his lips. “Of course. That—that follows.” He glanced over, frowning, and Billy bent forward and leaned in to press their lips together. Maybe she was telling the truth, Billy’s father had told him. Maybe that’s why I didn’t look closely enough. People love you, after all, until they don’t.

As they neared the bank of fog, it whirled around the edges of the ferry, eddying around the shapes of Buckley and Wheeler rowing.

“Why are you here, Billy?” asked Max, and he jumped back, nearly overbalancing save for Harrington’s arm around his shoulders.

“Ignore the voices,” Harrington whispered. “They—they aren’t—”

“Give me the child,” said Will Byers, or rather his voice; and Billy squinted around, then looked down to see the silvery-gray eyes of a submerged horse, its long face floating an inch out of the water. He caught his breath.

“Don’t answer them,” Harrington breathed against the side of his head, and Billy nodded.

As they paddled closer, the waves began pushing them more off course towards the overarching jagged rock, and Thomas, and even Perkins, grabbed oars. The horses were starting to toss their heads, sidling restlessly, and Billy gathered their heads together, for once hoping he had some magic gift of the blarney. Their bridles were slippery with water from the heavy mist.

He took a slow breath, measuring out the size of the ferry in his head. It was smaller than his room at the inn. He didn’t want to think of the results of six horses, packed between their riders, panicking over deep cold water with rocks jutting up like knives.

Wheeler’s choice made sense, now, the stolid little beasts taking in the haunting calls and the wave-tossed ferry with barely a flicked ear. He grimaced, imagining the horses he trained even stepping aboard.

Clearing his throat, he started telling them the first story he thought of, about water. “Weeri and Walawidbit stole the water from the well,” he muttered, glad the horses wouldn’t expect it to make sense, and watching another water-horse breach, close to the cliffs. It had sharp teeth as long as his fingers, and the water from its mane stung his cheeks. “Weeri and Walawidbit stole the water from the well,” he whispered again, stroking the horses’ soft noses. “This was evil, as there were children, and babies, in the camp—but no rain had fallen, and they were selfish, and driven mad with thirst.” The horses sniffed at his arms and trousers, and he scratched their cheeks and ears, distracting himself as well. “It was very hot,” he whispered. “When the warriors woke, they said, ‘We will bring the water back. We will capture Weeri and Walawidbit, and return the water’,” he told one solemn face. It flicked an ear.

“There is water enough,” said Wheeler’s voice, from behind him, and he saw Wheeler herself nearly drop her oar.

“We have taken one town,” said Buckley’s, the effect somewhat ruined by the real Buckley swearing over it. “We can take another.”

“Give back the child,” said Max.

As they passed another lantern, on a pole in the rock, Billy wondered who lit them, or if they were some kind of fairy fire. The waterfalls were growing louder, adding to the mist, and the swells under them swirled a bright foamy green. The gray horse to Billy’s left tossed its head, its mane whipping across his ear.

“The warriors chased Weeri and Walawidbit, throwing spears,” he said under his breath, feeling useless. “They pierced the water-carrier—”

“Why do they want children?” Thomas asked, abruptly. “That seems—”

“Ellie said they’d done something,” Wheeler whispered, her voice still echoing oddly around, helped by a dissonant chorus. “They made her do something, she and some other children, before she fled. She didn’t know what, exactly, she—”

Her voice cut off as a gust of wind brushed away a swath of the fog, and the filtered sunlight danced over the Falls, plunging over a cliff most of the way up the mountain, through worn planes and windows in the rocks. It was red, over what looked like a churning sea of blood. As they neared it, rowing along the cliffside, the foam splashing around the edges of the ferry began to show a red tinge.

“The devil is that,” Perkins muttered, stepping up to lean against Buckley’s shoulder.

“Iron,” Wheeler choked out. “So much iron, it reddened the Falls.”

“What’d they do?” Harrington stopped rowing to stare at what looked like the mountain bleeding, gouting a ribbon that shone crimson in the sun. “Small wonder they’re furious—”

The ferry clunked against one of the rocks, tipping, and slapped back into the water. The horses started whinnying, and stomping, and Buckley yelled, “Row, bastards!”

“The water gushed from the water carrier as they ran,” Billy told the horses, and himself, patting necks and rubbing noses. “—and sprang up billabongs, and there was water—”

“To your left,” said Thomas, and then the real Thomas shouted, “No, right!” and Perkins and Harrington yelled, and pulled, and the rock merely scraped along the side.

“I am Nan Wheeler, daughter of Karen Wheeler, and we are almost there,” Wheeler yelled, and then started calling heave ho, heave ho. It would have been funny, except for the voices from the water.

When they got within a few feet of the shore, the horses all bumped against each other moving toward the stone ledge, and Billy barely had time to get his foot in a stirrup and swing onto one. The ferry tilted down, then back, as they surged onto the outcropping, and he scrambled to grab reins, then realized they were content to mill around, now they were on solid ground. Thomas, Perkins, and Buckley lurched off the ferry as Harrington moored it, and then he and Wheeler staggered onward.

“What possessed us to put horses on a boat,” Billy muttered, realizing he was astride Buckley’s ride and swinging down. She clapped his shoulder on the way by, and then Perkins and Thomas Hall leaned into him on either side, still reeking of rum. Perkins’ arm was bandaged where he’d nicked her arm the night before with his saber.

“Thanks for the story,” she said, grinning. “I’m a fair swimmer, but it’s treacherous, here—”

Thomas leaned in to say, “That what you did with Harrington, last night? Whisper in his ear?”

“Maybe you should have tried it, instead of watching him from the corners, slavering like a hungry dog,” Billy muttered back, and Thomas spun on his heel, raising his fists. Perkins grabbed him, glaring between them.

“We’re here for a reason,” she hissed.

Thomas looked like all the threats in his head were hitting a logjam in his mouth, and then came Wheeler’s voice, and Perkins and Thomas walked by, shoving him so he stumbled forward.

“Thank you for keeping the horses calm,” Antlers said, behind him, and when he turned it was actually her, and not a voice from the mist.

“Glad I could be of use.” He nodded, and watched her stalk by, and up the worn wet stone stairs.

“Thank you,” Harrington whispered into his hair, leaning against his back, and Billy felt a peculiar flush up his neck and cheeks as he leaned back into warm enfolding arms. “That—that may have saved our lives.”

Billy’s throat closed, and he cleared it. “Ha-hardly. I talked to them. I told you I was good with horses.”

“Thank you for coming,” Harrington said again, against his jaw and neck, and Billy leaned his head back for a kiss, forgetting their witnesses, and letting his eyes fall closed. Harrington stroked his hair, and Billy reminded himself, again, that a man who would take whatever he offered was unlikely to value it—but Harrington ran fingers through his hair, and cradled his face, and Billy swallowed back the urge to open his mouth and ask Harrington to keep his hands there forever. He pressed in for another kiss, turning to slide his arms around Harrington’s neck and lick into his warm mouth, salty from the wet spray drifting from the base of the Falls where they hit the seawater. Harrington’s cheeks were red and warm, and Billy pressed his thumbs to them, watching Harrington’s cautious smile and brown eyes.

“Everyone is waiting,” Harrington whispered, grabbing Billy’s hand, and kissing it.

“Of course.” Billy couldn’t help leaning in for another kiss, smiling, so if Harrington pushed him away, it would be a joke.

He didn’t.

They finally broke apart at a piercing whistle, and Billy stumbled away to frown up the slate steps at Robin Buckley, laughing as she took her fingers out of her mouth. Harrington pushed by to climb on his horse—held by Buckley—and Billy took a deep breath, trying not to wonder what he’d do, when the plan failed, and Steven Harrington knew.

Buckley waited for him, letting the rest wander on up the slope. “Why reel him in so fast?” she asked.

“...beg pardon?” Billy returned, his stomach clenching.

“He’s hooked,” she said, watching Harrington and Wheeler. “Thoroughly limed. Why not give him a little play in the line? Do you turn into a pumpkin at midnight? Why the rush reeling him in?”

Billy blinked back a horrible image of a metal hook in Harrington’s mouth, and slamming his head against the dock before gutting him like a fish. “I wouldn’t…” he started, and she raised her eyebrows. “I’m not sure how stupid Wheeler is,” he tried, and she snorted, “—she may…” he trailed off, watching Wheeler walk point-to-point across jagged boulders, and Harrington’s avid attention. “—I don’t—as soon as she snaps for his attention, he’s hers.”

“Hrm.” Without replying, she urged her horse onward.

He kept noticing glances, on the rocky path up the mountain—from Harrington, biting his lip, but returning his smiles; from Buckley, her gaze on one then the other of them—and from Thomas Hall, who narrowed his eyes, seeing Harrington’s eyes on Billy, and bared his teeth at Billy looking back. Wheeler was running up without a steed at all, and Billy opened his mouth to ask, when he saw her stop, and turn, and hold her hand out towards the trees. A white stag with red eyes stepped out between them, and she swung aboard, saddle-less. The conversation between Buckley and Harrington didn’t falter.

The path was steep, and worn deeply into the stone of the mountain, so the sides were an arm’s-length over Billy’s head, and his knees brushed the stones, sometimes on both sides. Sometimes only on one, and his other leg dangled in thin air over the crashing waters below. In places, the sides had given way in a rush of shale, or shone with slick moss where they crossed and re-crossed streams, but Wheeler’s horses were sure-footed and cheerful, and crossed stone bridges narrower than their own ribs with barely a flick of the tail. Billy was glad he’d swallowed back his urge to compare their hooves to snowshoes, or ask whether they had sheepdogs in their lineage. His own—he asked, and was introduced to her as Mairead—was dappled gray and cream, and when Harrington saw him trying to befriend her with flowers plucked from overhanging plants, he hung back to stage-whisper, “She’s named ‘Daisy’. It means ‘Daisy’.”

Billy eyed his handful of daisies, and offered them again. “Come on, girl, you know you’re secretly a cannibal,” he told her, and Harrington burst out laughing. She lipped politely at his fingers, flicking her tail, and he grabbed more. “I hope these aren’t her family,” he said, idly, to watch Harrington’s shoulders shake.

When the path widened out, he took the best bloom, rode up, and tucked it in the buttonhole of Harrington’s jacket. Harrington laughed, leaning down from the saddle in a long flexible stretch that made Billy feel thirst, grabbed a sprig of low-growing heather, and pulled his horse close to tuck it behind Billy’s ear. He leaned in for a clumsy horseback-kiss that was all jarring teeth.

Billy nearly grabbed at him when he pulled away. “Had enough?”

Harrington laughed, and licked his lips. “I—think I can wait until we’re on solid ground.”

Billy licked his teeth, grinning, and Harrington ducked his head, clicking his tongue to urge his horse forward and away. His neck was red.

“Coward move, Harrington!” Billy yelled, and got back a thumb rudely flicked off Harrington’s teeth.

By the time Billy’s stomach began to growl for a second meal, the path was turning from a clamber between boulders to a fairy bower. Massive branches draped with moss overhung the path, overladen with ferns and tiny flowers like the ones in Harrington’s crown the night before, and Wheeler yanked them down, weaving flower crowns as she talked. She tossed the first finished one over Buckley’s head. Buckley started throwing scones at everyone—they thudded into Billy’s hand, heavy like a rock—and she smirked, watching Billy’s expression, but when he bit in, they were sweet and chewy. He saluted her. Soon they all had flower crowns, and Harrington dropped back at the next wide bit of trail to brag about Wheeler again.

Billy listened grudgingly, touching his own, and Harrington leaned to straighten it, biting his lip.

“Keep it on,” he whispered, grabbing Billy’s hand, and squeezing it, ignoring the sticky crumbs of scone. “They have a magic to them. It’ll keep you safe.”

“...keep yours too, then,” Billy told him, kissing his hand before the trail narrowed again, and they were forced to single-file. “I’ll try not to die of jealousy.”

Harrington’s shoulders shook with laughter ahead of him. “Already? Are you always so jealous?”

“Never!” Billy called up. “It’s horrific, Harrington, I don’t know what to do! This will end terribly. I’ll wander the streets of your town, begging for stories of you as a child while you marry your lady fair.”

Harrington turned in the saddle to grin at him, pink-cheeked. “As soon as you hear them, your lovesickness will be cured.”

“That’s true enough,” Buckley called back, and Harrington hunched his shoulders, facing front, as Billy realized the man had actually forgotten the entire mountain could hear them.

When they finally reached something of a crest in the mountain, more jagged edges towered above, but a shining grassy expanse spread about them like a lushly carpeted landing in a staircase through the clouds.

The trees grew smaller, and scrubbier, blown crooked in the wind, giving way to gleaming grass and flowering heather. Mairead snatched a few glossy mouthfuls, and Billy patted her neck, looking out to sea on two sides, and below them clouds and the flyspeck of an eagle, soaring above the town of Hawkins. The noise of the waterfall rose again as they crossed the rolling downs.

As they drew closer, they could smell smoke, and taste iron down the backs of their throats. Wheeler yelled “Ha!”, and the stag began to run, stopping as they crested the next rise. Billy rode up alongside the others to see a towering, smoking shell of stonework on top of a blackened hole in the hill. Stained glass still hung in the arched windows in what remained of the walls at the top. The smoke was thick enough, still, to coat their insides as they breathed. There were overturned and shattered gravestones scattered around the cavernous black gape in the side of the hill. Arrayed before it were cannons. Mairead sidled uneasily, flicking her tail, and he stroked her flank, whispering nonsense.

Wheeler was breathing in pants, hands over her mouth, her whole body shaking. Perkins and Thomas urged their horses closer to the breach, and Buckley charged after. Harrington approached Wheeler, and Billy gritted his teeth, and shouted a loud “Gee-yup” to startle Mairead down the hill and leave the two of them to their discussion.

“How did they get those up here?” Buckley was saying, as he approached. She was crouching by one of the overturned cannons, holding what looked like a blackened human pelvis.

“Ellie said she stopped them,” Wheeler said, thickly, riding up with Harrington in tow. “She—she said she didn’t know what they wanted. They threatened the other children. They threatened her mother.”

“And we wondered what was causing the uproar,” Carol snorted, standing in her stirrups to peer into the featureless darkness of the open mound. She clicked her tongue, and trotted towards it.

“We—we’re going in?” Billy said, apparently aloud, because Thomas snorted, and Harrington nudged his horse close enough to reach out and squeeze his shoulder.

“You don’t need to—”

“No,” Billy laughed, clenching his hand on the reins. “You’ll—you’ll be glad you brought me. I’ll be of use.”

“Wait,” Wheeler said, and steepled her fingers over her face, drawing a slow breath. “No. Don’t—the—the way is broken. This breach—this is not a safe way between your home and mine. You could—you could be lost.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Hear that, Hargrove? You can head back, now, you’re useless.”

“Help,” whispered a woman’s voice, from the breach, and Wheeler spun her stag.

“Barbara?”

“Help,” came the voice, from the trees, then the ruins above the mound, then all around them.

“Barb!” Wheeler called, and Buckley grabbed her hand before she could ride off.

“We’ll check everywhere out here,” she said, and Wheeler nodded, wiping her nose and setting her shoulders before urging her stag toward the breach.

Harrington watched her go, biting his lips, and Billy clenched his hands on his saddlebow.

“How can I help?” His voice emerged husky, and Harrington visibly called his mind back from Wheeler’s dangerous journey, and blinked.

“Ah.” He frowned around. “—I think—that—”

“Robin,” Perkins called. “Steve. There are journals.” She waved a leatherbound book, kicking away a crumbling charcoaled ribcage. Thomas was kicking a skull around.

Billy swung down from the saddle and went to help Perkins—she absolved him of the name, running her elbow into his gut and issuing a direct order to call her Carol—and they searched through the wreckage, finding a captain’s logbook of sorts, and an unburned crate of biscuits. Their horses wandered, bumping noses, jumping and prancing around each other until Mairead was distracted by heather, and planted her hooves to yank mouthfuls.

Billy sat on a crate, half his attention on the smoking ruin of the hill and the exposed dark gulf within. He licked his thumb, and flipped through the logbook. “‘We hauled the cannons up with pulleys, and believe ourselves thus far undetected’,” he read aloud, accepting a biscuit. “‘Without favor shown by the notables of Hawkins, I nearly despaired of my goal, but the wheel of discovery rolls ever onwards, and their ancient magicks will soon be put to the test of gunpowder, iron, and human ingenuity.’”

“What a cock,” Carol put in, stuffing a biscuit in her face. “I’ve found his accounts. He notes down all the bribes he attempted. He never asked me.”

Billy snorted, choking on his biscuit, and continued. “‘The girl is becoming troublesome. She asks unending questions about the curse on her mother—I have nearly been caught out, more than once!—and it has forced my hand, more than I would like. She now believes wholly that her mother will die if she refuses me in any small favor—’” Billy raised his eyes to meet Carol’s, and she brought the heel of her boot down on the crumbling ribcage until all that remained were bone shards and char.

“Prattling cock,” she repeated, frowning around, then stomping what looked like a human femur.

“This is—the girl Harrington rescued?”

“I suppose,” she said, peering between the wreckage of the crates. “She would only answer to Will, but when she saw him on Steve’s horse, she let Robin pull her up. Barb helped them hide. When they blasted the hill open, everything in Faery would have been angered.” She grinned over at him. “They had a long few days of it.”

Thomas was following Harrington around. It looked like he was talking intently, but Billy shook his head, and set his jaw, reading on. “‘It is my belief that the girl can open a breach, into which we can fire the cannons, preventing them from barring our passage. After that, she is likely to become troublesome, despite concern for her friends.’” Billy grimaced. “Who is the girl? How is her mother?”

“Shite-a-bed sneaksbie,” Carol hissed. “He would have harmed her, after all that. Hopper is seeing to her, and her mother.”

Billy nodded, watching Thomas grab Harrington’s reins and pull him to a stop.

She followed his gaze. “...fast worker, aren’t you?”

“I—”

“Help me,” said the woman’s voice, just behind him, and he yelled, swinging around to see Carol holding her sword on what was mostly a woman, her naked skin lifted with the roots of the grass and heather where she stood. Rusty water poured freely from her mouth.

Carol’s voice shook, but her sword was steady. “I—if you are Barbara Holland, we—”

“Help,” the woman said, her voice bubbling, and her head slowly bending backwards as water gouted from under her eyelids, and out her nose. Her body collapsed, arcing backwards into the grass, and Carol stumbled backwards, shoving Billy behind her. Another gurgling “Help,” came from behind them, and he yanked his own sword free with a clumsy scrape. She grabbed his elbow and hauled him towards the ruins, just as Thomas, Harrington, and Buckley galloped back towards them.

“She’s not here,” Buckley shouted. “They’re just scaring us.”

“They aren’t doing anything.” Thomas rolled his eyes, steering his horse so it nearly crashed into Billy and Carol, and reared to avoid them, shaking its head with an earsplitting whinny.

Carol’s lips thinned, and she dropped Billy’s arm, stalking toward the ruin. She picked up a chunk of the broken femur, and hucked it after Thomas, and he dodged, laughing.

“She was visiting a grave,” Buckley said, glaring after Thomas, who was trying not to fall off his horse. “There might be some trace up there, at least.”

“Help,” came the voice, from between them, and Billy shuddered, wondering whether if they did find Barb, he’d be able to hear her voice without the skin spasming clear up his spine.

Their horses seemed fairly unafraid, milling around and munching the heather, but the humans drew sighs of relief as their feet touched stone, and the last of the creeping voices stayed back in the vegetation. Thomas leaned against a broken pillar, glowering at Billy. Carol found a pair of spectacles that obviously meant something to her, and Buckley squeezed her shoulder before doling out the remaining scones as they sat among the graveside statues, and then sat with Carol, looking out through the broken masonry to the sea.

Billy sat next to Harrington. For a long moment, he watched the scone crumble under Harrington’s nervous, fidgeting fingers. Then he leaned to bump shoulders.

“Are you making bird food?”

“What?” Harrington squinted at him, then frowned down at his handkerchief of crumbs. “...oh.”

“Oh, indeed.” Billy eyed the sun reflecting off the waves and clouds in the wide horizon, then crooked his leg up next to him on the sarcophagus he’d chosen for a seat, and turned to face Harrington. “Lady Wheeler knows what she’s doing,” he tried.

Harrington smiled, ducking his head. “She usually does.” The low, orangey light gilded his smile, and Billy stared, licking his lips, only to make an embarrassing creaky gasp back in his throat when Harrington leaned in to press their lips together. He yanked Billy close with an arm around his back, laughing against his mouth, his breath sending heat down to Billy’s dick.

He threw an arm around Harrington’s neck, scooting half into his lap and snickering at the avalanche of crumbs, kissing the early afternoon’s soft shadows on Harrington’s face, before staring into the dusky orange gleam of his eyes. “Harrington, what’s happening to the light—”

The floor tilted, collapsing sideways towards the gaping hole in the hill, and their horses screamed. Billy went deaf, and blind, choking on dust, his body shuddering with the impact of the stones flying around him. He landed in prickly heather, scrambling up to a crawl.

Wheeler’s voice screamed, “Nuckelavee! It’s the Nuckelavee, back—” and she rode out, holding herself upright on the stag with her legs. The broken wall of the graveyard crashed towards them, stones the size of coffins shaking the ground. The air went foul—Billy spat grit, coughing, and his eyes watered as he stumbled after his horse.

Mairead slowed for him—rearing in the shadowy dust cloud—and he calmed her enough to get his leg over, yanking the reins in a tight circle until she put all four hooves on the ground, turning gladly towards the path from the ferry. He saw Carol, running flat-out behind Thomas, reach for his hand as he swung astride their horse, but he spurred his beast onward. She nearly fell, screaming after him, when Buckley rode up next to her, holding an arm out to help her swing up to safety.

Billy stood in his stirrups, looking around for Harrington.

Wheeler’s stag shone white in the black gouts of breath the creature was spewing, circling the ruins. “Steve!” she yelled. “Where are you?!”

“Run!” came his voice, and something else, drowned out by a roar.

“Get out of there!” Wheeler yelled back.

Billy’s horse nearly lost its footing, scrambling on three legs in the scrubby heather as a gravestone crashed down next to them. Buckley’s horse charged by him, back towards the mound, her crossbow raised, Carol readying a flask of magic fire, and Billy stared, then followed. Wheeler was standing in her stirrups again, shooting arrow after arrow as the stag clambered around rolling stones and ruins, and Buckley filled the thing with iron bolts as Carol threw one of Byers’ bottles, then another. The flames lit a shape towering in the ruins, a head with a flame instead of an eye, and a giant mouth blowing black breath. An arm the size of a ship’s mast tossed aside a gravestone, and in the light of the next bottle, Billy saw Harrington scramble between its hooves, dragging his leg, and then curl under another pile of rubble.

“Run!” he yelled.

The huge shape swiped at him, then staggered and roared again as Wheeler shot it through the arm, and Carol set it on fire. It grabbed a handful of ruined wall nearly the size of Wheeler’s stag, and threw it at her, before swiping the arrows away from its legs. Its upper body and head were protected by the ruins.

“Harrington, get out of there—” Buckley yelled, running along the edge of the ruin, her horse barely dodging the thing’s grasping hands.

Billy’s horse stamped, ears flicking, and he swung down, patting its flank as he ran to crouch against some fallen statuary. He took a deep breath, eyeing the feathered ends of Wheeler’s arrows and yanking a broken shank of iron from a pile of rubble. He weighed it in his hand, flexing his fingers as they twitched and trembled with the burn of iron, and then sent up an apology to Max.

That done, he vaulted over the broken wall. Wheeler yelled something, and Buckley, but he ran up a fallen pillar to leap and grab at the highest arrow he could reach, stuck in the shoulder of the beast. He gripped one of the black veins protruding from its skinless, yellowy sinew, and stabbed the iron in with the other hand, and the creature screamed. Billy ignored it, trying to ignore the throbbing in his hand, and breathe. He kicked around to push himself up off another arrow, and reached to swing on knotted, seaweed-filled mane. It staggered, and he saw movement below, out of the corner of his eye.

“The hell are you doing,” Harrington yelled up, but Billy almost had it, and then he did, using the iron shank to anchor his upper body as he drew his sword, and stabbing it into the creature’s firey eye, and then letting himself fall to slide down a broken pillar into a pile of rubble. The impact shook him for a moment, and the Nuckelavee roared so loud everything went silent, just choking, swirling black breath and shuddering ground, and then Harrington found him, grabbing him close. They yanked each other to the side of the ruin, where Carol and Buckley could help drag Harrington across their horse. Wheeler caught up in moments, pulling Billy up behind her as they broke into a run, and the ground shook as stones fell around them. Mairead fell in with them as they fled, scattering gravel and then pounding across the downs, listening to the screams of the creature behind them.

“Only the Lady can control the Nuckelavee,” Wheeler shouted. “If it’s broken free, there—there might be others, anything—anything might come through—they can’t—we have to get to a bridge—” She took a deep breath, and Billy tried not to press too closely against her back, clenching his thighs to stay on without a saddle to grab, or a mane he could clench in his fingers.

“The first bridge isn’t far!” Buckley yelled. “Running water! It can’t cross running water!”

Once they had teetered back across the first arched stone bridge, their woolly-footed beasts sure across a crumbling granite span narrower than Billy’s thigh, he swung down to press his face against Mairead’s flank. She whuffed at his shoulder, and lipped at his hair, and he turned to embrace her head and take shaky breaths. As he lifted his head, he caught sight of the gleaming red flank of Buckley’s horse under Harrington’s crushed leg, and stumbled closer, only to feel his breath thick in his mouth with the coming of the Nuckelavee. Carol helped him take Harrington, clutching at Buckley as the sky blackened around them, and their horses reared at the shriek of the Nuckelavee.

“Onward!” Wheeler yelled, and led the way on her stag, a white beacon in the closing darkness.

It started raining as they scrambled back down the hill, making the stone bridges and shale-edged paths even more treacherous, and it wasn’t until they were back on the ferry, pushing away from the dock, that Harrington let Buckley and Billy help him down from the horse—Carol stood by, reaching out occasionally, and wringing the rain out of her shirt, and glared at Thomas, before crouching next to Buckley to look at Harrington’s leg. Blood pooled under him, and Buckley busied herself stuffing cloth under it, glancing around at the water, but Harrington kept staring up at Billy.

“Why’d you come back,” he asked, and Billy shook his head, laughing, before leaning in for a kiss.

Billy’s whole body was still trembling. “I did say I liked you,” he whispered back, and Harrington’s grin went wide and silly, so Billy dropped down next to him, kissing his cheeks, then his mouth, and shielding his body from most of the rain.

“You barely know me,” Harrington whispered back, leaning up for another kiss, and Billy tried not to feel too victorious.

“Don’t you believe in love at first sight?” he asked, watching Harrington’s cheeks flush.

[technohumanlation]

Whumptober Day 28 and 29

The ever so lovely @whumptober2019 made a list of prompts to complete every day for the whole month of October and I’m giving a shot at it this year! 

Beaten/Numb

Characters: Nines, Sixty, Connor

Warnings: Blood, violence, swearing 

>Kayla Grant

>twenty-nine years old

>studied forensics and advanced technology theory in Massachusetts University.

>Parental linage retired

>Children: None.

>Current employment: android technician under the DPD branch

Nines looked away from the body on the floor in disinterest. He had awoken laying on a medical table with her standing by his side. A pre-construction was made. She was quickly silenced with a firm blow to the head with the corner of a surgical tool tray.

She would remain unconscious for twenty minutes.

His attention drew up to the android standing before him that had begun it all. He was his mission. Once completed, he would return to Amanda and follow further instructions. 

“Nines...” RK800 placed his hands up in a placating manner taking a step back to give him allowable space. “Whatever happened, we can fix it. Just let me...” He tentively reached forward artificial skin peeling back from his hand and forearm.

RK900 huffed in bitter humor. “An interface? And compromise me? You think me of a fool.”

Connor’s hand wavered ever so slightly. “Fight it, Nines. This isn’t you.”

He paused deciding to entertain the RK800. This ‘Nines’ the RK800 continued to speak of was unheard of and foreign. Was he acknowledging him as the name?

>>>0v3r13d3 f41l3D

His eyebrows knitted together upon the error as he refocused his true intentions once again. “313 248 317-51 you have failed your mission to stop the uprising of deviancy. You have disobeyed direct orders to hand yourself over for deactivation. My instructions are clear and you will not delay me any more.”

Connor’s hand lowered as fear traveled across his expression.

>>>Compliance program activated

>>>new objective: eradicate predecessor.

“You will be terminated by my hand.”

Kayla came to with a wicked pounding in her head. Had she drank the night before? No. This pain was much worse. She noted the cold floor, the tools that were once ever so neatly placed upon a tray with precise accuracy were scattered. She blinked trying to rid the way the world tilted.

A sudden splotch of too familiar blue wetly slapped across the floor just before her line of sight. Her mouth opened to let out a cry but a deeper instinct told her to remain quiet. Kayla silently slid her attention to two figures grappling in her blurry vision.

Nines and Connor.

Something warm slid down the side of her head as she began to move from the ground into some sort of direction of up. It was all coming back now. Nines had been injured during a shootout. The bullet had made it through his spinal strut severing several main lines to his processor. When placed on her table, barely alive and twitching with incomplete errors scroll across his vision, she did all she could do to bring him back to his normal state.

Upon Connor entering the room, upon Connor’s concerned soft voice for his brother’s well being, the android had seemingly gasped back to life. She was simply in his way. And then it was blank.

Connor stumbled backward, enough to almost trip on her body. “Connor...” She whispered.

He didn’t look down to her. He didn’t acknowledge her for her safety. He spoke lowly.

“There’s a glitch. Amanda's AI is looping dormant instructions. He’s setting out to enact where she left off with him.”

Nines slowly made his way towards him. She flicked panicked glances from the imposing and strong android that stalked forward to the one that placed a hand out to prevent him from coming closer. But other than that Connor did nothing to protect himself. A line of thirium came from his broken nose and part of his face was cracked and splotched, showing through the white plastimetal of his chassis.

He resettled his stance, a slight limp to his left leg. As a technician, Kayla was to be in tune to an android’s anatomy.

Nines plucked a scalpel from the counter nearby twirling it in his hands delicately. His eyes looked up to Connor and he was already moving, throwing his arm to slice at his throat. Connor stepped to the side. He dodged each attempted blow, gritting his teeth as he looked behind himself to avoid tripping over lab equipment.

At the last minute, Connor gripped a mechanical arm used for assisting a tech in repairs and swung it at the android. Nines gripped the metal with one hand and broke off the damned arm with a loud crunch and spark of electricity.

The room was silent as both parties realized what strength it took to perform such an act. In this moment Kayla forgot just how strong Nines was. How much strength he always held back. But now that he wasn’t himself there was no effort to hold back.

“Connor!”

Her warning was of no use, wasted air, as Nines rushed forward again, this time struck Connor across the face with the sparking end. He was faster and Connor was already weakened. The android stumbled backwards into shelving and crumbled in a heap. He didn’t have time to recover. Nines pulled him to stand, danced around the android to bring it close to his neck, and pulled. A choked grunt bubbled from his lips. He held onto the arm, desperately attempting to choke out his dear brother’s name.

And that’s when she noticed the difference between the two brothers. Connor was bloodied and beaten while not a single scratch nor blow had been seemingly delivered to Nines. He did not struggle nor fight back. If this was done purposely she wouldn’t have a doubt.

Nines pulled back even further, Connor’s LED blinking a red as artificial breathing was cut, and thirium flow was slowed to the processor, His struggles became lazy, fingers clawing at his brother’s hands halfhearted and weak.

“R-run.” He rasped, foaming blood sputtering from his lips.

Wordlessly Nines released the arm around his neck, spun him around, and slammed his face into the table keeping him pinned there. Horror crossed her face as brown eyes looked down to her. This was her fault. If she had been more careful. Maybe been more delicate, had asked for help instead of letting her stubbornness take her over. Maybe none of this would have happened.  

She opened her mouth to speak but her voice caught in her throat. She tried again. “I-I can’t leave you.”

“Do as he says, Miss. Grant.” Nines ordered lowly and considerately. Her skin crawled upon his droned voice.

“Do it!” He continued despite her protests.

A grunt of pain left him when Nines pressed him harder into the table. The RK900’s hand bled white from the strain. “You may not wish to witness this.” He warned. The same scalpel from before was slowly pressed into his spin, just below his neck. He was attempting to commit the same injury that had been done to him. But why?

Intesity alit his eyes as the RK900 android focused on his precise work. Kayla couldn’t take her eyes away from the scene. It was as if a pack leader was testing the patience and resistance to it’s underling. A wolf with it’s teeth bared.

She looked away as Connor yelled out in pain, his struggling hand twitching. Her eyes drew to the motion. Slowly, he was going to make him immobile from the neck down. Her eyes flicked to an object next to her. “Fight back, Connor.” She murmured. If he wouldn’t then she would.

He closed his eyes in regret. “Warn Sixty. He’ll...go after-” A shout of pain ripped through his words to be.

Kayla stood quickly onto shaky feet, gripping the tray that she had been knocked out with. With a pitiful cry she struck Nines across the face. A loud slap and clatter when the damned thing slipped out of her grip ensued.

Slowly, Nines looked over to the little human she was. Sliver gray eyes sharpened with deadly intent. Kayla stumbled back her heart jumped into her throat upon the glare that made her blood run cold. “I offered you mercy.”

Connor took this moment to break free from under his grip though his motions where jumpy and glitching. He twisted out of the way standing in front of her with a hand behind himself. The other reached to the back of his neck to pull the tool free. Kayla watched in horror as thirium began to flow down his neck. Immediately his motions began to jump and glitch.

“Go!” He was doubling over against his will, twitching to stay upright.

Nines continued to stare her down and she couldn’t pull away from the haunted glare.

Her breath was taken away. She was just a distraction, background noise. But to him she had ruined his greater plan and now she was a threat.

In her hectic retreat she crashed into the door and fumbled for the handle. She opened the door and ran.

Her head swam, a new trickle of blood continued to trickle down her temple as she traveled through the halls and called for the elevator. She would not abandon him. Not when this was her fault.

Override failed>>>

“I don’t want to hurt you Nines.” Connor coughed, stumbling backwards.

RK900 noted the odd happenstance of the RK800’s self preservation failing. It should have been easy. He would have already off-lined him. Would have had his thirium pump in hand and tossed it away and that would have been that. RK900 did not waste time with trivial satisfactions of the kill.

He did not waste precious resources. He was quick with the kill. Emotionless. Numb.

“You rather die then.” It wasn’t a question but a statement.

“No, I know the real Nines is in there somewhere. You would have killed me by now but you’re fighting it, fighting her. Remember where you are Nines.”

“This Nines you speak of means well to you. I don’t. Give up and stop stalling the inevitable. You failed RK800. You knew the consequences if you did.”

Connor smirked, the sign of victory going just as fast as it appeared. “Then why am I still online?”

The LED on the side of his head flashed form a calm blue to a yellow and Connor celebrated the small moment of hope.

Nines clenched his hands into fists and stalked forward. Connor closed his eyes. No matter hwat he would not bring harm to his younger brother. This was not his fault. Nor would harming him solve anything. He awaited the touch of familiar deadly hands.

Kayla stumbled out of the elevator placing a hand against the wall to steady herself. The heel of other was pressed into her eye as she fought the wave of dizziness. Knowing that the blow was hard enough to make her black out, a concussion was wrecking havoc on her body. Her stomach felt queasy but she pushed on. Forced herself to do so. She ignored the curious and concerned glances. She ignored the people that stopped and reached out with concerned hands. She pushed them away mumbling incoherent words that were added up to the simple lie that she was fine.

Her lab coat slipped form her shoulder as she made it to the main bullpen of the precinct looking for her android lover. “Sixty...” She murmured.

There was a sudden loud laugh along with a shout of indifference. She knew that laugh. Sixty was close. She made her way to Tina’s desk where Sixty was no doubt antagonizing her.

Immediately his humored glistening eyes looked up from the officer to behind where she stumbled forward. If this were any other moment she would have marveled at those beautiful browns that twinkled in such mischievous intent.

But it was erased and replaced with panic and alertness. Sixty pushed aside Tina who voiced her protest but then cut herself off when she saw why she was harshly pushed aside.

“Kayla, babe?” He caught her into his arms and placed a hand ageist her forehead securely. He looked at the blood on the side of her head and then her eyes frantically. “What the fuck?”

Tina was already guiding her to her desk chair to sit. Kayla however gripped his forearm in desperation.

“N-Nines. I-don’t know what I did. I’m so sorry I-”

“What?” Sixty shouted upon the name of his brother. “Kayla, focus, tell me what happened!”

She closed her eyes tears finally, finally springing from her eyes. “He’s after Connor. Amanda-” She confessed.

Upon the name he released the grip on her and brushed off her hands. “Tina, look after her.” Sixty bounced on his heels and pointed at her. “Stay here.”

She had no time to protest or warn him that Connor wanted him to run away and not go into the fire head first. But she should have known better. Sixty didn't run away from anything. He ran towards it instead.

Sixty immediately spun around and rushed for the stairs. He had no time for the fucking elevator if that bitch’s name was involved. He used his whole body to push open the door and flung it open. Hands gripped metal as he pulled his body over the ledge of the staircase.

Railing to railing he dropped down until he landed on the final floor on his hunches. Sixty rushed out of the stairwell and down the hall until he made his way down to the all too familiar lab.

Countless times he had been repaired in here. Maybe had some raunchy sex with Kayla, and had a few mental breakdowns in her arms in here. He placed his hands on the open door way and looked inside and steeled himself for whatever lay ahead.

And now it was the home of the deadly intention of their middle brother.

He set his jaw firmly. Nines was ready for him. With an arm wrapped around his brother, a hand placed over his eyes he glared at him, those silver blue eyes daring him to make a move. Daring him to do something. They were of killer eyes set on a task that would not be interrupted by anyone or anything.

And pressed against the eldest brother’s temple was his own standard issued glock. His finger was pressed against the trigger.

“Hello, Nines.” Sixty lowered his hands from the door to his sides and cautiously stepped forward. Sixty knew who Nines could be and what his main function was as an android all too well. It was to replaced him and Connor. He was the superior model and it seemed he was living out his duty.

He was usually aloof and caustic and deadpanned but this was a face of a cold hearted killer who knew no fear of the consequences.

Connor opened his mouth to release a breathy gasp of air, hands weakly grasping for the hand that blinded him. The motions were unnatural and twitching. “T-told you to-.”

The gun pressed to the side of his beaten brother was unwavering and true.

He ignored his brother. Careful eyes flicked from Sixty to his brother. “You don’t want to do that.”

Nines remained unwavering. “And why is that number sixty? Shouldn’t you be running?” He ticked his head to the side. “You’re next, after all.”

“Not scared of you.” He took another step forward. Connor tried to sputter something from bloodied lips gain. He gritted his teeth upon his brother.

“Just shut up. Stay still.” He hissed. This moment was too tense and it hung by a single tread waiting to snap.

“You don’t have to be.”

A flick of a humor smile came to the corner of his lips. “Are we cockfighting Nines? How un-very machine like. Almost what deviant Nines would do.”

The LED on his temple flickered.

Ah, there it was. He had to push a little more….“Fight it Nines, I know what it’s like to fight something you can’t see. But fuck, you can feel it.” He started. Another hesitant step. His brother wavered, the gun in hand moving ever so slightly. A gasp from Connor as he felt it fall away.

>>>0v3r1d3 f4i1eD

“You would have killed him by now but you didn’t.”

>>>0v3rid3 fai1ed

“You would have attacked me but you didn’t.”

>>>0v3ride f4iled

“You’re stalling for something and I’ll stall you too.”

>>>0verride////////////

“No matter what.”

The safety suddenly clicked off. Sixty rushed forward hand bare and ready for the forced interface to take his brother over.

The gunshot bit harshly into his audial unit.

[birthdaylobotomy]

I took it and I Ran

WIP                                                                                                                      Currently still very much in progress. However, I wanted to share this!

CONTENT WARNING: Alcohol, drug use, violence, sexist/sexual language. In later parts there will be suicidal ideation, self harm, prostitution, sexual abuse,  homophobia and racist language among other thing.

I do not share many of the ideologies my main character does. Remember- you are seeing this through the eyes of an angry kid in the early 90s. He says many things that are, in general, very bitter.

Link to Chapter One

CHAPTER TWO (Part One)

When I resurfaced to my dizzying reality, I was puking my brains out next to a barely lit bus stop. I could feel a firm but careful grip on my hair, holding it back. Someone handed me a water bottle, and without even looking up I swiped it, gulped it down like it was ambrosia. When I could finally assemble the strength to stand straight, I saw a familiar but unwanted face.

“How do you feel?” Brittany asked. Around her shoulders she wore a ratty blanket like a veil, or a cloak. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other as her buggy-eyed stare avoided mine.

“What?” I wiped my mouth and held my gut.

That’s when my eyes picked up the subtle movement of a hovering shadow. I twisted my whole body around to look- and there stood Luke, just as he had been. His giant jacket intact, his blonde hair still short and unbrushed, his eyes still blue. When our looks touched that smile of his returned, and he drew himself closer to me.

“Are you good?”

I held my breath and released slow. “I���m good.”

Brittney’s mildly aching voice cut into my ears. “You were, like, acting nuts dude.” With one of her hands still holding onto her blanket, she acted out an erotic little dance and hop. “I’ve never seen you dance like that before! You looked like some fucking stripper, or something.”

I didn’t respond to her. I didn’t even look at her. “Whatever. I’m fine, I wanna go home.”

I heard Britt hitch her words for a moment, before continuing. “Yeah, I think that would be for the best,” she said, scratching at her bleached and knotted hair. “Um, this guy,” she pointed towards Luke, who hadn’t stopped looking at me once, “He said he’ll take you home. I told him where, but now that you’re a little bit, uh, better, I think you’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” I said flatly. Brittney nodded, and for a moment she was stuck on a thought. Maybe she wanted to give me a real goodbye. But instead, with her lips pursed tight, she gave me a small wave goodbye before turning on her heel and swaying off into the dark, dark streets.

Alone, again. I heaved a few heavy breaths and looked at the cracked sidewalk. I could see Luke’s dirty sneaker tapping against the ground. Impatient? Maybe.

“God,” I groaned, trying to compose myself and failing. The world was still smearing and spinning to me, my cheeks still flushed and my mouth nasty with hacked up beer.

“Who’s she?” The way Luke asked was not invasive, or rude in any way. Instead, it was natural. Something a kid would ask when curious, if that makes any sense.

I tried to think of a smart way to answer. “She’s a friend, kinda.” I reconsidered after I noticed Luke’s raised thin eyebrow. “An ex, but we never really dated.”

“Oh.” There seemed to be muffled displeasure in that oh. I paid it no mind- I was too sick to even think straight. “She seemed pretty concerned.”

I tried to spy down the street- how far away could this damn bus be? “She’s a nice enough girl. Just a bit of a psycho bitch when you get too close.”

Another “Oh.” Neither of us said another world as a big blue bus slowly chugged it’s way to the spot. As the door slid open, and the obese bus driver glared down at us, a cough and final spit of bile escaped my throat, landing with a splat on the street. We both shuffled on, quiet as mice.

Luke payed the due with a few loose bills. I moseyed down the aisle and piled myself into a seat. In the process, the genius that I am managed to crack my skull against the window,  leaving a giant bruise I probably still have. I grabbed my head and let out a string of the gnarliest curses I could think of. The little old woman in the seat two rows behind me opened her eyes so wide it was about ninety percent white.

I held my head as Luke eased himself next to me. “Jesus fuck! Why?!” I swear I foamed at the mouth.

I felt a hand, cold fingers, against the tender skin of the bruise. I had thrown my head into my palms and held it there like some giant bulbous melon. I sighed once, then twice. Why did I feel like bawling out of nowhere? It was just like Luke would later tell me- I had been sobbing the whole night. I could still feel the dryness and burning of my eyes. My nose was even a bit moist, and I kept sniffling and rubbing my nose on my bare wrists. My arms still naked, I was freezing too.

Luke felt like a guardian angel or something, the way his fingers guided and felt my bump, and how he carefully touched it to be sure no blood had sprung from it.

“You’re okay, Ryder.”

Hearing my own name was almost like some quiet revelation. I was Ryder, despite my sluggish and clumsy body, despite my twisted stomach and pounding head. All of me was Ryder, none of it was someone or something else. Just because I hadn’t been aware for however only God knows how long, doesn't mean I wasn’t me during that time. And whatever embarrassing or shitty stuff I had done was all me. I sat myself up straight as Luke and his boyish face watched.

“I’m alright.”

Lights passed over us, but not like how it had been in the bush. These lights were gentle, soft. The yellows and purples and whites of the nights flickered over us from the blurred street lights and shop signs. I could see the smears of many a men and women who were down on their luck, clothed only in clothes they had gotten from another, eating only food they gotten from another. To live reliant of the generosity of the bare streets built up such a fear in me, I had to turn my face away.

And when I looked from that window, I saw Luke. Luke, his glittering eyes that were searching so indefinitely within me. What was I? In that moment, what was it that he saw? In that second, however, all I was asking myself was why, why oh God why, had I stopped breathing?

His hand, which had been touching the tip of his chin, moved then, in a slow but  unstoppable way. It went to my chin- no, my jaw. It was there for just a second, but when I think back to it, I always think of how his hand rested on my face. I knew what was going to happen next. I didn't stop  it.

With the deliverance of a loving angel, Luke Evans blessed me with a kiss.

It was swift but it said to me what it wanted to say. His rough lips barely touched against mine. He pulled away and his hand dropped, he looked over his shoulder and then back at me.

When he looked back at me I saw nothing. Did he smile? Was he happy? All I can say is that he spoke, and he spoke with a plain but friendly tone.

“I think this stop is ours.”

[kpopchangedme]

To tease you, Yongguk decides to claim that the main character of your popular online Pirates!AU Fanfiction is inspired by him. Little does he know…

Protagonists: Bang Yongguk & You

Word Count: 8.8k

Genre: FicWriter!Au - Friends to lovers - Romance - Smut - Pirates!AU - (Kind of a Fic-ception?)

Rating: NC-17 - NSFW - *Explicit Sex* - *Swearing* - *Violence*

Snippet: “If he is your ruin then so be it. You don’t care, you want it all. You will become his everything and him yours; even if you must vanish into each other tonight. “Please, Guk… Stay…””

Lyz’ note: I was tasked by Santa’s elves to create for the magnificent @yehet-me-up as part of the KpopTrashNet’s Holiday Haul! Here it goes Sarah, I really hope you enjoy this. You’re often using our weaknesses to wreck us and this is my revenge. Also: I’m sorry this took is so long, tell me what you think!  HO. HO. HO.

M A S T E R L I S T

 The dim light is drawing shadows on the dark stranger’s face, hiding most of his emotions, but you already know he’s unhappy. His breathing is deeper, gaze heavy when he slowly approaches you. To keep your fingers from shaking, you grab the edge of your corset. If there’s a thing your father taught you about pirates it’s that although they abide no laws, they usually respect courage and determination. Sadly, you know you lack both of those qualities. It’s okay though, you just need to make them believe you are strong. The tall man finally comes to a stop when his face is a few centimeters from yours, studying you.

“This doesn’t look anything like a muskets shipment.” Although his gaze is still boring into yours, it’s clear he’s talking to the small and stocky built man that brought you here.

“The w-weapons were gone, Cap’n!” There’s fear in his voice and you try to not think too much about why he seems to be so afraid of the man in front of you. “Somebody t-tip them off… We took her instead; she’s the d-daughter of the Gov’nor.”

At this revelation, the Captain’s face pales and his eyes leave yours to briefly glance the man’s way.

“Leave us.” His order is immediately obeyed and the door slams when the pirate hurriedly exits the cabin.

You know you promised yourself that you’d stay strong, but the perspective of being left alone in the Captain’s room makes you panic. Without really meaning to, you try to take a step back, only to be stopped by a piece of furniture.

“Is it true?” The stranger leans in too close, not bothered the slightest by your evident display of fear. He smells of rum, salt and sweat.

“Yes.” You force yourself to roll back your shoulders, proudly. “I am y/n, daughter of the Governor of this holy land and coast.” You raise your chin, braving his glare again and you’re surprised when he smirks, amused by your change of attitude.

“Not that. I don’t care who your father is; I’m not into hostage trading.” He tilts his head and licks his lips, letting his words sink in. “How did your father hear about our little raid?”

Not into hostage trading. Meaning you’re not getting off this ship, at least not alive. Incapable of stopping your panicked train of thoughts, your eyes flutter to the Captain’s unmade bed. Dead or maybe even worse.

Annoyed by your lack of response, the dark man follows your gaze. When he realizes what you’re thinking; he takes a fast step back and you turn your attention to him, surprised by his actions yet again. He’s now leaning against a low table, his fingers leisurely toying with a beautiful feather. He’s avoiding to look your way.

“I… I am not into rape either.” This time his voice is striped from the coldness it held earlier. “You will not be touched as long as you are under my guard. This is my ship and the men here abide by my rules. You can trust me when I say that you are safe… As long as you stay-”

“Why should I trust your words?” You don’t know why you spoke and immediately after it leaves your mouth, you regret everything. The Captain eyebrows shoot up and he bites his lips, refraining from laughing.

“You’re right; if I were you I would not trust me…” He shrugs and studies your reaction. “You are feisty, I like that.” He smiles widely; the gesture transforming his traits into a softer, almost reassuring, expression. “It’s strange, now I feel like convincing you!” The man shakes his head as he stands up and walks towards the door. “Don’t try to leave this cabin, you’re way safer inside… And don’t worry…” He pauses to look at you one last time, an arrogant smirk plastered on his face. “I’ll come back when I have an answer to give you!”

Kicking open the door, he disappears in-

“Don’t!” Your fingers freeze over the keyboard. “I’m writing do not read above my shoulder, you know I hate that!” Yongguk lets out a hollow chuckle, moving aside to drop on the chair next to you.

“Don’t be so mean Austen, I come bearing gifts!” You wince at the nickname, but as if he hasn’t done anything wrong, your friend slides a new cup of coffee next to your laptop. He rests his chin in the palm of his hand, waiting for you to take a sip, before opening his mouth again. “I’m glad I ran into you, Daehyun wanted me to make sure you are coming to his house-warming party tomorrow.”

“I don’t know, it depends on how it goes. I’m busy with this week’s update.” You vaguely gesture your laptop and Yongguk laughs again.

“I know, I’m happy to discover that they actually meet in the 3rd chapter! I’ve been reading it too…”

“You really have?” You ask, tentatively taking a second sip of the coffee he brought you. It’s perfect, mixed just like you love it. “Why? It makes me nervous if you say you’re reading my work…”

“Hundreds of strangers read it, why should I make you more nervous?” Your old friend shrugs and you stare as he mindlessly licks the foam his own latte left on his lips. “Is it because it’s about me?” He tears his eyes away from the wooden table he was staring at to meet your gaze and grins mischievously.

“No! Why would you say that?” You snap your head in direction of your laptop screen; anywhere but him.

“Here.” He points to the last paragraph on the screen. “I’ve said that. You asked why you should trust a guy like me and that was my answer. Those were my exact words. You were so mad back then.”

Annoyed, you roll your eyes back and slam your laptop shut, nearly catching his finger. It’s true; you drew inspiration from the first time you two met back in college, still, it doesn’t mean that he is the character.

“Fine, I wrote that because you used to be kinda cool.” Yongguk’s smile widens almost inhumanly at your statement and you know you better add something to deflate him. “Are you a mysterious lonely pirate? The smooth Captain of a ship full of blood-thirsty hoodlums?” He shakes his head negatively but continues to stare at you with his amused expression. “See? He, is not you: are you a sensual corsair looking for love?”

“I mean…” Yongguk tilts his head to the side, hesitating about something. “… I could be.” He leans closer, reaching to push your hair behind your ear, the tips of his fingers linger, voluntarily grazing your cheek. You freeze, completely lost and blushing at his sudden proximity. You realize your lips parted slightly by reflex when you catch him glancing at your mouth and you move slightly away. “Is this smooth enough for a lonely corsair?” Going back to his usual self, he blinks coyly. “You see? Aren’t I still cool? I still got it!” He ends up beaming again when it becomes clear you won’t answer his questions.

You both used to fool around. Partied too much together when you were younger and occasionally ended up making out in dark alleys in the middle of the night. None of you ever pushed it further though, nor ever brought it up. That’s why his move surprised you and took you back to those fleeting memories. Except it’s the middle of the day, years later and you’re both way too sober to be remembering that.

“So, Daehyun?” You clear your throat to regain control and he nods.

“I could text you his new address, but he moved into my building… Except not on my floor, thankfully.”

“It’s so weird that he’s out of the dorm, I wonder how the guys feel…” Yongguk shrugs; he was the first to move out almost a year ago. “It seems like only yesterday I was helping you all to move in together…”

“And Himchan was mad at you for almost a year because of that scratch on his table.” You laugh but wince almost immediately at the memory.

“Ugh, happier days, when we ignored he could be that frightening!” Yongguk scoffs, eyebrows raising up.

“You; used to ignore Himchan could be scary. I was never that naive!” Saying that he stands up on his feet. “I need to get going. I saw you by chance from outside the coffee shop, but I was actually on my way to the hospital.”

“Ah! You see, that’s why you can’t be my pirate! You’re all motherhood and apple pie; cool corsairs don’t volunteer at children’ hospitals on their free days!” He chuckles and fakes to think about it.

“Are you absolutely sure? I’ll ask the next time I meet a mysterious and sensual pirate…” Laughing, you watch him grab the messenger bag he dropped under your table earlier. “Oh, by the way, y/n?”

“Yes?” You open your laptop, already thinking about the rest of this week’s chapter.

“What’s his name, your pirate? Because you haven’t mentioned it in the previous chapters and I am pretty sure that… Captain Bang sounds about right!” He playfully winks at you and walks away without waiting to hear your protestations.

Maybe he was right. Perhaps you should stay in that cabin but after 8 days of captivity you just have to, at least, do something. When you first hear the screams and muskets firing, you directly assume that the Royal Navy is attacking the pirates. You’re relieved, they probably found the ship at your father’s request and are trying to get you back. That’s why you try to peek outside. In front of the door, the darkened corridor is completely empty. The boy responsible for your meals, your personal jailor, isn’t even guarding it anymore. You assume he left to murder poor soldiers of his Majesty on deck with his companions and without thinking twice, you make a run for it.

It’s annoying, now that you’re finally leaving that damn room, you can’t help but think back to the words the Captain said to you the first day of your kidnapping about your safety. You don’t want to ponder on them now. You have no idea where you should go or what you should be doing, you’re just running in direction of the deck. Finding and throwing yourself in front of the first man in a uniform would probably be the most efficient method to be rescued. You follow the sound of the screams in hopes of finding someone. You barely have time to register that you’re emerging on deck when the reality of the situation hits you.

“Bloody hell” You swear, a rare occurrence, as you witness the slaughter in front of you.

No, this is definitely not the Royal Navy. Too bad, it’s too late. You grasp the next bribes of information through impossibly short impressions rather than logical thinking; the omnipresent smell of gunpowder in the air, the main mast burning, the sun dipping low on the horizon and sounds of sword fights and gun firing everywhere around you. Your luxurious jail now seems like a safe haven. You turn back; how did you even get so far on deck? You’re a few meters away from the entrance you came from. It would have been smarter to take a peak before running out, but you were just too focused on getting rescued. In your haste, you slip on the wooden floor and fall on something soft; someone.

You push the body away, scared, but when you look, you recognize him: Jihun, that’s his name, your jailor, although he inappropriately called himself your bodyguard. When he presented himself, the first night of your captivity he tried to give you a dirty handkerchief to wipe your tears, but you ignored him. Now that he’s lying there, in front of you, holding his own guts with both hands, it’s impossible to do the same thing. Forgetting where you are, you stare in horror at the blood slowly spilling out of his torn abdomen. The boy can’t be much older than your youngest brother, around 17. You press your shaking hands on his bloody ones, seemingly waking him up from his daze.

Jihun stares at you for a few seconds in amazement before remembering his surroundings. He tries to push your hands away, but you fight back to help him, tears stinging the corner of your eyes. You hate to admit it, but he was nothing but decent with you and nobody this young deserves something like this. Jihun renounces and reaches for something on his right instead. You feel a cold object getting pressed in your palm; his pistol.

It’s clear that the boy is dying right here, on the dirty deck of this vessel, where he won’t get a proper burial, not even a single prayer. He opens his mouth, but blood spills out instead of the words he intended to speak. The dark sanguine fluid contrasts with the pallor of his skin. It hits you how he already looks like a corpse although his body is still warm, he must not have a lot longer to live. Jihun’s gaze grows glassy, distant, but he still presses his pistol into your hand and motions for you to leave with one finger.

The boy is dying, he knows this, but still, he’s trying to make sure you make it back to safety.

When your fingers finally stop the pressure on his open wound and grasp the cross of the metal gun, his lips curl shyly upward.

He is gone now.

Shaking, you rise to your feet and turn in direction of the corridor leading to the Captain’s cabin. You need to go back now before it’s too late and you end up like your young bodyguard.

You make a run for it. Holding your heavy skirts in one hand and the pistol in the other; you race. It’s curious how nobody seems to notice you, they’re all busy fighting for their lives, close, yet so far away. You’ve almost made it to safety when you’re suddenly yanked into the opening and unceremoniously pinned against the wall.

Captain Bang is staring back at you, enraged.

You lean back in your chair, satisfied. Stretching your arms above your head, you let out a loud yawn. If somebody dies in the chapter, should I put an additional warning for the readers? You rub your eyes and glance at your phone’s lockscreen.

1:16am

Maybe you should go to sleep and wake up early tomorrow morning to finish that chapter. You need to upload it before Daehyun’s party if you don’t want to wake up to passive aggressive update requests Sunday morning.

You stare for a second at the last sentence on the screen before saving and shutting off the laptop. Captain Bang, you scoff. It does seem rather fitting for a pirate. At first, you thought it would be a fun way to get back at Yongguk, but the more you think about it, the more you fall for the name.

Only now, it is impossible to not picture him as the love interest in your story. You bite your lips, imagining your friend in the Captain’s tight hide trousers and loose white shirt. What a bad idea. Yongguk shouldn’t have joked about this sort of thing. Ever since you coincidentally met him this morning, you haven’t been able to keep this image out of your mind. It’s true you drew inspiration from your first meeting, but the pirate character was born of a fantasy, something that had nothing to do with him. Well, a fantasy that used to have nothing to do with him… It’s not surprising that when you finally fall asleep that night, you dream of your first meeting.

It’s officially 2:00pm and he isn’t here. You scribble the word “LATE.” on the corner of your notebook. You were annoyed, but now you are straight up pissed. This only confirms the suspicions you had when you were paired with the tall dark man in the back of the class. Your friends were all jealous, but you immediately knew it meant that you’d have to do the bigger part of the project all alone. You weren’t a fan of the good-looking-guy-often-skipping-class types, but maybe if you carefully kept track of his whereabouts, the teacher would understand and reduce his note consequently.

At 2:20pm, you’re still sitting all alone in the coffee shop, so you find yourself stalking his Facebook profile.

Bang Yongguk. Status: single. Born in March 1990.

You scoff, the man’s so late, of course; he’s an Aries! He’s making you wait and he’s actually younger than you by a few months.

His description box catches your attention and you roll your eyes: “"Do what you like and love what you do“ - Ray Bradbury”

Moving on, you scroll down on his wall, looking for something interesting about your assigned partner. Not much is public, but after a few memes posted by his friends, you find a single photo with his brother, a twin, paired with a curious caption: “Flashing Lights. Hip Hop for life. Proud bro.” You’re not sure what it means, but you know he’s a music major, so maybe he’s into rap or that sort of thing. Studying the picture, you take a sip of your coffee. The girls in your class were right; the man’s gorgeous.

“Are you stalking me?” You almost drop the hot liquid on your lap when you hear a low voice above your shoulder. He smirks when he sits in the chair in front of you and opens his bag. “Hi, y/n, I believe you already know my name, enchanted.” There’s something more to his voice, a small shyness you wouldn’t have guessed. You blush from embarrassment, but then remember that you’re mad at him.

“You’re 30 minutes late, I have to start my shift here at 3pm!” You sigh and he freezes, his arm mid-way out of his bag.

“Sorry, I’ll forget to tease you about the stalking if you let my tardiness go?” He glances up with a timid smile before carefully placing his laptop on the table between you two.

“Let it go? Are you always going to be late like that?” The shy curl of his lips disappears completely and you would feel sorry about it if you weren’t so fed up with people using you for college projects.

“Sorry.” He blinks, expressionless.

“I was looking you up to see if you had an accident. I was about to research about spontaneous human combustion!” You cross your arms and he struggles to hide his amusement.

“Actually I was just volunt-”

“Scratch that. I’m sorry if I’m being an asshole, but if you weren’t dying, rescuing kittens from a house fire or saving children’ lives, I actually don’t want to hear it.” This time Yongguk can’t help himself. You’re surprised because he laughs hollowly like you’ve said something incredibly funny like he’s aware of something you ignore. “Look, I just want to finish the project. We only have two weeks and after that, we won’t ever have to see each other again. Let’s just divide the work, I know you’re in music and this class probably isn’t serious to you, but I don’t want to carry you as a dead weight.” He freezes again before starting to pack his things back in. You bite your lips, perhaps you were too harsh, but you’ve met many students like him.

“I have no idea what you think you know about me, but you’re wrong. I won’t let you do the work alone and I didn’t choose this literature class to half-ass it. It’s one of my favourite subjects.” When he zips his bag, you open your mouth to try to protest, but he continues: “We could just exchange emails, but instead, I’d prefer to meet you here before your shifts to discuss. Do you mind?”

“Euh, no?”

“Perfect. Just bother worrying about your part, I’m quite an exigent partner! You can trust me to do mine just fine!” Your part? You roll your eyes, annoyed at his insinuations.

“Why should I trust you? We are just forced to be teammates, sorry to point that out-” You gesture him vaguely with your hand; his long black floppy hair and loose Hip Hop t-shirt. “But you’re not the type of person I trust blindly! Plus; you just arrived, but you’re already leaving! So why would I ever trust you?”

“Why trust me? You need a reason?” He grins with all his teeth, clearly enjoying your little confrontation. His smile is breathtaking and your mind goes blank, betraying you. “You said you have to work! But don’t worry, I’ll come back when I have an answer to give you!”

With that, he is gone and you’re left alone in the half-empty coffee shop. You scoff thinking back of the man’s arrogance. It’s weird, for a second, you were almost sure he was a bit shy. You bring your palm to your burning cheek; you can’t deny the effect his words had on you. Annoyingly enough, you feel like you don’t really need an answer to your question anymore.

Waiting is pure torture. You were able to clean your bloody hands in the water bassinet kept in the cabin, but somehow they still feel stained. You had never seen somebody die of a violent death before today. Or was it yesterday? You don’t know, you can’t sleep. You heard of the violence committed by pirates as scary stories, they attack, gut and take women all for the sake of gain, but you had never seen it. Jihun’s face haunts you; his last smile. The Captain was furious when he dragged you back to the cabin, but since then he hasn’t come back. Nobody has. Your shock passed, the echoes of the fight faded, but still, no one came. Perhaps they’re all dead, this thought may be scary, but getting out again to find out is even scarier, so you stay hidden. Like he ordered you to.

He finally comes at night. When he does, he enters in silence and drops on the chair at the desk, his desk. This is his room you remember that fact and blush, despite the situation, you’re actually lying on a man’s bed. You never witnessed a man’s intimacy before your kidnapping, let alone live in a man’s room. The Captain’s eyes are closed, he hasn’t even looked your way. You know it’s wrong, but you find yourself really wanting him to.

“Well…” You clear your throat, sitting up. “I don’t think I need an answer to my question anymore…”

“I thought you were sleeping.” If he’s surprised, he doesn’t let it show. He still keeps his eyes closed and his head rests on the chair back. The unique oil lamp in the room is placed on the desk, lighting his features and his raven hair. Resting like that he doesn’t seem so scary, his presence is strangely comforting to you. You prefer staying here rather than switch captors, you already accepted this reality; you really do trust him now. “You can stop watching me, I won’t bother you. I just came to rest away from my men.”

“I wasn’t-” You bite your cheek. “That’s not what I…” You stop talking and blush even darker, the truth wouldn’t be less embarrassing than his assumptions. The man opens his eyes and turns your way.

“Is it because you have questions?” His jaw tightens and the veins of his neck swell. “Jihun and many more are dead, but we won, so you don’t have to worry anymore.” Jihun. Without realizing, you wipe a fugitive tear on your cheek. The Captain silently watches as you cry, you wonder what he’s thinking, but that’s not what you want to ask.

“Were they also pirates?”

“Mercenaries…” He gives you a curious look.

“Mercenaries? Why?” He turns his head away and you think it must be a silly question to ask, probably for weapons or treasures.

“You.” His voice is even lower this time, almost inaudible. “Somebody paid a lot of money to get you….”

“My father?” His words make you nauseous, those people died because of you.

“Yes… Your father sent the Royal Navy, but they couldn’t catch up to us.” He smirks at that, but his face falls when he notices that you started to cry again.  “Probably angered the Governor… They asked nicely and we told them that we weren’t going to sell you…” The man frowns this time, standing up to sit on the edge of the bed. “Are you alright? Why are you crying? I told you about that already.”

“W-What?”

“That I don’t trade hostages; I told you I’d keep you safe until I find a solution! Those scumbags… Well, you probably wouldn’t have a private room on their ship. It doesn’t matter how much your father is paying…” You wipe your cheeks again; it’s weird how you thought you should trick the pirates into believing you were courageous. All you ever do here, since your first day, is be a cry baby. “So… Please don’t cry anymore, okay? I’ll find a way to get you home somehow… You just need to stay here.”

“Jihun… He was just a kid.”

“Jihun was a good pirate, not a kid. He knew what the ocean life meant…”

“He died because of me…” The Captain turns to stone, his body a mere meter away from you.

“No…” You can hear the tension in his voice and you raise your eyes, only to discover distress on his face. “I did it.” He brings the back of his hand to delicately wipe one of your stained cheeks. You wonder if the gesture is even more comforting to him than it is to you. “Don’t cry anymore, I’m the only one bearing that.”

After that night, the Captain starts to visit you almost every evening. When you complain that you are bored, he brings you books; stories of adventures and passionate love affairs that make you blush, stuff you wouldn’t have known existed before.  When you say you feel lonely, he jokes about his company not being entertaining enough for a lady. He starts playing cards and dice games with you and some of his men. When you tentatively mention feeling stuffy, he brings you out for a walk on the deck at night and teaches you about his favourite constellations. When the day comes where he mentions that the ship is almost back to your father’s harbour, you realise you’re more scared of what you used to call home than a vessel full of pirates.

The day after this announcement, he comes in abruptly. He doesn’t even knock, he just enters and walks in, slightly unsteady.

“Jesus Christ! Guk, are you hurt!?” He drops himself on the bed and you follow with concern. You stop in front of him; he brings one of his fingers to your mouth. The hot contact on your lips spreads goosebumps all over your body.

“Shhh- Don’t swear, feisty lady!” You wince at the bad nickname and he raises his eyes to meet yours, a strange look on his face. “Would you really care if I hurt?”

“Yes…” You’re breath hitches when his fingers move down under your chin. “Are you drunk?”

“I am hurt.” Ignoring your question, he whines. “Why do you hurt so much?” You stiffen at his words, not sure to understand what he means.

“W-what?” Neglecting to answer once again, he encircles your waist and buries his face in your clothes.

“I didn’t know it would be that painful…” Without really knowing why, you find yourself shielding him in your arms and toying with his black hair.

“Me neither…” Slowly, you sit next to him on the bed and he sighs into you. You both stay like this for a moment that feels like everything, until he pulls away. His face is close to yours, so much so, that you are lost in the softness of his brown irises. Somehow, his right hand has found its way to your lower back. He’s using it to draw small circles with his palm; the warm sensation is waking something entirely new in your stomach. Weirdly, the foreign tingling doesn’t scare you but seems to be pulling you even closer.

“I don’t think I can keep you safe anymore.” His breath on your cheek makes you shiver in anticipation and you watch as he licks his lips.

“Then don’t.” When the words leave your mouth, you see a hint of incertitude on his face, but you close your eyes and lean in.

At first, the Captain doesn’t react much, then he lets the desire take over. His lips move against yours, eager and you fight back. The kiss is messy and needy. His lips taste like what you believed heaven would and when he begins exploring your mouth, you discover his tongue is as sweet as rum. You suck it and he moans, leaning even more into you. His hands explore your body, playing with your hair, then with the ribbon of your loose corset. He tries to pull back, but you hold on, fingers intertwined in his hair. If feels as though you don’t need to breathe; together you are one and if you must die, then you want him to consume you. Your whole body is burning, the sensations are devouring you. You’ve been aware of your own feelings for a few weeks now; he is your end, you won’t ever need to leave this ship. Suddenly, he pulls back, panting.

“I think I’m the thing threatening you tonight… I should go…” You don’t hesitate when he tries to stand up and you grab his shirt to keep him close.

If he is your ruin then so be it. You don’t care, you want it all. You will become his everything and him yours; even if you must vanish into each other tonight.

“Please, Guk… Stay…”

You nailed it, the new chapter was uploaded this afternoon. Now you can just relax and enjoy Daehyun’s party, even if it means avoiding Yongguk. It seems like an easy task; he’s nowhere to be seen until 11pm and even then, he disappears with a man to discuss something about his music. You’re glad that he doesn’t try to talk to you at all, perhaps he didn’t even have time to read the chapter. You’re overreacting, but you shouldn’t have named the Captain after him. You knew one hour after the upload that it was a mistake. Not because you were anticipating your friends’ reactions, but because you grew anxious and scared of his opinion. Even now, you’re not quite sure if you want him to like or hate it. You probably wouldn’t mind it as much if you hadn’t spent the last 36 hours fantasizing non-stop about your best friend. Like a jerk.

“Y/n, do you want another glass of wine?” Hana, Daehyun’s girlfriend, turns to you like a saviour.

“Yes, thank you!” You grab the glass, looking once more around the room to make sure that Yongguk is not mingling in the kitchen. You catch Hana staring at you and you exchange smiles. She’s way more reserved than the rest of the group of friends, which has always been kind of intimidating to you. You never know what to say to people like that, you’re good at conversations that keep going back and forth. Talking with a silent introvert has a history of turning you into a rambling mess, Yongguk is no exception to that rule.

“Are you looking for Yongguk?” You almost choke on your sip of wine at her question and shake your head vehemently. “He’s talking with Jinyoung in the living room.”

“No, I wasn’t- Why would I be looking for him?” She gives you a puzzled look and shrugs. You’re usually hanging with him during those events, after all, he’s the one who introduced you to the boys. “Ah, actually, I’ll go talk to him sometimes… later…” Hana nods, unconvinced, but if she’s curious she doesn’t let it show. You feel a strong arm wrap around your neck and freeze, relieved when Youngjae speaks with his usual cheery tone.

“Have you asked her about it yet?!” You wince, it’s not like you didn’t know this would come up tonight. It’s a chance that the person of interest isn’t here right now. “Because we want answers!”

“Ask me what?” You play dumb and Daehyun who appeared at the same time as his partner in crime laughs knowingly.

“About your story!” Youngjae giggles in your ear and you wiggle out of his hug, while Hana shoots you a sorry look.

“Hana told me that the sexy pirate AND love interest of your current story has sort of a familiar feel-OUCH!” Dae whines after his wife elbow him. She may be on the quiet side, but she definitely knows how to handle her extra lover.

“I didn’t tell him…” Hana looks at you with sincerity before turning to Daehyun who still is rubbing his ribs. “He just doesn’t want to say he reads it himself!” Youngjae squeals, hitting both of his friend shoulders excitedly.

“HEY! Nonononononono- It’s because of that dance practice after care one!” He pushes Youngjae back.

“My Show Me Everything smut?” You crinkle your nose at the thought of your friends enjoying your erotic stories. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been doing this, you can’t help but still find it a bit cringe-worthy.

“Yes, Hana made me read that one! It all started because she really wanted to try som-”

“SHUT UP!” Everybody in the kitchen stops to look at Hana when she screams. Even Youngjae doesn’t dare to push his curiosity further when he sees the cute girl with her face covered by her hands. The tips of her ears are bright red and she slaps her husband’s hand away when he reaches for her cheek

“Glad to know you read me Dae” You poke his arm teasingly and he grimaces. “But don’t overshare or I’ll use it and-”

“You’ll what?” Youngjae cuts you off, onto something. “Name a sex beast character after him?” While both Daehyun and he burst out laughing, Hana risks looking up at you to see your reaction.

“Sex beast?!” You roll your eyes dramatically. “Are you sure you read that story, there’s no sex!”

“Yet… No sex yet!” Everybody freezes when Yongguk makes his entrance, an amused smirk on his lips. “Can I talk to you, outside?” Here it comes; the moment you were dreading all night. He tilts his head to the side, curious when you say nothing back. It’s Youngjae who wakes you up from your daze with his usual teasing.

“ARRR!” He grunts, offering you all his best pirate impression and Daehyun laughs loudly, encouraging him. “Fancy a glass of grog tonigh’ Cap’n?” Shoving past them, you grab Yongguk’s sleeve to get away. You hear him laugh too when Daehyun yells “YO HO HO!” as you pass by, but you ignore them.

Zelo, who’s in deep conversation with a girl in a corner, catches your gaze as you exit the room. He winks your way and raises his index finger in front of him, curving it like a hook. Great, everybody’s in on it!

Yongguk leads you down the corridor to one of the bedrooms that’s left empty by the guests of Daehyun and Hana’s housewarming party. Not only is the newlyweds’ apartment in his building, it’s also the exact same disposition as his place. He pauses to see you’re following him before going inside the darkened room. None of you turns the light on, so the room stays dim lit, most of the lighting coming in through the cracked open door. You’re growing even more anxious. Earlier, he didn’t seem angry or annoyed, but he avoided you all night too and he never acted like that before.

“So…” You breathe out because he’s staring at you in silence and it’s very intimidating.  “What do you want to talk about?”

“That kiss!” He sounds still amused by all this and you frown, uncertain. You assumed he would want to discuss the name of the main character, his name, not the storyline.

“What about it? That is a love story, Yongguk… Haven’t you read the preface?”

“You made our characters kiss…” Ignoring your question, he takes a step closer and you back up against a wall, feeling trapped.

“I already told you…” Somehow, you’re troubled by his demeanour. He always had moments like this; ones where you were absolutely unable to tell what he was thinking, but it’s been a long time. “That pirate. Is. Not. You…” He scoffs at this and you feel his breath on your face. He’s way too close, what is he doing?

“Or so you keep claiming, but you named him after me.” Yongguk brings his hand above your head, towering over you. “So tell me, again. Tell me you weren’t thinking of me, at all, when you wrote that.”

“Wow, you’re so full of yourself!” He smirks at this, you sound less than convincing and he knows it very well. “What are you doing? We aren’t kids anymore…”

“I want to know what happens next…” He ignores you again and your breath hitches when he licks his lips, gazing down at you through his lashes.

“A-are you into spoilers, Bang?”

“Yes…” He gulps, getting closer. Suddenly, you flashback to those drunk nights out in college, those very dark alleys… “Will you humour me?” You don’t know when it happened, but his other hand is now rubbing small circles down your lower back. Just like you wrote, just like you imagined he would do; you close your eyes, knowing what comes next. His lips are soft and warm on yours, nothing but a delicate touch. It’s just the same as when you were young, the calm before… Something entirely different…

“Are you drunk?” You pull back, worried of letting it go too far and his eyes widen in surprise, shining in the darkness.

“Do you think I have to be drunk to kiss you?” You nod and he shakes his head, annoyed. “I didn’t get a single drink tonight, you were in the kitchen. I couldn’t possibly go there without seeing you, without wanting to…” He brings his fingers under your chin, softly pecking your lips again. “That.” He smiles his usual smile, the one you used to believe was full of shyness when in fact it’s just pure sincerity. “I can’t stop thinking about that, you shouldn’t be allowed to write things like this.”

It’s your turn to ignore him, you pull on his collar, lowering him to kiss you again. After all, you wrote about that scene and couldn’t stop thinking about it either. That new kiss isn’t soft like the other ones. He opens your mouth and pushes himself inside, exploring with his tongue and you grip his hair to keep him close. Yongguk traps your body against the wall, pressing himself on you. You toy with his lips, sucking and nibbling, making him grunt in your mouth. His hands roam your body, riding up your dress to give himself access to your ass. This is new, you think, this is great; he never did that before. You moan loudly when his hands massage your thighs, climbing up and he chuckles, pleased. You both want it and need this, you roll your exposed hips and Yongguk moans.

“-and this room is the guest bedroom and my own personal stud- OH SHIT!” It’s like time is frozen when Daehyun flicks the light open. You and Yongguk both stop and tear apart, but it’s clear the intruders had a great view of your body. You’re eyes meet Jongup’s, who’s accompanying Dae, and he turns away, burning red.

“Gentlemen…” Yongguk grabs your hand, leaving the room with a nod when you pass the boys. “Sorry, we’re leaving so soon!” He drags you along towards the front door and you follow, too happy to care about what your friends are thinking.

Somewhere down the corridor, Youngjae stretches his neck to see what the commotion is: “I KNEW IT!” He screams, earning himself a slap across the chest from Hana.

Yongguk’s place is two floors lower, that’s where he takes you. When you make it, his hands immediately continue their exploration. He guides you to his room, not slowing down a bit when you begin to speak

“It’s funny, earlier, you just said you wanted to talk.” You turn to face him, pecking down his neck and trying to tug his shirt above his head. “I love how you talk about things.”

“You know I’m not a big talker.” He chuckles, helping you with his shirt and immediately attacking his belt to get rid of his pants. ”Tell me what happens in the next chapter, we can discuss things even more.” You sit down on his bed, not sure what he means.

“What? My story?”

“Yes…” He sits next to you, half-naked, sliding his hand in your lower back to rub small circles again. “What do they do after that kiss? After she asks the Captain to stay, I want to know about that.”

“Spoilers?” You gulp nervously. You’re so comfortable with Yongguk, that you haven’t thought twice about what is happening between you, yet. You have no idea where the story is going. “I don’t know, it’s not written yet…”

“Do you want me to tell you then?” He pushes you on the bed and climbs over, eyes beaming. “He could tell her about how he has been wanting her ever since they first met…”  Yongguk begins to suck your right earlobe and hums against your skin. You feel him getting hard on your leg and he presses on you, grinding almost subconsciously. “Forget that! Even before their first meeting; he was missing her. He could say he wants to give himself to her, ask if she’s willing to be his everything.” He pauses, hesitating. “Say he wants to fall asleep next to her every night…” Your heartbeat dangerously accelerates at his words you bite your lips to stay calm.

“Guk?” He grunts in response. “Nobody wants to read about that kind of sickeningly sweet romance…” He sits back between your legs, a mysterious look on his face.

“What’s wrong about fluff?” You shrug, too busy admiring his torso instead of actually thinking of an answer. “Well, then I have a few other ideas that could help you…” He rolls up your dress up until your panties are exposed, throwing it over your shoulders. You raise your eyes to meet his again, now he’s got your full attention. “I bet the pirate likes it hard, don’t you think so?” Your eyes widen and he slides a hand to your panties, his thumb brushing over the wetness of your already apparent arousal. He chuckles, tilting his head to the side. “Or is he into teasing?” He presses harder, rubbing the soft fabric and you curl, craving fiction.

“Guk… N-no teasing…” He takes his hand off, licking his lips with a skeptic look.

“I’m pretty sure that’s what the next chapter is all about, though…” You lift yourself on your elbows to protest, but your words turn into moans when he resumes his misdemeanours. Yongguk hooks his fingers to your panties, sliding them off your legs. You try to cover yourself, embarrassed, but he grabs your hands, holding onto to them as he drops kisses on the inside of your thighs. “You say you don’t want to be teased, but you’ve been tormenting me for way longer… I think it’s just fair game. ” He freezes, inches away from your core to stare at you and you sigh deeply, head hanging low, defeated. He blows on your core and you wiggle, miffed. He can’t help but laugh at your evident frustration.

“For fuck sake’s Yongguk, I already capitulated!”

“Did you?” He quirks a questioning brow, his voice is even lower than usual, sinful.

“I do now! Stop teasing!”

“I haven’t done anything yet! Besides, haven’t you heard my policy?” You sigh, irritated and bite your lips to keep from answering something you’d regret. Yongguk gently bites the interior of your leg to make you squeal cutely. You raise again on your elbows to glare at him. “No quarter!”

That’s the moment he chooses to give in to you when you’re busy laughing at his bad pirate joke, that’s when he leans in to finally taste you. Yongguk runs his tongue on your slit. He goes slowly at first, although he knows you’re more than ready; he wants to savour the moment. He wishes this to be the first time of many more, so it should be right. He flattens his tongue, running it everywhere on your folds. Your hands grip his hair tightly, intertwining your fingers with his curls messily, but none of you care. Your moans get louder and louder as he goes. When he sucks on your clit, you can’t help but grind on him in ecstasy. He lets you do it, pleased he has this effect on you. He wants to make you come like this, know what you feel like when you orgasm, delight at your everything in his mouth, but you pull him higher.

“G-Guk” You peck his lips, tasting yourself on them. “Just…”

“You want me inside you?” You nod and sigh, a bit overwhelmed. He reaches in his nightstand for protection and you stare at the ceiling of his room. You and Yongguk. Yongguk and you. In more ways than one, it makes perfect sense. You sit and wrap your arms around his shoulders, resting your head in the crook of his neck.

“What is it?” He turns to you, concerned, and pushes a strand of your messy hair behind your ear.

“Nothing… I’m just-”

“A bit nervous?” You bite your lips and nod, making him chuckle knowingly. It’s not fair how he can guess you so well when you can’t figure out what’s on his mind half of the time. “We can wait if you want t-”

“Oh hell no!” You bite on his shoulder in frustration and he laughs. “I’m not waiting for anything any longer Bang Yongguk!”

“Then do you want my answer now?” He raises an eyebrow and you immediately know he’s being a little tease again, but you just have to ask.

“What answer?”

“The why-you-should-trust-me one.”

“I trust you.” He smiles at your instant reply.

“I know, but I never told you what answer I came up with…” You blink, waiting for him to go on. “I like you. Trust me, because I like you and I’ll never deceive you. I’ve been liking you since the second you were an ass to me in that coffee shop.”

“That’s a weird way to fall for someone!” You bury your face in his neck, embarrassed. “You’re so cheesy, why are you telling this to me now?”

“I thought your story was lacking…” You scoff and roll your eyes. “I think my character needs to come up with an answer, you know, to bring a culmination point to their romantic story.” Slyly, you slide your fingers to his length, grabbing him in your hand.

“Isn’t this a good enough conclusion? Closure of some sort?” You stroke him and he drops his head back on your shoulder, melting.

“That’s not romance-” He grunts, getting lost in your touch. “That’s just development, a twist…” You nibble on his ear, toying with his cock and rubbing his tip. “It needs an end, sex isn’t completion…”

“No? So we need a denouement right, Mr. Writer?” He grunts approving and you smirk. “Then can you come over here?” He whines, needy when your hands ghost him and watches as you move to straddle him.

“You want to ride me?” Yongguk helps you get on him, strong arms catching your thighs.

“You said we needed a climax, Mr. Writer…” You lower your hips to meet his, languidly, taking him inside you and he grunts in response.

“Oh shit.” You bob on him, keeping a slow pace and his hands find your boobs. “I have to say-” He inhales, sharply, throwing his head back. “-I, um- Love your work ethics!”

“Yongguk…”You smirk, grinding harder and digging your fingernails in his shoulders. “Will you just shut up already?”

He nods in approval and brings his forehead against yours to gaze at you. His eyes are full of lust and softness and you stare back at him,  forgetting everything about being embarrassed at his scrutiny. Your pants fill the room and before your thighs tired, Yongguk flips you both, to sink deeper into you. He drops his head in your neck, burying himself into your core relentlessly. You feel the apex of sensations come closer again, only this time you don’t stop it, you wait for it to wash over you. The knot in your stomach tightens, building up and all at once, you can’t hold it anymore. You let loose, reaching a new peak of pure delight. Your orgasm washes over you through waves of bliss and Yongguk comes soon after, feeling your spasms around him.

After you’re both done, he falls on the bed. He wraps your shoulder in his strong arms and pulls you against his chest. You’re still lost in contentment when he chuckles lightly, not able to conceal his happiness.

“What?” You snuggle closer, curious and brush your nose against his jaw.

“I wonder what the guests upstairs are talking about…”

“Oh god…” You grimace, finally remembering you’re exposure from earlier tonight. “We’ll never hear the end of this, right? Not in a million years…”

He shakes his head, still laughing, not caring at all what everybody thinks of this.

Raising your eyes above your laptop, you catch Yongguk walking through the living room. “What the hell are you doing?”

“What?” He throws his hands to the sides, an innocent look plastered on his perfect face. “I’m just gonna go grab a glass of water” You wave a hand his way for him to get out and lean back again on the couch.

This chapter, the finale, needs to go up tonight. It’s your deadline; chapter 20. Well, it could be up tomorrow but Daehyun might come bursting through the front door, freaking out because of the wait. Afterall, he knows where you live. You take a deep breath and rub your temples, tired. When you open your eyes, your boyfriend’s strolling through the room again, humming the melody he’s currently working on.

“Hum? Mind you? You’re distracting me…”

“I forgot to bring the cookies…” He shrugs and you giggle as he leaves.

You try to write for several more minutes, erasing words and going back to change a sentence. The pirate’s bride needs to defeat the traitor and free the Captain, but somehow it isn’t working as it should. You sigh and surely enough, Yongguk appears out of his studio’s door. He just can’t help bothering you today.

“Are you done?”

“Do I sound like I’m done, Guk?” You throw your hands to the sides, exasperated and he grimaces. “Are you done?”

“No, I’m hitting a dry spot…” He takes a step into the living room, studying your reaction to see if he’s in enemy territory.

“I really really need to write this, I can’t talk right now!” You warn him, but he gets closer, a look you know too well on his face. He stops in front of you, lowering just enough to brush your lips with his. He smiles when he feels you’re giving in, slightly opening your mouth, inviting. “We need to work…”

“I know, let’s do a quicky then!” Without warning, he shoves his t-shirt above his head, revealing his chocolate abs.

“Yongguk…” He throws your own shirt across the room, leaving you topless on the couch. He smirks proudly at the sight and kisses you again, this time deeply.

“Let’s be clear…” He pulls back, suddenly serious. “This is purely professional. I’m just doing this for you. I’m sacrificing myself right now!”

“What?” You frown and he nods with all his fake conviction.

“Everybody knows I’m your muse… I’m just doing this to help you with the story, you know; for inspiration.”

“Wow, that’s dedication! Come here Bang, I need insight right now…” You tug his sweatpants down, grinning playfully. “And I need it fast and good!”

“Please… Call me Captain.” He laughs, ignoring your warning glare.

M A S T E R L I S T 

[pinkipie100]

Prologue III

Aaaaand, last one for now. I hope I can get this all worked out to completion. I actually am really digging the story I’m brewing up...

Words: 1688

Category: Gen [subject to change]

Contains: anger issues, violence, possible anxiety-inducing imagery, OCs, metaphysical android sh*t, murder, grey lines, hungry doggo

Takes place during the dates and times listed.

November 11th, 2038

11:07 PM

Anamika had anger issues. That wasn’t hard to admit. Anamika could lie about a lot of things, but that wasn’t one of them. There were plenty of people she’d beaten the living daylights out of over spilled milk, and a long list of damaged property that probably did nothing to warrant being so totally decimated. And it’s not like Anamika wasn’t trying to reign herself in. She knew she yelled at people who didn’t deserve it, and even got into fights that were totally unnecessary, but the tiniest things could set off the Wolf inside of her. It would remain sleeping when she was calm, left to her own devices, alone- but the Wolf was a light sleeper, and the tiniest flea bite, the lightest poke with a twig, and the beast was up and snapping, ready to maim anyone who tried to tame it. No matter how hard Anamika tried to tame the Wolf herself, it always conquered her in a possessive fit of snarling curses and blurred vision. Only one had ever overpowered it, the one person Anamika trusted most.

But that person was gone now. No one was left to keep the Wolf on a leash. But for the first time, Anamika didn’t want to. No… this time, her target deserved everything that was coming their way. Additionally, this was the first time Anamika’s Wolf we truly a hunter. Laser-focused, only one Rabbit to be devoured tonight. Even as other bodies tumbled past Anamika, sometimes shoulder-checking her in the process, the Wolf did not bite at them, or even take notice.

Anamika marched towards the Recall Center, where deviants were tearing down the walls keeping other androids trapped inside. The Wolf’s keeper had promised that the deviants’ leader would lead a peaceful protest near the Recall Centers. Apparently, the same did not go for deviants in small, unnoticed Colorado suburbs. Either way, Anamika didn’t give a shit.

He was wearing a red baseball cap. Green parka. Black jeans. For every detail Anamika remembered about him, her Wolf got hungrier, and she got closer. She and the Wolf were one, and she broke into a sprint like red lightning. The roar of a predator’s breath erupted from her chest, and she leapt like the Wolf, her prey being knocked from his pedestal where he directed the other deviants.

She pinned the motherfucker to the ground, on all fours like the animal inside. Roaring into his face, she took her claws and dug them deep into the plastic fuck’s chest, banging him up and down and up and down and down, and down, and down… The deviant clutched her paws, crushing her wrists, cracking and bruising. He called for aid, and Anamika howled in his face to respond. Wresting her paws from his grip, Anamika swung for the deviant’s face, landing a hit so hard, his artificial skin was wiped off, leaving a crack in his facial plate. Suddenly thirsty for the blue blood, Anamika’s insistent paws dug for more of it from the deviant’s face. You hurt Pack, Wolf hunts. Eats. You took Pack. Now just Wolf. Rabbit down hole. Wolf digs. Wolf EATS.

Other hands struggled to grab hold of the writhing animal, and it takes three to lift her back and down into the snow-covered street. The beast twists and howls, half English, half lupine snarls. Three deviants, all of considerable size, struggled to contain Wolf and Host as the Prey rose back up and drew a gun.

‘What do we do with her, Nathan?’ a deviant asked the Prey just before Anamika clawed him in the face, and he dislocated her arm in retaliation.

‘We shouldn’t kill her… We’ve already enough blood on our hands tonight!’ another deviant said, bracing itself against Anamika’s forceful kneeing.

The Wolf retracted one bit, allowing Anamika to form some coherent sentences: ‘-Fucking killed her! You’re an animal! You deserve to DIE!’

‘I don’t know, she seems pretty set on killing us!’ the first android said.

Anamika gave her body one huge heave in an attempt to free the Wolf, launching the deviants a little in the wind before they pinned her back down. Nathan, the Prey, gave Anamika, foaming at the mouth, a once-over. Blue blood still dripped from the rips in his face. Anamika wanted to taste it. Bathe in it. He deserved to be torn to shreds in that Recall Center.

‘You have anger like I’ve never seen in a human…’ Nathan said, almost looking horrified.

‘No shit, plastic fuck!’ Anamika spat. ‘You killed my BEST FRIEND! Do you even remember her?! She was trying to talk to you… She didn’t deserve to get caught in the middle of this… And you… killed her… ANYWAY!!!’ Anamika had to wheeze to regain her breath, ‘You deserve to DIE!’ Nathan raised his gun, and no matter how the Wolf struggled, the androids did not get tired. The Wolf, despite all its strength, did. And the fire prodding the Wolf was over. The water came down from the skies to drench it out. Anamika began to weep hoarsely.

Then deviants didn’t know what to do. This animalistic, murderous human had just done a complete one-eighty. Other deviants who were previously wrecking the Recall Center had even stopped and observed.

Clueless, Nathan simply asked the human why she cried.

It took Anamika a while to regain control of her taxed vocal chords and breathing before she could answer, ‘She loved… she loved you all… She believed in your freedom until the end… Fuck, she’d probably forgive you for shooting her-!’ Another break was needed for Anamika to cough and tear up some more. ‘Just shoot me- It should have been me you killed, anyway- not her… Just end this. Kill the Wolf.’

Silence, save for the sound of Recall Center riots and snowfall. Then a gunshot. Three deviants rose, no longer needing to hold back a young woman ravenous for revenge. Nathan dropped the gun and picked up regret. The four androids then moved back to the Recall Center, somber now.

One deviant remained looking upon the scene, however. A simple bystander, observing the scene from afar. Suddenly, all that mattered to her was this human with a bullet in her head. The only human she’d seen show remorse for hurting an android. The only human she’d ever seen self-destruct like a deviant.

November 13th, 2039

9:45 AM

Rina could stand waiting. One might even say that she was good at it. Even for an android, she almost found it meditative to sit or stand completely still in the same place for hours. Most others of her kind found that it reminded them too much of their former oppressed states, standing at android parking or office stations, but it never bothered Rina, for some reason.

The same couldn’t be said for the entity inside of her.

This view is so fucking boring. Can’t you move? Walk around a bit?

…Perhaps it was because of the entity inside of her waiting didn’t bore her.

Don’t get antsy. I don’t want to bother anyone else with nervous back-and-forth walking.

You should know by now that I don’t like sitting still.

Maybe if you ask nicely, I’ll ‘stretch my legs’ a bit.

…Please?

Rina stood, grabbing her bag and slinging it back over her shoulder, adjusting her cap before wandering aimlessly around. She took in the other people at the gate, waiting for a numbered plane to come and save them from the heavy clutches of boredom. She thought she’d like to take a picture of them, especially the ones at the coffee shop.

Ugh, that is so cringey. You’re such a hipster!

‘What are you talking about, they are beautiful shots!’ Rina accidentally muttered aloud.

A young boy sitting next to his mother looked up at her, confused. The android adjusted her hat, smiling awkwardly.

Don’t make me do that again.

What?! That was your mistake, buddy. I just made my thoughts known! …That’s kind of what I do.

Rina sighed. I know. …Tell you what. Say you’re sorry, and I’ll give you a surprise.

WHY?! It wasn’t my fault! It’s not even that big of a deal!

Anamika.

Ugh, fine, fine! I’m sorry.

Rina smiled subtly. She was glad Anamika couldn’t see her face as she did so. Rina then marched over to the large airport window. She looked out at the lot, populated by sleek jets and cute little forklifts buzzing about. A few orange-clad workers peppered the steely grey streetscape. Rina’s reflection was faintly overlayed on top of the busy scene.

Rina whispered to her reflection, imagining it to be Anamika, ‘Beautiful, huh?’

A pause. You are.

Rina laughed. ‘What? I was talking about the planes.’

Angry static flooded Rina’s head. I KNOW! I know you were. Fuck, I hate this! I can’t think fucking anything in private!

Rina’s hands connected with her head from the overwhelming voice. She hissed, ‘Anamika, please! You’re too loud!’ The static ceased. ‘Thank you. Don’t worry, we’ll find a way to get you out of my body. If any Engines are still intact, they’ll be in Detroit.’

Silence within her head. Then, Look… Rina, I can’t believe I’m saying this after all I’ve been through, but… Thank you. This time, Rina let Anamika see her smile in the reflection. I know I’m not exactly the ideal person to have trapped inside your headhole, but… I’m glad you did this for me. Really. Rina gradually raised her hand up, looking her reflection deeply in the eyes. Her hand reached for the one before her.

‘Please refrain from touching the glass,’ came a voice. Rina was shocked out of her intense stare, spotting a janitor android next to her. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were an android. Just make sure not to scratch it, please.’

‘O-of course.’

The janitor then left Rina alone. Well, not alone.

The gate then called for Rina’s group to line up. She adjusted her cap again, then strided confidently towards the line with her ticket.

You know, the bright side to this is that we only have to pay for one ticket.

[dontfeedthebabytigers]

You’ve Got So Much Heart: Chapter 4

ao3 link

Chapter 1 link

Previous Chapter link

The Joker was running with a group of Joker Cult extremists, according to the Commissioner. They were known as the Laughing Widows, due to their trademark crime of breaking into the homes of newlyweds, killing one of the spouses, and carving an ear-to-ear smile on the face of the other. Batman had been on their trail for months, but, every time he took out large numbers of them, they recruited more. Far as Batman could tell, there were two groups. Each group had around twenty of Gotham’s sickest minds to help them. If Joker had gotten to one, or both, of the groups was still unknown. They just had to assume that the Joker’s reach stretched throughout the Laughing Widows ranks.

One half operated on the East Side, and the other on the West. Bluejay’s informants had spotted the Joker on the East near the docks, while Batman’s heard wind of the cultists causing terror just beyond the Narrows. They had to split, the Batmobile headed towards the water while Bluejay went west with Spoiler.

There was only one warehouse near the docks that was lit, what could have been a misdirect had it been one of Gotham’s subtler Rogues, but that was never Joker’s style. He enjoyed painting a large target and watch as the fly crawled into the web before he blew it to hell. The game for him wasn’t about being found. No, it was seeing if Batman and Robin could come out alive.

Robin climbed to the roof of the warehouse while Batman went through the front door. A textbook diversion tactic, but lackluster enough so that the Joker wouldn’t think that his ‘greatest enemy’ would do something so boring. At least that was the plan, but with the Joker plans had a habit of eroding.

“Robin, comm check.” Batman’s voice was just as intense over Robin’s earpiece as it was in person.

Robin tapped a button on his wrist computer and checked the preset messages and connection to their private line. He typed a reply on his wrist computer; his fingers moved with the practiced ease that came from practice and necessity.

“All systems functioning,” came a robotic surrogate voice. “In position, no sign of the Joker.”

“Keep your eyes open, Robin. I don’t want any surprises.” Unlikely, they knew that.

Robin sent a confirmation message and got to work removing a pane of glass from the skylight he crouched next to with a suction cup and a glass cutter. With a clearer view of the floor below, Robin’s enhanced eyes were able to pick up a faint outline of a man, scratch that, multiple men. There were twenty-three men and women down there in the shadows.

His fingers went to the computer on his wrist to alert Batman when he paused, head cocked to the side. He grabbed a batarang and threw it behind him where it embedded itself in an AC unit. Caught in between a batarang and a piece of cold metal was the shoulder from a tacky purple suit that held none other than the Joker.

“Fifty-feet, that’s five closer than last time, Boy Blunder. Someday I’m going to creep up right behind ya, and I’ll finally be able to put a smile on that face.” He burst out laughing, high pitched and manic.

Robin began to type out his message again. He didn’t even look at the Joker, and if there was one thing that the Joker hated it was being ignored. The other thing would always be the Robins, and this one itched his brain in the most maddening way. All the other Batkid’s he could poke and prod, but not this one. This Robin he couldn’t sneak up on like the others, even the first one was more fun, and he had always been such a downer. There was no banter or funny jokes, but just long silences and glares. Even at that moment, the kid was tattling on him like the child he was. At least the other Robin’s had some class and would throw a few punches to make life interesting.

“Now, now, now, there’s no need to call Bats. He doesn’t like me very much, as I’m sure you’re aware by now. I doubt he’d let us chat long.” Words were spoken sweet as a poisoned lollypop in the hands of a toddler.

Robin glanced up at the Joker, a second of time devoted to the maniac, an afterthought. That wasn’t enough, never enough for the Joker. His fingers only halted for a second over the keys of that blue-lit screen. These kids and their silly technology.

“Pluck a few feathers off one bird and suddenly the flock gets skittish.” There we go, that stopped the boy. Those Robins always had such a bad habit of sticking together. Long pale fingers wrapped around the edges of the batarang, blood dripped from fresh cuts as the weapon was pulled from the AC unit. “I wonder what happens when you put the extra work in and carve one up?”

Robin hit send on the message as the Joker stalked towards him. He crouched into a better fighting stance, stealing one glance down to Batman who was being attacked from all sides by cultists. The Laughing Widows were savage killers, but unpracticed fighters. Their victims were defenseless and unassuming, nothing like the Batman. With their sloppy fighting style, the only advantage that they had was the sheer amount of them, but that was more an inconvenience than a threat. With factors such as fatigue, average fight time, and the distance between the floor and the ceiling it should take five minutes for Batman to get Robin. More if they get a few lucky hits with a small knife, less if a gas pellet with a sedative was dispersed. Either way, Robin was facing the Joker now.

The Joker swung the batarang at Robin, but he missed because of a well-timed flip over Joker’s head, landing behind him without a sound. Robin kicked out the Joker’s feet with an efficient kick. When the Joker landed on his back, the batarang he held falling out of reach, Robin straddled his chest to pin his arms to his sides. From his utility belt, Robin pulled out another batarang and pressed it below the Joker’s adam apple, pinning him in a minute.

Now he just had to wait four more minutes for Batman.

“What kind of birdseed is Batsy feeding you kids these days?” The Joker chuckled. “We should really do this more often. You could get a permission slip from Pops and I could get a hatchet, what do you say?”

Robin pressed the batarang closer to the Joker’s throat, a drop of blood from the Joker’s neck followed the wings curve before dripping off the edge.

“You want to do it, don’t ya?” Joker teased, his smile somehow found a way to grow wider. “Come on now, Birdbrain, it isn’t that hard. Just a little pressure, like you’re brushing your teeth. You can do it, come on, I want you to at least get a taste. I’m telling you to kid, just do it.”

An order. Robin drew back to weapon, poised to kill.

“Do it,” The Joker yelled, his mouth starting to foam. “Come on, I want you to do it. Show Batsy the kid I’ve been dying to meet.”

Talons do not hesitate, for to hesitate is to die. Robin wasn’t a Talon though, and his grip on batarang fell slack then dropped to the ground with a clatter. His posture fell, not much, but enough to give the Joker’s arms the slack they needed. The Joker kicked up and hit Robin in the back of the head. With a quick turn, the Joker was now on top of him, and his hold wasn’t giving way.

“I thought you were really going to do me in this time,” he sounded disappointed at the prospect of being alive. “Oh well, I guess that I have to teach you what happens when you fight against instinct.”

The Joker’s laugh was loud enough for Batman to hear from the warehouse below. Chilling echoes of joyous giggles chased bounced off the rusted metal walls, queuing a similar response in those he was fighting. The last time that Batman had heard those laughs they had been coming from a plaster body cast; his hand had twitched with the need to add a shattered jaw to the list of broken bones that he had inflicted.

“Robin, report,” Batman demanded, but there was no answer. All he heard was the constant ‘HA HA HA’ from the roof. He still had to work through ten Laughing Widows before he could go get Robin; he just needed an opening to reach his utility belt.

As did Robin, but the Joker had him pinned on the roof. The madman held a blade to his throat, but he did not look frightened as the Joker needed.

“I know that we don’t get along, but would ya do me a favor and scream a little. I want to make sure Batsy gets to hear all the fun we’re having.”

Bang, a gun went off and the batarang spun out of the Joker’s hand, almost taking one of his fingers off with it. Robin took advantage of the distraction to grab one of the escrima sticks on his back and stick the Joker with the taser end.

“Gotta say, I was really hoping I would beat you guys here.”

Robin glared at the man who saved him. The man with a red helmet on his head and a smoking gun in his hand.

“Don’t look at me like that, kid. After all, I did just save your life.”

[regrettablewritings]

The Hairy Situation (Sonny Carisi x Reader)

A/N: *screeches* I … HAVE DONE SOMETHING!!! @mrsrafaelbarba, your hairy chariot (hairiot) awaits … And @xemopeachx and @ohbelieveyoume because everyone has to suffer and remember this costume failure of the follicles. ... This...follicular fashion faux pas. Ahem, anyway, enjoy with much cringe as you recall the two episodes that have gone down in hairy infamy.

Your right eye twitched as you watched Sonny raise his coffee to his lips. It was a habit of yours, appearing whenever you got a little too antsy to properly contain your more invigorated feelings. While Sonny was not necessarily the best with reading the room, he always seemed capable enough whenever it pertained to those in need. Especially when it pertained to you.

You couldn’t tell if he was too lost in his espresso to notice your mood or if he knew exactly what you were feeling and was just trying to play coy and/or annoy you further.  There was a good chance it was the latter, though: You had danced the same routine with him for the past week, and Sonny, in his typical spontaneous nature, had taken to adding his own moves to counter your routine. It was maddening, made even worse by his “Sonnshiny nature,” as you tended to call it.

As he lowered his mug, satisfied with the gulps he’d taken, Sonny glanced up at you just in time to notice your expression changing slightly. Your lips had been midway through a grimace before they rolled into your mouth for your teeth to bite down on. But there was no way for you to hide the expression your eyes held. More specifically, there was no way to pretend as those you hadn’t been intently staring at the area right below his nose.

At that, Sonny’s fingers drew themselves to his upper lip, pulling back to find bits of foam on their tips. He cracked a smile; the one that had given you no choice but to fall in love with him the first time you’d seen it.

“Ha! Lookit that,” he chuckled before pointing to the area above his mouth. “Foam mustache!”

If only either of you were so lucky as for it to still make you swoon.

You’d just barely managed to keep your fist’s collision to the table as soft as it could possibly be without rattling your breakfast plates and cups.

“Foam mustache?” you cried. “Foam friggen mustache!?” Your hands flew into the air as though your frustrations were exiting them like an inflatable tube man at a car dealership. “What the hell about the real one!? What about the – Don’t you give me that look!” You pointed an accusatory finger at the culprit, but it was too late: His blond brows had furrowed over his beautiful, blue eyes, and his mouth turned upward as if to mimic a confused pout.

Regularly, such a gesture would have melted your heart in an instant, causing you to fawn over your puppy-like boyfriend. But that … that abomination above his lip! Its presence practically concealed the cute frown, besmirching it entirely with its obscene presence! It demanded more power to adore than what you were capable of giving.

A groan rippled out of your throat as you flopped back in your seat, defeated.

“Sonny,” you muttered. “Sonny. Baby. Sweetie. Sonnshine. Teddy. Puppy-boo.” Every word was tenser than the last, forming a coil of agitation and desperation. By the time you’d reached the end of your list (and with “Honey-poo,” no less), the coil was fully compressed and your exhausted expression was, once again, planted on him. Or, more specifically, the object of your abhorrence.

“Please,” you whimpered, “please, just shave that thing. I forget what your lips look like!”

At this, the pitiful expression gave way to Sonny rolling his eyes.

“For the last time, (Y/N), I’m not shaving it. This,” he gestured to the facial hair as if it were a work of art, “This is the end result of blood, sweat, tears, and testosterone. This is a wearable symbol of status!”

Your eye lids drooped with aloofness. “ ‘Status’?” you echoed. “The only status having that mustache gives you is looking like Douche Prime.”

“Hey, now,” the man gently admonished. “Firefighters get mustaches like this all the time, and you never say a word about them!”

“Yeah, well, I’m not dating a firefighter wearing a schnauzer tail on his face. Nor am I kissing one, feeling his mustache-induced burn when he kisses me, feeling it scratch against my shoulder in the dead of night, causing me to think that Death’s spooky-ass hand is trying to tickle me – ”

“I get it, I get it.”

“Do you? Really? Then shave it!”

“No!”

“Why not!?”

“We’ve been over this, (Y/N), it makes me look cool!”

“It makes you look like you took the brush off of a vacuum nozzle and glued it to your lip.”

“Whatever,” Sonny scoffed, taking one last swig from his mug. “Gotta go, we won’t finish this later.” He pushed himself out of his chair, pulling his jacket off the back of it and putting his arms through the sleeves.

“But – ” you protested. You were quickly stopped by the prickly goodbye kiss that your boyfriend pressed against your forehead.

“Have a good day, sweetie,” he murmured, offering you one last smile before heading out the door. Loving as he was, he didn’t want to stick around for the fussing he’d likely get for touching you with the object of your burning hatred. Even if it was pretty funny to see you stumble over your words. In the end, however, no such fuss came. You were just too tired.

Instead, you sat at the table alone. Your body, uncertain as to whether a frontwards flop or a backwards flop was the appropriate position for defeat, slouched somewhat to the side. Your mind, however, was abuzz with thought. You loved Sonny’s kisses, they were always just so soft and sweet with the very essence of his affections for you coming through every one he applied. Unfortunately, with the presence of that hairy smear above his top lip, his kisses were less soft. And the feeling of affection didn’t seem as concentrated, apparently having been caught up in the bushy hairs. Not at all unlike how the brushes of a vacuum sweep up and cling to dirt.

You thought that your Sonny was the cutest boyfriend in all of New York, possibly even in all of the country. But then, of course you did: every person with a boyfriend thought that theirs was the absolute cutest. The only difference between you and them was that you were confident that you were the closest to being correct.

And, indeed, Sonny was quite adorable. A Labrador who gained human form and decided to get a job in law enforcement. Sure, he was notorious for being a blunt blabbermouth who wasn’t too good with words, but that was for those who didn’t know him. If the right amount of time was spent around him, warming up in some way would be inevitable – he was just so darn endearing! That being said, it was all too easy for you to become a little overprotective towards him in some regards pertaining to his profession.

You had openly voiced your concerns upon his announcement that he’d offered to go undercover for Brooklyn’s sting operation as a john. He’d only just gotten into the precinct about a week prior and he was already putting his narrow ass in danger? What, did he want to get out this relationship that badly?

Of course he didn’t, he just really liked to help. (Sonny also really liked doing UC work. If his heart weren’t in the legal system, it could have potentially found a home in the performing arts.) He kept insisting in the weeks leading up to the operation that everything would be fine and that he would be safe but nothing he said managed to convince you entirely, and you just weren’t the sort of woman to go overly-invested-high-school-mother and march down to the precinct demanding that he either be guarded 24/7 by an undercover The Rock, or that he be removed from the case entirely and put on desk duty. Therefore, Sonny stayed as an undercover pervert.

And, as he promised, things went pretty alright, so long as “alright” just meant that he came out alive and unflappable. But now, with that problem out of the way, there lay your next biggest concern: The mustache.

Sonny had already been growing some facial stubble by the time he got transferred from Staten Island; a side effect of working long nights and under such a short period of time. He’d simply become too tired to really care about whether or not he was clean-shaven, something that you were completely understanding of. By the time of the Brooklyn operation, however, Sonny had gotten into a better swing of things, and the mustache practically in full-bloom. By then, Sonny had insisted that it would only sell the image of being a john further, having seen facial hair as a common trait amongst the sleazier end of the scale and how, generally speaking, it simply sold a better image than if he looked baby-faced.

You had to admit that he had a bit of a point there. Understanding of his reasoning, you went along with it.

In truth, you couldn’t wait for him to shave that thing off using a lawnmower but, then again, it wasn’t just a regular gross mustache – it was a working ‘stache. A ‘stache with a purpose. You supposed you could tolerate just a bit longer.

But then the sting came and went. And the mustache only stayed. It had been nearly a month.

Apparently, some guys down at the station also had mustaches. Guys who had a decent reputation as highly capable law enforcers. This, added with the uncountable number of other mustachioed officers, gave Sonny new consideration over his newest feature. The consideration being that there was no longer anything to consider: He was keeping the thing. And no amount of jokes, pleads, nags, etc could convince him otherwise.

You knew this because you had tried. In between paperwork and editing at your own job and almost always during your lunch breaks, you could be found at your desk or at the nearby café trying to concoct a plan to exorcize the little hair demon residing on your boyfriend’s face.

But after about a month and a few days of near-constant pestering, you were running out of options. You almost considered asking your coworker for some input, but God forbid you get gossipy Nora involved. You tried not to resort to such juvenile means. Tried very hard to avoid stoop. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and the desire to take a nap without the fear of being woken up by having a mini broom scraped against your face was bending your morals a bit.

Time to make light use of one of the most problematic, overly romanticized concepts known to relationship-kind: jealousy. Sonny was, by his own admission, potentially sensitive. Certainly moody, if anything. He wasn’t necessarily the jealous type, however, trusting you enough to not blink an eye at the mention or presence of your guy friends or celebrity crushes. But if you played certain cards right, then maybe … Just maybe …

Elsewhere, Sonny’s phone vibrated against his desk. It signaled a message from you. And in that elsewhere, he would find that your message contained an image of Ezra Miller, circa 2010, with his clean-shaven pretty boy face gracing the screen. Not even five seconds after having received the picture, Sonny would then have received an actual text:

“He’s cute! 😚” you wrote. Not as cute as your Sonny, of course, but Sonny didn’t need to know that, you decided smugly. Keep it short and simple so that it wasn’t too obvious what your intentions were, and let it all unfold naturally. Placing your phone back down to your desk, you complacently returned back to editing the latest presentation script.

You phone buzzed. The word bubble on the left side of your screen read, “Shouldn’t you be working??” Your smirk deepened. He was avoiding the question.

Your fingers rapidly typed against the appropriate keys, writing out, “I am … But I can’t help but also get distracted by this little guy. Lookithimlookithimlookithim!!” You scrolled through your photo app to find the pre-saved photos of babyface Ezra for this very tactic before adding three of them to your message. You felt a feeling of satisfaction dwell within you as you hit “send.”

Brrrrbbb, your phone hummed, causing you to pick it up and analyze the growing situation.

“Yeah, but you know who else is ‘cute’? That one guy from Daredevil.”

Your brows knitted a centimeter’s worth of perplexity.

“Charlie Cox?” you texted back. A little less than a minute later, your phone hummed.

“Yeah, him! Y’know, he’s actually not that clean-shaven in real life.” What the – ? Where was he going with this? The low woosh of a second text coming in sounded. “He’s actually a hairy guy. Shoulda been called Hairdevil if you ask me :P”

You sat there, staring at the text. Your lips were pressed together, unimpressed. The sly bastard had managed to not only play a proper piece to your game, but he also found a way to throw in a goddang pun while doing so! But, on top of that, damn: He got you there, pointing out Charlie Cox’s regularly hirsute appearance. But only for a moment, at least. Early-2010s Ezra Miller wasn’t the only brand of ammo you had in your magazine.

“Tru,” you admitted. “But dang, if that mouth of his ain’t practically obscene when he’s playing Matt. All noticeable and kissable without any distractions …”

Sonny’s response: “I’d say he looks friendlier with the hair. More lovable and protective.”

You rolled your eyes and fought the urge to send a corresponding emoji in response. Instead, you thought for a moment. You concluded that it was time to switch bullet-types. “Evan Peters is also cute, tho 😗.”

“Fox’s Quicksilver? Idk I think the guy from AoU was a tad cooler.” Translation: The guy who’s actually capable of growing facial hair and has a noted mustache was cooler than the baby-faced guy. But you weren’t giving up yet!

Phantom-Era Ramin Karimloo.

Jeffrey Dean Morgan.

Taron Egerton.

Idris Elba.

Daniel Henney.

Tom Hardy.

Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson!

Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson with facial hair!

It went on like this, and for longer than what you would have liked. Both because you didn’t appreciate your plan for coming so undone, but also because lord, there was an uncomfortable amount of actors who managed to work their mustaches. Worse was that more often than not, the actors you would name or could name were made even sexier with the addition of facial hair combinations. Styles which, more often than not, included a mustache of some breed.

This caused you to have a relatively short list to begin with. You struggled to search through what already few men you had left in your artillery before finding your next best bet.

“Jon Bernthal has a clean-shaven ruggedness to him, I find 😊,” you finally wrote. You had tried to sound innocuous about it but the image you attached of Jon in his role as the bloodied and bruised Frank Castle decently captured how you were really feeling. You had to fight the urge to slam your phone down, knowing that it would’ve been pointless to get so frustrated over something so laughably bizarre. But dammit, you hated how you were losing at the very game you had initiated! And besides, your magazine was running low. As it turns out, facial hair tended to make a lot of men even more attractive than usual. Especially if they had that beard and mustache combo going on. But God forbid Sonny learn this and take it as an “okay” to go and grow a beard …

Two minutes had gone by and still no response. You were beginning to question if an inward celebration was appropriate to plan for. Sonny had replied almost immediately to the previous messages, and right about now should’ve been his lunch break. Maybe . . . you had finally won? Did you finally manage to make a mustachioed disaster-oed man rethink his life decisions that had led up to this point?

It was about three minutes after you had first sent your text that your cellular device began to hum with life.

“You know that? You’re right. I’m sorry, baby: This mustache is a smear upon our otherwise wonderful relationship and I deeply apologize for letting it come between us, both physically and metaphorically. In fact, I will be taking the rest of the day off to not only shave it, but seek out a laser hair removal specialist to assure that no such abomination can ever stand a chance at rebirthing bigger and bushier than ever. I love you so much and plan on returning home with a fresh, clean face, your favorite meal from your favorite takeout place, and a strong desire to watch Lucifer, even though I’m still not entirely sure where I stand with a show where the Devil is portrayed as a gorgeous, well-meaning and emotional pianist. Love you 😘 💛 💙 💜 💚.”

That would have been the ideal message to receive, especially after experiencing a time gap that had lasted longer than all the other ones. But alas, life was not ideal. Even with Sonny. Especially with a stubborn, mustachioed Sonny.

“Weren’t you just drooling over his character in Me & Earl & the Dying Girl the other night?” Sonny reminded.

Shit!

That stupidly hot history teacher with the sweet ink and well-groomed beard-and-mustache look! Jon Bernthal was already an attractive man without facial hair but … there was just something so sexually blissful about that man whenever he grew that beard and mustache. So suave and tough, a style that so few men could properly do with such dangerous class. Like he could kick somebody’s ass with one hand and present you with a cup of your favorite pho in the other. But … but Sonny sure as hell couldn’t pull that kind of thing off! How dare he overstep his boundaries and lowkey threaten to attempt for Mr. McCarthy’s Cool Teacher™ trimmings?

Your fingers flew over the keys of your phone with frustration in every stroke, delivering the message, “No! I was appreciating his character’s, well, character!! He was barely in the thing but still left an impact, okay!?!”

“lol whatever you say babe :P,” Sonny responded.

Boy, did you suddenly long for the days of flip phones, when you could signify your exasperation and/or anger by dramatically slapping your predominate mode of communication shut at the end of your conversations. There was just something so unsatisfactory about angrily pressing the off button on your phone, then gingerly placing it face down at last minute so as to preserve the already chipped glass of the touch screen. After which, the spirit of victory evacuated your body at such a break-neck speed that you nearly slammed your face against your desk in defeat. You were going to have to come up with a new plan …

Speaking of which … You looked at that had been sitting on your screen since earlier. It required further proofing from your end but at this rate, it wasn’t getting anything closer to done. You took that (and your increasing hangry-ness) as an opportunity to clock out for lunch. Better to have that excuse, instead of insisting to your waiting associate that work had been delayed for the sake of trying to remove a facial vandalism that wasn’t even yours.

It had been two weeks since the little hairy competition between Sonny and yourself. Two weeks of recycling old ideas over and over, albeit with waning intensity. But finally, finally did you have a plan! A plan that involved tape, Google searches, and plenty of hours on Photoshop.

The latter requirement was a part of why you had lost so much time on the nagging. You had actually forced yourself to cut back on verbally scolding Sonny about the thing out of the sheer bitterness that you would feel if he finally gave in before your self-assignment was complete, rendering your Photoshop exploits useless. But after so many hours of working when Sonny was out of the house or nights when he was home and sleeping, you had finally finished it! Now, all you needed was Sonny.

Well, that, and the ability to keep a straight face. To be fair, you thought you’d had that part down to a science: You just needed to bite your bottom lip and inhale deeply and any fizzle of a giggle dwelling in your throat would start to dwindle. But the moment you heard Sonny’s key click into the lock of the apartment, you made a break for it, practically sprinting into the bedroom in the back so that he couldn’t witness your dismantling.

You’d just barely made it through to the sound-stifling mattress when you heard Sonny announcing his return home, followed by the door being shut and locked. With the sound of your boyfriend kicking off his shoes, the clock had begun. Every footstep he took further into the apartment was the tick of time going by until he realized that something was amiss. And then – they stopped. Dead in his tracks, likely right by the kitchen if you had to approximate it based on the echoes of his feet as they walked him backwards a few paces.

The oxymoronically quiet but blaring utterance of, “What the …?” proved your approximation to be correct. The next few steps that gently thudded against the hardwood flooring seemed to become increasingly sporadic, if not weighted by the sudden stops every other step. It wasn’t even an entire minute before you heard Sonny calling your name.

“(Y/N)? (Y/N)!” The footfalls moved with purpose towards your poorly-planned hiding place of complete visibility on the bed. You barely had any time to scramble up, grab a book from the nightstand on your side, and create the image of composure by the time Sonny stopped at the threshold.

You could only afford to offer him the briefest of glances, lest you break down into plot-killing laughter, and even that was more than enough! With that brow-furrowed expression on his face and severed chipmunk tail above it lip, it looked as though all the hair on his face was preparing to mug his eyes.

Calm, you told yourself. Bite the lip; inhale deeply …

“Hey, babe,” you greeted, turning a page you hadn’t even read yet. “How was work?” Sonny’s eyes squinted incredulously. Instead of recounting how “the boys” gave him their usual tough love, he pulled a photo into view.

“What is this?” he asked rhetorically. You offered one last glance, this time focusing in the general direction of the picture to give the illusion of looking exactly at it. From your peripheral vision, you could recognize the frame: Thick, black, and simple, it usually sat on the table right by the front door, encasing the image of one lanky, teenaged Sonny standing beside his first car. A rusty, blue jalopy, but he couldn’t have been prouder of owning that jalopy. But now, as the fully-grown Sonny held it, the frame held a different image.

It was still of Sonny, no doubt, but it was an adult Sonny. An adult Sonny with hair whose length teased just above his jean jacket-clad shoulders. Well, somebody’s jean jacket-clad shoulders. The tight, high-waisted jeans literally hugging the lower body area left very little to the imagination and stood out glaringly against the pale yellow of the souped up Ford Maverick his figure was coolly leaning against. Well, stood out the best that it could at least. The grainy filter that the image had been saturated in made everything slightly more sepia but all the more of an eye sore. There were only two things that remained true to the real life Carisi: His face and the goddang mustache. And frankly, the bushy facial hair seemed to fit right in far more than his face.

Your eyes flew back to the pages of your book, focusing on brown imperfections from wood pulp to mute any laughing threat you had.

“It’s a photo, Sonny,” you replied coolly. You needn’t look up to know that he was lightly glaring at you.

“I can see that,” he replied dryly. “But what I mean is what – ? What exactly is going on in this photo?”

“I’m afraid that I don’t know what you mean, hun.”

“You mind lookin’ me in the eye and sayin’ that?” Indeed, you did, but there was no way you could tell him that and win. Though you had a sinking feeling that the slow movements made to lift your head up and zero in on his baby blues told him enough.

Bite your lip. Breathe.

“I am afraid,” you spoke slowly, “that I don’t see what the problem is.”

“Seriously?” Sonny scoffed, pointing a finger at the edited image of himself. “You seriously see nothing wrong with this?”

“I do not,” you stated.

“I look like my father in this!”

“Well, maybe that’s where your mustache belongs: On some guy who lived through the jean-clad 70s!”

“Then why was a cutout of it taped to that thrift shop painting!?”

“Maybe the 70s version of you wanted to show how psychedelic he was leaning against a giant bowl of fruit!” you cried, throwing your hands up into the air. And with your attempt at aloofness went your guard: The laughter followed almost immediately. Well, your laughter; Sonny remained standing at the threshold, just staring at the frame in his hands before looking at your guffawing form curl up against the mattress.

“How long did this take you to even do?” he asked above your laughs. You only managed to whimper breathlessly the amount of time as you squeezed your aching gut but Sonny had heard plenty. You didn’t see him lick his lips and nod along to your answer. But you did hear the click of his phone’s camera as he snapped a picture of the edited image.

“W-what are you doing?” you wheezed, looking up at him. Sonny shrugged.

“Takin’ a photo. My mom would love this, she’d say it looks like my dad, too.” He then turned around, leaving you confused and no longer laughing. The silence was soon filled with yet another click.

“Hey …” you whined, climbing off the bed. When you found Sonny he was only a few paces away, taking a photo of that thrift store painting of a bowl of fruit. Specifically, the cutout of his edited image you’d taped on to an apple in said painting. By the time words had found you, he was already moving on to another picture – one where you’d pasted his mustached mug over a photo of your chubby baby cousin.

“What’re you doing?” you repeated. With a smile present on his features, Sonny, only glanced at you before returning focus back to his camera.

“I told you: Takin’ pictures for my mom. She loves stuff like this!” Click. You blinked rapidly.

“Uh … Sonny?” you began. “This … I mean, I was sorta hoping – ”

“That this’d influence what I’d do with my mustache? No; sorry, princess. But,” his grin widened as he scrolled through his newest photo file additions, “I do have to commend the creativity.” He looked up at you. “I love that this is what you went with!” You were too stunned to deny the scruffy kiss he affectionately pressed to your nose. By the time the feeling registered, your face was curling into one of anguish.

“It wasn’t supposed to be funny, Sonny!” you cried.

“No,” he agreed, “but it is.”

You had to fight internally against the urge to slap your own face off.

“Take this seriously! Don’t you see what that mustache is making you?! You look like somebody’s weird uncle who never let the 70s go and gave them their first sip of beer because ‘they were the cool one’!”

“That’s oddly specific.”

“With a porno stache!”

“Hey …!”

“But am I wrong?! No! Please, please, please get rid of that thing before it compels you to start investing in tie dye ties and jackets with fringe!” You groaned as you pressed your hand against your face.

“Just … please, baby,” you whimpered behind your palms, walking closer toward him. Your hands then found new purchase on his shoulders as you looked up to him, giving him the most pitiful puppy pout you could offer with a twitching eyebrow. “Don’t let my hours on Photoshop go to waste.” From the silence and way that he’d tucked his lips in, you half-heartedly hoped that maybe this had gotten the point across. His poor long-suffering girlfriend, at the end of her rope …

“Okay, okay, it won’t,” he gave in. You gasped quietly.

“Really?” you asked. Your query was dripping with optimism as cocked your head. You could feel your heart practically bubbling with joy as Sonny nodded.

“Yeah …” He placed a hand on one of your own and gave it a gentle squeeze. “… Because the boys down at the station are gonna love this. Can’t wait to show ‘em!” In that moment, everything plummeted with an unceremonious flop: Your glimmer of hope, your heart, and your entire body as you fell to your knees in defeat. You couldn’t even release a dramatic, long, “no” to complement your collapse. Too bad; would’ve been nice to use that to drown out the sound of Sonny enthusiastically ringing his mom to tell her about the interesting welcome home he’d received.

It was amazing how much could change with time, how fleeting it could feel under the right circumstances.

For Sonny, all of it flew by so quickly: In the span of only a few weeks, he’d been transferred from Brooklyn to Queens. And after only a week, Queens had passed him off to Manhattan’s Special Victims Unit. And where Sonny went, so did that mustache, now a few months old. And as much as you wanted to continue openly stewing and scheming about it, time had a way of casting events that could change one’s mindset.

The implications of Sonny’s transfers leave much to be double-guessed and while Sonny seemed to be taking the frequent pass-offs in stride, a part of you couldn’t help but worry for him. Sonny was a bit of an acquired taste and unfortunately, not many in his line of work seemed to have the palate for him. As his loving girl, it sort of became like a duty to assure that when he came home, there was an air of comfort and understanding to greet him. Particularly when his recounting of his first day suggested that he wasn’t exactly candidate for teacher’s pet.

You gave him all that you could, including massages, kisses, cuddles, extra nuzzles as he slept. But, most notably, you cut back on the mustache reproaching to the point of it becoming dormant. Oh, certainly, you inwardly groused about the way corn nibblets would stick to it during dinner, or how it prickled your skin even when you were the one directing the lip to lip kisses. But nary a word was spoken that admitted to such (though you had a feeling that Sonny had an idea of it). You almost could’ve sworn that you had begun to sink into a pit of bitter acceptance as the days went by. After all, there was only so much kissing and cuddling one could do because they just became numb to that face-bristle …

Thank God that turned out to not be the case. The moment Sonny indicated that he might’ve found a home in the Manhattan SVU was the moment the cobweb-covered cogs in your Plotting Department began whirring back to life. Unfortunately, with all the time that had passed (and the schemes used before), there was only so much you could still use.

It was as you left work one evening and decided to stop by a McDonald’s for a drink that an idea dawned upon you …

Sonny was hungry more than he was tired that day. All the running around and sudden calls for leads on the current investigation ultimately left little time for him to truly relish his lunch break and only burn off more energy. By the end of his shift, all he wanted to do was go home and relax. Besides, today was your day to cook and he couldn’t wait to see what you had in store.

But as he walked through the door and called out to say that he was home, he realized something: No smells, no sounds. Not of the timer ticking as the oven warmed a casserole, not of the stove sizzling a greased skillet, and not even the humming of the microwave. There wasn’t even the smell of hot takeout wafting in the air.

He glanced back down at the tile flooring of the walk-in area. Your shoes were there, so there was no chance that you were running behind. And the entire point of the whole “I cook this day, you cook that day” compromise was exactly that: a compromise, something to be upheld on both ends! Something was amiss.

With cautious steps, Sonny walked further into the apartment.

“Honey?” he called out. He glanced in every direction until – His eyes narrowed as his brows creased. Did … Did he just see movement from the kitchen? He ventured closer. And sure enough, there you were, elbows on the table, fingers laced, expression completely nonchalant as if there weren’t a bunch of McDonald’s cups taking up a good portion of the little nook.

You didn’t even give him a chance to ask what the hell was going on before you greeted him with a calm, “Hello, Sonnford. I’ve been expecting you.”

Sonny pursed his lips as his eyes flickered from McDonald’s cup to McDonald’s cup. He counted eight.

“Uuuhhh …” he managed. He waved a finger to point at the general group of cups. “What … is all this exactly?” He almost wanted to regret asking you that, given the smirk you now wore.

“I’m so glad you asked,” you purred. Slamming your hands on the table, you nearly knocked your chair over as you jumped out of your seat to cry out, “Dominick Nathaniel Carisi!” Now it was your turn to point a finger at him.

“That’s not my middle name and you know it – ”

“I challenge you to a . . . to a wager!” If he weren’t so hungry, Sonny would’ve found the evil grin you were attempting to be cute… . Ah, hell: It was still a bit cute, if not worrisome. He inhaled deeply as he began to rub his eyes with.

“Okay, okay … So I’m guessin’ that the wager has something to do with these …?”

“Milkshakes,” you finished wickedly. “Courtesy of our good friend, Ronald D. McDonald.” This prompted a piteous groan from your would-be opponent as he lulled his head back and squeezed his eyes shut.

“You couldn’t have just gotten some burgers while you were there? Not even some fries!?” he whined.

“Hush, take this seriously,” you glowered. “Anyway!” (You regained composure) “Here’s the deal: We have, as you can see, eight milkshakes – four for you, four for me. Whoever drinks the most or all of them in the shortest amount of time wins. So! If you win, I’ll accept our pet gorilla thumb as a part of our imploding family. But if I win …” You made a grin that would make any mustache-twirling villain proud. “If I win, that keratin hellspace taking residency on that mug of yours has to go.” You paused for thought. “And you can never grow another one. Capiche?”

The pitiful look on Sonny’s face was still quite present as he pouted at you. But, as always, the usual attempt for sympathy was ruined by that hairy food trap that led you down this road of insanity. You would not be swayed any longer. And judging by the heavy sigh of defeat, Sonny knew this.

“I don’t suppose there’s any dinner to eat before this, huh?” he asked, daring to hope.

“Nope,” you confirmed, popping the ‘p.’ “Just you, me, and these milkshakes: The thick, mortal enemy of mustaches.”

“If I agree to this, can I order a pizza or something?”

“Do whatever you like, you’re still gonna do this.”

“…” The things people do for love. That, and at this point it became evident that there was no way out of your little harebrained scheme. Besides, he supposed, something in the stomach was better than nothing. Or waiting nearly an hour for anything. Might as well. Dropping his briefcase to the floor, he trudged up to the seat across from you, prompting your smile of victory.

“Glad you could join us, Sonnspot,” you teased. Sonny rolled his eyes. When he became adjusted enough, you straightened your posture. “Ready?”

Sonny grunted. Good enough.

“Good!” you chirped. “On your mark!” You leaned yourself in closer to the table. “Get set!” Sonny readied his hand to grab the milkshake cup closest to him. You inhaled. “G – ”

“ – ooooohhh …” you whimpered against the table. As you rubbed a hand over your aching stomach, a hiccup rattled your body. Not enough to cause nausea, but just enough for you to cringe from the additional discomfort it had created. Needless to say, the wager was a bust. A huge bust. Part of you wished you had the ability to go back in time and throw a milkshake at your past self for even coming up with the idea. Of course, this was an impossibility: Not only because of the issues arising from quantum mechanics and theories, but also because there were no milkshakes to spare.

You could hear the sound of a straw slurping up the last of its cup’s contents, creating a death rattle. This was then followed by the sound of its producer expelling a sigh of relieved refreshment. This was the sound of a happy Sonny Carisi. One who, while maybe not fed a proper meal, was just glad to have something in his system after a long day of work. Well, five and a half somethings.

You’d only made it through two and a half milkshakes before your body betrayed you and made you throw in the towel. Sonny was all too happy to take the remaining treats off of your hands. Apparently, milkshakes stood a chance with this barber-dodging buffoon. You maneuvered your head just enough to glare at him. How could you be so foolish as to challenge a man from an Italian family to an eating competition? He’d grown up eating copious amounts of food – heavier, in fact! It was that damn, skinny physique of his that threw you for so many curveballs. You meant to glare even harder at him but then failed when another pang of pain bubbled in your gut.

The grunt of discomfort managed to take Sonny out of his state of satisfactory and shoot you a worried look.

“Oh, you really don’t look so good,” he stated bluntly. You narrowed your eyes weakly and huffed as hard as you could without making your stomach quiver.

“No shit,” you said through clenched teeth.

“You oughta go lie down,” he instructed.

“Ugh,” you groaned, but found yourself too uncomfortable to be difficult. You’d barely managed to push your body upwards when you felt your boyfriend already by your side.

As he gingerly took your hands and tried to hold you up, he uttered, “Why don’t you go lay down in bed, huh? I’ll get you some Pepto or something and a heating pad.” To his surprise, you still didn’t offer a fight. Instead, you sighed, hanging your head as you barely nodded it. You were in no state to make an argument of any kind.

After all, you’d lost the wager.

You’d been stuck in the fetal position for what felt like hours. Not only to further press the heating pad against your throbbing tummy, but also because it was the best position to deliver the notion that you were hanging your head in shame. Not that Sonny seemed to notice, of course. But then, did you really want him to?

Truth be told, you weren’t sure. All that you did know was that you felt awful and in more than just a physical way. It wasn’t even really about the fact that you’d lost. It was more so about the fact that you’d lost a competition that was meant to boss your loved one around, make him change something, and that he still treated you fine anyway. For God’s sake, the man came home tired and hungry, the last thing he probably wanted was to have his seemingly loving girlfriend demand that he chug four milkshakes for the right to keep a mustache of all things! And yet, he cooperated anyway. Not only that, but he didn’t brag or anything; he just took one look at you and immediately went to work taking care of you. Basically, Sonny was just being a good boyfriend.

But if that was the case, then what the heck were you? You’d been spending the last two hours wondering this as you lay in bed, trying to soothe away the pain that you’d caused yourself. And so far, the only conclusions you could come up with were bad ones: You were the type of girlfriend who’d try to flood her boyfriend with facial hairless actors to invoke jealousy; edited images of her boyfriend as a 70s porno stache-wearing uncle then plastered them everywhere; and then went out to buy a bunch of milkshakes for a wager that she couldn’t even win when she could’ve been spending that time or money holding up her end of the every-other-day compromise. And all over some mustache!

You couldn’t even hold back your criticisms of it unless it was out of pity. You were just so wrapped up in the superficial looks of your beau that you barely acknowledged his consistent kindness and humor towards you as anything other than a nuisance whenever they foiled your plans.

What a horrid girlfriend!

You would have curled further into yourself if it was possible. Maybe … Maybe you really were the one in the wrong for not accepting that unshaven bushy blunder. It was at this moment that the bedroom door creaked open quietly before closing just as gently, alerting you of the man of the hour’s arrival. By now, it was probably time for him to turn in. You felt bad; he was going to bed filled with milkshakes instead of a nice, healthy meal. You didn’t dare look at him, ashamed. He said nothing as he walked over to his side of the bed, nor as he caused the mattress to dip. He was probably unsure of what to say; maybe didn’t even feel that it was his job to say anything. Fair enough.

But you just couldn’t think of the right words to say. And so you remained quiet, even as he leaned over to you and placed a kiss against your cheek.

…

Wait.

Your eyes nearly bulged in their sockets as the sensation of the kiss dwelled and burrowed into your skin. It was soft. It was smooth. It was … hairless?

Your brain wasn’t fast enough in its efforts to stop your body from making the sudden movements of unfurling and flipping to your side to face him. But for the split second that you could observe him before the milkshakes inside hit the walls of your stomach, your suspicions were proven correct.

There he was. Your Sonny: Freshly showered and, most importantly, freshly shaven. And now, due to your jolting, newly startled.

“Whoa,” he said, placing a hand on your waist. “Easy there! I’m glad you’re finally moving after all this time but remember to take it ea – ”

“Your upper lip!” you exclaimed. “It’s still there!” Your fingers flew up to press against the hairless flesh. Smooth as a baby.

Sonny offered a gentle chuckle. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Man alive, you never knew it’d be possible to be in love with such a physical feature. But you supposed that absence made the heart grow fonder in some respects. And yet, in your enthusiasm, you had to ask …

“But … why?” you inquired. Sonny raised his brows in question. “Why’d you shave it? Why now, after all that time I spent pestering you about it?”

“Oh,” he hummed. He sighed through his nose, the hot air hitting your fingertips. “Well … If I may say so, I was honestly getting a bit worried about you.” Now came your turn to expression confusion.

“Worried? Why? I was the one making a jackass out of herself over an upper lip toupee. If anything, I should be apologizing to you: I was over here, doing all kinds of things to make you change something you liked and all you ever did was go along with it like it was nothing.”

Sonny winced. “Yeah, but that’s because they were all nothing. I mean, until now. At first, it was cute stuff. Simple stuff,” he elaborated. “Things like trying to make me jealous or pointing out funny stuff – like kinda thing doesn’t really bother me. But milkshake-drinking competitions? You were making yourself sick. I know it was a small start but I didn’t want it to progress, so …” He shrugged.

“So…you got rid of it so I wouldn’t hurt myself?” you finished.

“Yup.”

“… That was all I had to do!?”

“Don’t take this lightly, (Y/N), you had me worried that you were gonna hurl!”

“ ‘Gonna’? I’m still very much at risk for that, thank you very much.”

“Awwww,” he cooed, offering you that pout of his. It was the first time in ages that it had some sort of hold on you. “You want a tummy rub?” At this offer, you lit up. Well, as much as your sickly state would allow.

“Yes, please,” you cheered. As you felt a familiar hand replace the heating pad and gently rub the pain away in circles, you decided to use one last act of selfishness in regards to this whole mustache fiasco. Something to indulge un after having been so long without them.

“Um, Sonny?” you whispered.

“Yes, doll?” Sonny whispered back.

You pressed your fingertips together as you stumbled over your already sheepish words. “Would you … I mean, if it’s not too much to ask – ”

“Tummy kisses?”

“… Yes, please.”

“Will do.”

Epilogue:

For the way that the evening had started off, you were quite pleased with how it was winding down: With your boyfriend, baby-faced once more, rubbing and kissing the pain away from your upset stomach, the bristles of his untamed shrew of a mustache no longer there to keep you from requesting such. At this point, you were practically purring like a kitten. What a great way to end the day … Speaking of which:

“Before I forget: how was work, babe?” you yawned.

“Hm? Oh …” Sonny thought. “Well … Rollins – that tough blonde? – she went and suggested I do all the UC work whenever they need a john. She said that – ” He stopped. “I mean, she said that I do a good job at it.” As much as you were enjoying the tummy rubs and kisses that he was so artfully applying, that sudden pause had you hooked.

“Mmmm. I doubt that, Sonny. You never know when to stop talking, so what was with that pause?”

“Nothing,” he insisted.

“Sonny,” you said, pushing yourself up just enough to peer down at him. “Are you really going to lie to your sickly girlfriend?” Honestly, with how long he remained quiet for, there was a possibility that he intended to. But the defeated exhale eventually told you otherwise.

“Okay, okay,” he gave in. “The reality was … Rollins was tellin’ me I should always be the john for UC work because my mustache really sold the image of ‘sleaze bag.’”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. You didn’t want to make fun of him, judging from the tone he’d delivered that sentence in, but also you just plain didn’t want to further provoke the stomachache that was ebbing away at his touch.

“Oh?” you coughed gently. “I thought that that was why you’d grown that thing in the first place.”

“Well, yeah,” he shrugged one shoulder. “But after a while, I just thought it made me look cool; like one of the boys.”

“Uh-uh,” you said. “So basically, what I’m getting at is that you didn’t just shave your mustache for me, but initially because some big kid at the playground bullied you.” The tummy rubs stopped. You glanced down once more to see Sonny pursing his lips as his eyes looked elsewhere.

“I … wouldn’t put it that way, but – ”

“Save it,” you sighed before flopping back against the pillows. “You now owe me a tummy kiss and rub for every darn, dirty kiss you ever gave me while you had that food trap hanging over your mouth.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

[rrrawrf-writes]

nah, I'm kidding, 1 & 33 for the drabble thing, please!

i was growing concerned

1.  “That’s starting to get annoying.”

33.  “Are you sure that’s the decision you want to make?”

(tw for threatening someone’s pets?)

“That’s starting to get annoying.”

“Oh, really?” Winn gave the back of Rembrandt’s seat another hard kick. “Wouldn’t’ve -” kick “- guessed -” kick “- it.”

Rembrandt leaned forward, hissing as a bit of coffee splashed out of his travel mug and onto his wrist. Weston, in the driver’s seat, shot Rembrandt a sidelong look, and then glanced up at Winn in the rearview mirror. “You should really stop.”

“Shut up, you — prick.” Winn squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, his cuffed hands making an uncomfortable lump between his spine and the back of the seat. Weston had even buckled him in before they started driving. “Let me outta the bloody car.”

“Prison made him even more of a child than he used to be,” Rembrandt muttered, as Winn kicked his seat again. He considered shooting his other leg, but they were too close to the heist to jeopardize their only thief. “Maybe I’ll tell Mr. Huntington to start kicking your dogs, Yale.”

“They’d tear him apart,” Winn retorted, but he finally subsided, slouching as best as he could in his seat. “Roll down the window.”

“It’s roasting outside,” Weston said. “No.”

“Mr. Weston, get out the gear, please.” Rembrandt leaned against the side of his car, looking up at the facility they had come to rob. It was supposedly abandoned, but everyone steered clear of it anyway - no one wanted to tr and break into one of Wildcard’s lairs. They were famously riddled with traps and lethal mindgames; Rembrandt wouldn’t have even considered the possibility of sending someone in there. At least, not until Winn fell right into his lap.

Weston moved around to the trunk of the car, while Winn skulked in the back seat. His door was open, but no one had yet bothered to undo his handcuffs, or the seatbelt. Rembrant normally wouldn’t have trusted mere cuffs to keep Winn contained, but he’d made sure to force the ex-con to change clothes completely, and then for added measures, stuck a pair of mittens over Winn’s hands. It was childish, but effective.

“Do you need another look at the building plans?” Rembrandt asked.

“I’m not going in there.”

Rembrandt just sipped at his coffee, rolling his eyes when he was sure neither Winn or Weston could see such an immature expression. “Oh. I wish you had told me that earlier. I’ll pass word along to Mr. Huntington, then. I’ll make sure he gives your dogs a clean death.”

Winn’s head snapped up. Rembrandt couldn’t believe that he had to resort to threatening a man’s pets to get what he wanted, but Winn always had been easy to manipulate. The idiot didn’t seem to have anyone else dear to him.

Weston interrupted their conversation by thumping a hard-sided case down on the hood of the car. Rembrandt winced, and looked at him sternly - he hoped Weston hadn’t scratched the paint.

“All right,” he said, “let him out.”

Winn frowned at the all-too familiar backpack Weston set on the hood of the car. “That’s mine,” he said, and the instant Rembrandt undid his handcuffs, he snatched it and unzipped the top. His grappling gloves were in there, and his lockpicks - the nice set. He’d left all this behind in a storage unit he hadn’t been able to get to since getting out of prison. “Where’d you get this?”

“Gary told us where to find it.” Rembrandt smirked as he leaned against the car again, as if it were impossible for the man to stand on his own two feet. Winn’s jaw clenched, and his hands tightened around the backpack’s straps. “We found your motorcycle, as well. I had Mr. Huntington drive it back to Boston. He was very impressed.”

“You let him what?” Winn looked up from his old backpack - he even had the mask in there, something ridiculous that he wanted to burn - and stared at Rembrandt. “I’m taking that back. Did he wreck it? He’s too big!”

“We’re wasting time.” Rembrandt nodded towards the case. “Hurry up, Yale. If I don’t have those codes in my hands in three hours, I’m going -”

“You’re gonna call that bastard and make him shoot my dogs,” Winn interrupted waspishly. “I know.”

He jerked the case away from Weston, the corners of it scraping against the car. Winn reveled in Rembrandt’s wince as he dug an earpiece out of the foam inside of the casing, jamming it into his ear. “I ——- hate you.”

“Here, let me,” Weston said in a quiet voice, as Winn pulled a digital watch out of the case. He set his jaw and let Weston wrap it around his wrist; the man was entirely too close, though. Before he drew away, he slipped something into Winn’s front pocket, a hard rectangle. A mobile phone. Winn opened his mouth, and Weston only shook his head, shooting a look over Winn’s shoulder, and to their erstwhile boss.

Rembrandt checked his own watch. “Thirteen minutes to one-thirty. You’d better get moving, Wings.”

Rembrandt had put a tiny camera in Winn’s new shirt, and he was more impressed than he would ever let show. Five years in prison had not done much at all to dull Winn’s skill - he navigated Wildcard’s abandoned labyrinth of traps with - well, Rembrandt wouldn’t call it ease. It wasn’t grace, either, but Winn’s panicked scrambling had a certain  elegance to it. Rembrandt had never gotten to really see Winn truly in action, and now he regretted that the little bastard’s skills came with a cocky, self-absorbed arrogance and a truly bizarre moral code that prevented him from being a reliable lackey.

It was truly a pity that Rembrandt would have to kill him once he got the codes, but it would only be a matter of time before Winn betrayed him again. After this job, the man had to die.

Weston leaned over his shoulder to watch Winn’s progress on Rembrandt’s tablet. He was making good time - it had only been a little over an hour when Winn gained access to the facility’s inner sanctum.

“Could you have gone any slower?” Rembrandt asked archly. Winn let out a hoarse bark of laughter that sounded a little tinny over the earpiece.

“I’d like to see you do any of that,” he muttered, panting a little.

The room Winn had finally entered was a large, echoing space, filled with dozens upon dozens of enormous, square storage containers. Winn ignored them all, heading straight down the aisle to the center of the room. Lights clicked on after his first few steps, though more than one lightbulb fizzed and flickered. 

There was a metal desk with a single computer in the middle of the room - but the computer was huge. Three large monitors angled around the desk, which was dusty from lack of use. Winn ran a hand through his scruffy hair as he circled the desk and computer, inspecting it for any last-minute traps left behind. He couldn’t find anything, though, not in this room, so after a few moments, he dropped down into the chair to catch his breath.

Despite being inactive for well over five years, the computer started up the second Winn’s thumb hovered over the POWER button. He pulled out the flash drive Rembrandt had given him, marked with Wildcard’s symbol. However the arms dealer had gotten this, Winn didn’t want to know. There was dried blood in the cracks of the flash drive.

“Just plug it in,” Rembrandt said impatiently, “it should take care of any passwords or firewalls.”

Winn rolled his eyes. He stuck the memory stick into a port and sat back. “This was way too easy,” he said, in spite of the tears and scorch marks on his clothes from a few too many brushes with death (or at least, permanent disability). “You gonna give me another challenge after this, Remy?”

He could just imagine the frustrated look on Rembrandt’s face at the old nickname. The bastard’s voice was far too smooth, though, when he answered, “Oh, certainly. You’ll have plenty of fun.”

I’m going to die after this. Winn stared gloomily up at the computer as code ran across the screens. Rembrandt was too smart to let him run loose. If Winn didn’t end up getting shot after all, he’d probably be chained up in some box, on hand for the next time Rembrandt needed a tool.

“Who are you texting?” Rembrandt asked - but Winn’s hands were laced behind his head as he waited for the codes to download.

“Nobody,” Weston said. A second later, the phone Weston had slipped into Winn’s pocket buzzed. Frowning, Winn pulled it out, and opened up a picture message.

It was Eli and Kawai. The former had his arms around two dogs - Braith was enthusiastically licking his face - and the latter stood in the background, her arms crossed as she glared down at a tied-up Huntington.

Winn stared, and then a grin crept over his face. He angled the phone so that the camera Rembrandt had stuck on his shirt could catch the picture just right.

“What were you saying about my dogs, Remy?”

Rembrandt stared at his tablet. “Where did you get that phone?” he snapped, once he found his voice again. “Who the hell are those people?”

“Friends,” Winn said, the smugness coming in loud and clear even if his voice was a little crackly.

“You don’t have friends.”

“Neither do you,” Winn pointed out. “Ha. Brilliant. Hey, look, there’s a self-destruct option in this computer.”

The camera angle shifted; Winn must have shifted his shirt to point it at the screen. A red line of code near the bottom right of the screen flashed at him. Rembrandt was no programmer, and neither was Winn, but the purpose was clear in the red COMPUTER SELF-DESTRUCT SEQUENCE.

Rembrandt’s breath caught. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“You wanna bet?” Winn’s face appeared on the screen; he had managed to finagle the camera out of its spot. He smiled at Rembrandt, but it was cold and unnerving. The expression didn’t fit on his face. “Don’t f—— threaten my pets, Remy.”

“We’re in the middle of the desert, Winn,” Rembrandt said, trying his best to keep his composure. “I’ll just drive away now, and maybe even call up a couple capes. Do you think Starblast would be happy to hear that a known thief was trying to run away with some of Wildcard’s greatest weapons?”

“They couldn’t catch me,” Winn said, but he looked briefly uncertain.

“It’s miles and miles to the nearest speck of civilization, Winn,” Rembrandt said smoothly. “If they didn’t catch you, the heat would kill you before you got anywhere.”

“No one -”

“And,” Rembrandt said, cutting Winn off. “I may not have any friends, Winn, but I recognize yours. That woman is from Mercury Independent - do you really think they’re here to do you a favor, Winn?”

Winn narrowed his eyes. Rembrandt gave him a thin smile. “My people will easily catch up to them, Winn. Think. Are you certain that’s the decision you want to make?”

“I’m certain you’re a —— son of a —-,” Winn snapped, and Rembrandt knew that he was winning. Winn resorted to insults when he felt like things were out of control - which, granted, they usually were.

“Mr. Weston and I will be driving away in fifteen minutes, Winn,” Rembrandt said coolly. “And I’ll be calling my people in two, and Starblast and Scorchstorm in five. You might want to be out of there and in my car before then.”

“Actually,” Weston said. Rembrandt started to look up from his tablet, and froze when he felt the barrel of a gun cold against the back of his neck. Sam continued, “We’re not going anywhere.”

tagging @gingerly-writing since she just loooooOOOoOOOOoOOOooves rembrandt so much (and sam)

[funkymeihem-fiction]

Chapter 14

The junkers watched, heads moving back and forth steadily as they followed her pacing. She’d been walking in circles for at least a few minutes now, from one side of the tiny room to the other whilst muttering in her native language and her gaze somewhere far off. Neither of them opted to say anything further on the matter, and even Junkrat seemed to know to zip it lest he further the mental tailspin. Neither he nor Roadhog had cared much beyond a ‘Crikey, look at that’ when they had realized what happened, but neither of them had the history or loyalty to the Overwatch cause that Mei had…nor the anxiety about schedules and stolen lifespans. They figured it was best not to interrupt. She finally turned to them after a while, still looking a bit shocked and lost. “We…we need to call someone. We need to tell Winston- tell everyone that we’re okay. We’re not gone. We’re still alive.” “Workin’ on it, lovey. Place is just a bush ranger’s shit-heap, equipment here’s bodgy but I reckon I can get a signal out. But hey, we’re safe and we got provisions now. It’s near on noon so why don’t you go uh…I dunno, do what ladies do, freshen up? They got a tub and everything. And then Roadie’s gonna make us piggie pancakes. S’like regular pancakes, but they got like little ears and a face on ‘em, and then you put syrup around ‘em to make ‘em look dirty-” “But we’re still alive…” Mei wasn’t really listening, starting to wander back and forth again.

“Yeah. Yeah, we’re still alive, darl. You want to maybe have a sit-down or anything? Can go back to bed if you need? Uh, we had to ditch my teas but I can still make you a…something?” Junkrat gave his partner a bit of a baffled look, scratching his head in that telltale uncomfortable way. Roadhog looked between them, shrugged, and lumbered back into the kitchen. Junkrat scowled, sending a middle finger his way. “Thanks for the fuckin’ help, Streetpig! Yeah, just dump that shit all over her brains and leave! Yeah, great. Dipstick.” Mei finally turned his way, her expression still heartbroken. “I’m going to just…I guess I need to go think? Sorry. I’m sorry.” “You put her back in apology mode, Roadie you fucker!” Junkrat groaned, then went to warily approach her, offering out a hand. “Here, lookit. Gonna put you in the bathroom so you can get sorted, roight? It’ll make ya feel better. Hey, we’re all alive. You just sit back for a bit while I get the comms working, everything’s still good. You’re safe, I’m safe, Hog’s stupid arse is still safe, it’s good.” She let him take her by the hand and usher her towards the bathroom, nodding in a distracted way along with his words. “Sorry…No, you’re right. I guess it’s just all a bit startling. I know I didn’t have time to do any calculations during the storm but…four months wasn’t something I expected. At all. Four months. Four months went by. Gone. They’re gone. And they think we’re gone. Oh my gosh, I told them two weeks and we just vanish without a trace for so long? What if they think we’re dead? What if they tried to send help? What if-” She realized that she was entirely alone, standing and babbling to herself where Junkrat had left in her in the bathroom, and roughly patted at her cheeks to try and snap herself back into reality. She’d vaguely heard something about them all being safe for now. And they were. She had time to herself to try and work her way through it, and wandering around in a tizzy wouldn’t help. She made herself take several deep breaths, exhaling and counting to ten, before examining her surroundings. The bathroom was a tiny side room with that same awful faded wallpaper, with a bone-dry toilet and cracked sink and…she guessed technically it was a tub. When Junkrat had mentioned a tub, she had expected white porcelain or laminate, with scalding hot water and enough bubbles to smother her, perhaps a few rubber duckies for companionship… What she had was more of a wash bucket made of dull gray tin with handles on both sides, and a large plastic container of water sitting nearby. Another item caught her eye. A tube of toothpaste was sitting on the sink and she fell upon it eagerly, squeezing a dab out onto her fingertip. It had literally been months without a toothbrush, and she was eager for clean teeth. Not that she had a toothbrush here either- and she wouldn’t have used a suspicious outback safehouse’s toothbrushes even if there had been one- but a clean mouth was a godsend at this point. She began rubbing the toothpaste all over her teeth and gums, sighing happily. A tingling sensation filled her mouth, followed by a slight stinging. Goodness, Australian toothpastes must have been made stronger than what she was used to. It almost hurt. But at least her mouth would finally feel fresh and clean, and minty and…was that a hint of iron? Her brows furrowed and she held the sides of her jaw, grasping for a nearby water jug as she poured some into her mouth, swishing furiously before spitting. The water splattered into the basin of the sink, swirled with toothpaste foam and tinged with red. She stared at it for a moment before spitting again; less toothpaste, even more red. Blood. Her gums were bleeding. That was certainly concerning…But then again, she had just put strange toothpaste in a mouth that hadn’t seen proper hygiene in who knows how long. Making a face, she swished with more water and spat until it ran clean. Now for the rest of her. She struggled to lift one of the heavy water canisters, spilling a bit onto the floor as she managed to haul it to the edge of the tub, watching as it made loud glug-glug-glug noises and filled the little washtub. It may not have had floral-scented bubbles or rubber duckies, but it looked heavenly all the same. She climbed in and tried to relax, though it was just barely large enough to fit her kneeling down, and worked on scrubbing the dirt and dust from her poor battered body. The water soon ran brownish-gray, revealing skin covered in bruises and sunburns. Ugh. There was no shampoo in sight, but she tried to rinse her hair out as best she could, dunking it under the water and raking her hands through it. It was going to feel so good, finally free of all that grime… She dumped more water over her head before lifting upright, sputtering and wiping at her face before staring down at the dirty water, doing a double take. Dirty didn’t even begin to describe it. It was filthy, and there were stray hairs floating all over the surface. In fact, there were a lot of stray hairs. A lot- a LOT- of stray hairs. Too many. She hauled her dripping body out of the tub, slipping on the linoleum as she made a dash for the mirror. Standing in front of it and staring blankly at her sopping wet reflection, she lifted a hand and went to comb her fingers through her hair. They shed away at her touch, falling away in entire clumps, and her hand began shaking as it drew back with an entire chunk of dark locks still attached, leaving a bald patch behind on her afflicted scalp as it fell away onto the floor. She couldn’t help herself, grabbing another lock of hair and pulling, watching as it came away too, and again, until the floor was littered with brown strands. She looked down at her shaking hands, then back at her own shellshocked and silent reflection, before she opened her mouth and screamed.

It was high-pitched and perhaps a little overly feminine, almost comical. But it certainly caught attention. There was a ruckus of noise outside as a peg leg clattered down the hallway, before a loud pounding shook the door. “Oi, Mei! Mei, what’s wrong!” She felt over her bald spots, mouth moving but no sound coming out, even as the pounding outside continued until the door almost came loose in its bolts. There was the sound of feet moving away, before a loud announcement of, “I’m kickin’ the door down!” She found her voice again. “Don’t! Don’t k-” The feet were already moving, running straight at the door with a loud and very heroic Reinhardt-inspired “HRRRAAAH!” before there was the sound of splintering wood. Instead of the door breaking open as expected, there was instead a piercing crack, as a metal peg went straight through the cheap plywood, the force of it shoving through all the way past the knee joint, followed by the crash of a body outside, falling to the floor. There was a moan, before Junkrat’s muffled voice sounded from the crack at the bottom of the door. “Ow! I forgot which foot I kicked with! I’m stuck! Mei, can you give my peg a push! Can you- Okay, Roadie’s here now! Roadie, bust it!” “No! I said not to-” There was the sound of much heavier footsteps, drowning out her protests, before the enormous junker thrust out one huge fist and gave the doorknob a love tap. The doorknob and locking mechanism shattered instantly as the door was pushed open, dragging the unlucky Junkrat on the floor on his back as he slid along with it, still caught by the knee joint. “We’re here, love! What’s the trouble!” For a moment they just stared at one another, Junkrat’s neck craning from his position on the ground and Roadhog bending over slightly to be able to see into the doorframe. Mei stood in front of the mirror, surrounded by scattered clumps of hair and as naked as the day she was born, shining wet as she vainly tried to cover herself with both arms. She locked eyes with Junkrat, whose pupils dilated as his cheeks turned red, his jaw dropping open senselessly as if he had beheld the gates of paradise themselves. “AAAAAAHHHHH!” Mei promptly began screaming again, hunching over and backing away as she looked for anything nearby to hide behind. “Get out! Get out of here!” Roadhog bellowed and physically flailed, lifting a hand to cover the eyes of his mask as he groped blindly for the doorknob, finding it and pulling the door shut as hard as he could. Unfortunately this did not work as well as expected, and merely set Junkrat to shrieking as his leg was still firmly caught in the plywood and dragged him along, smashing his torso between the door and the frame several times as he kicked and struggled, finally managing to wrench his peg back the other way and diving to freedom as Hog slammed the door closed behind him. He lay there holding his side, groaning as fresh bruises spread over his ribs. “Think that coulda gone better. Hooley dooley, though, did you see, uh…She was all…” He flopped over onto his back, staring at the popcorn ceilings. “Like an angel, Roadie, like in the picture books. But ya know, more shiny and wet and real mad at us.” “Hair fell out.” “Huh?” “Her hair was falling out. It was on the floor.” “Ooooh…Yeah, she probably ain’t used to that part. What do we do? How do you treat a lady’s first radiation sick? Is there some sort of gentleman thing I gotta do? Do I like, leave ‘er alone or try to comfort her or what? Should I go back in there? I probably should-” Roadhog caught his hand as it moved towards the knob, grasping Rat’s entire bony arm and proceeding to drag him away down the hall. “No.”

Mei had found a small and rather unpleasantly crunchy old towel in a cabinet, and had wrapped it around her as she sat on the lid of the toilet. She was shaking all over, staring at a wet clump of hair in her fist as she felt over the bald spots around her scalp and tasted more blood in her mouth, though she couldn’t tell if it was her gums or from biting her tongue during the chaos. She felt a little odd. Not just the hunger in her gut or the certain radiation poisoning she had, or even the remnants of the ice from her cryo-stasis. This was darker and more primal and made her uncomfortable. She was mad. No, not just mad. Furious. No, more than furious. Enraged. Irate. Riled. Fènnù. Shēngqi. No, not even those. There was no word she knew in English, Mandarin, or any other language for the type of anger she felt. Usually her anger was accompanied by tears and frustration. This was something deeper and more sinister. She didn’t want to cry. She couldn’t even cry, there were no tears in her. This wasn’t just anger. It was hatred. She hated everything. She wasn’t the sort to hate. In fact, it was almost alien to her. If there was something wrong, she normally bustled about to try and fix it instead, or encouraged others to see the brighter side of things no matter how dreary the prospects. Rarely, if ever, had she ever felt this deep and hopeless void of anything else but hatred. She hated that her hair was falling out and her mouth tasted like blood and she was bruised and burned all over. She hated Australia. She hated that she had ever wanted to come here. She hated the stupid, brutish people in this stupid, brutish country. She hated herself for thinking they were ever worth helping. She hated Winston for letting her come here even though she’d forced him to. She hated Junkrat. She hated Roadhog. She hated this entire horrible roadtrip. She hated Bobbero and his stupid ugly teeth, and the way he’d tried to kill Jamison and gave them that shitty van. She hated Tilda and her bikers for making her kill them. She hated that she had lost four more months of her life, four months of time that she would never get back, added on to the life that had already been taken from her. She hated that she even cared about these horrible storms, she should have just let them rage! Rage and let them wipe out this whole godforsaken continent! She stood, hands balled into trembling fists. Most of all she hated that she was feeling hate. That she’d been driven to this and punished for wanting to do something good with her remaining life, and instead more had been stolen from her. Not knowing what else to do, she whirled around and lashed out, slapping a palm against the mirror above the sink. She glanced up and saw her reflection, red-eyed and bruised and so tired looking, with raggedy patches of her bare scalp all over. She slapped her reflection, slamming her hand against the rattling mirror several times until her fist suddenly balled up and she punched it as hard as she could. Even in her greatest rage she was weak, and instead of shattering into a billion satisfying pieces, it merely dented inward and suffered a few small cracks. Of course. The one thing in Australia that she wanted to break, and she couldn’t even accomplish that. She felt like she should want to cry, but just wasn’t able. She wanted to make it all go away, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t do anything. So she sat down on the floor, amongst the scattered locks of her hair, and tried to ignore her own dark thoughts.

Mei didn’t emerge from the bathroom for hours. Junkrat had tried once or twice to knock gently at the door and ask if things were all right, but received no answer. Roadhog told him to just wait it out and went about his business. But Junkrat was not very good at waiting. Instead he had tried to think of various ways he could cheer her up. Hog had immediately vetoed the idea of grenade juggling, which irked Junkrat because he had become extremely good at juggling and practiced often when bored, and the grenades were the most exciting things to juggle and would really wow her, but Hog still said no. He wished he had been able to bring his teas with him. Then he could have brewed an entire cauldron of strawberry tea with lots of tapioca pearls, just for her…but she wouldn’t keep it all for herself. No, she’d want to share it with him, and they could drink it together under the stars she liked so much and they could share tea-flavored kisses. But he wasn’t that fond of strawberry and he didn’t have his teas anyway, so that wouldn’t work. Barbecuing her favorite meal was right out. She didn’t like meat and the provisions at the safehouse were both out of date and not very glamorous. The only thing he had was explosives, which she didn’t like at all, and piles upon piles of broken equipment. So he began rummaging through the broken pieces of scrap and circuitry and piles of tools, trying to find something, anything, that might make her smile again. And he knew it had to be something good. He knew what to do when she was crying, he could comfort her pretty well if she was just crying. The fact that she was alone and silent…that was making him very worried indeed. Night had fallen by the time she finally vacated the little bathroom, shaking her head to Roadhog’s offers of something to eat and ignoring the pleading growls of her empty stomach. Instead she returned to the creaky iron bed, climbed in, and didn’t move for the rest of the night. Junkrat kept working.

She finally roused herself a little before noon, when the snarling of her gut reminded her that its hunger pangs could be ignored no longer. She moved with a dull slowness, tired from oversleeping and exhausted from her own anger, but when she opened the door, she found Junkrat waiting for her, one fist raised as if to knock. Blinking down at her, he tried a smile. “G’day, Mei! You really slept in! But there’s still time for piggie pancakes. And…” he sighed. “We need to talk.” She shook her head. “Jamison…Please don’t. I’m just tired. I’m tired of bad news. Please don’t say we need to talk.” “Well…your hair…” He began, and then cringed when she turned her head away as if he’d struck her. “Look. You know I think you’re gorgeous no matter how much hair you got. But me saying that won’t help you feel better because…I mean, look at me.” He leaned down to gesture to his owned scorched and balding areas on his head. “But I gotta say it anyway. And I know you feel like crap warmed over right now, because who wouldn’t? Like, everything’s that happened, it’s been shit. And it kind of reminds me of this one story I got…” She sighed, looking down at the floor. “Please, not one of your big stories again.” “So this one time, I was feeling real shit, just like you. I mean it was real bad. I was on the run from a gang because my ‘friends’ had sold me out for a zack. And when I say on the run, I mean literally, I was running for my life, which was real hard because I’d lost a leg and didn’t have this beauty of a replacement yet, so I just had a crutch. So, I guess more hobbling for my life. I didn’t have barely no supplies, no food, no water, no place to go, so I shacked up in some junkyard I found where less folks wanted to murder me. Ended up stealing food and water out of a junk dog’s bowl. Couldn’t make a fire, so ate it raw. Bam! Dysentary!” “W-what?” She was looking at him like he was crazy, but at least she’d stopped sighing and staring at the floor, so he continued. “So yeah! Spent that week shittin’ meself and crying. I’ll save you the gory details, love, it was bad. Plus, my stump was gettin’ real bad infected. So I’m stuck in this junkyard with a swollen gut, an oozy leg, dry tongue, and no pals left who don’t want to turn my carcass into coins. I got real mad. Got real mad at everything.” She just nodded. “Okay?” “So I decided I’d beat a tire with a stick I found, and it turned out that a bunch of bees had made a nest in there, and hittin’ them with a stick made them really mad. So they all came out at once, and it’s like…yeah, I hated life a lot at that point, but then I had to stop hating it because I was getting stung by a bunch of bees.” “Jamison, I have no idea where this story is going.” “Ya get it though!? I didn’t have time to hate life because I was still living, and I wanted to keep living so I was running from a bunch of bees! I mean, if I had really hated how things were that much, I would have just laid down right there and died from bees.” “Er, I really am not sure how this-” “But I didn’t! I got up and I hobbled my arse right out of there! I kept running from those bees! And you know what, I’m glad I did. Because after I got out of there, it got better. I met Hog and that was pretty good. I blew up some folks who wanted me dead, and that was also real good. I got to travel. I saw neat places and got to blow them up, really enjoyed that. Joined up with Overwatch which is okay I guess. But joining up with Overwatch means I got to meet you, darl! And let me just say…I’d gladly have a hundred days where I fucking hated existing and wished I wasn’t alive and where I’m getting stung by a bunch of bees, if it meant I got to meet you.” She turned away, but was smiling a little despite herself as she tried to piece together the sad absurdity of his story. “Your ideas of a pep talk are extremely strange and kind of romantic in a way I don’t understand at all.” He seemed heartened by her smile, nodding. “It’s like…yeah, shit sucks. But there’s some good shit too. It’ll get better, I can promise you that. I know you’re mad, real mad, about that ice eating up more of ya. But you lived through it all and you did so much that you can’t even see yet, and…you know, maybe don’t think about the ice eating you up. Because I was there, and Hog was too, and we were all together and it was more like we were all just taking a nap at the same time.” “That doesn’t even make sense but…thanks?” She offered out a hand and he took it, giving her a little reassuring little squeeze. “I’m sorry you have to keep doing this for me. I feel like I’ve been nothing but a pain for you two.” “It’s Oz, mate. Everything and everyone out here’s a pain. Including us. Me and Hog are just gonna get you through it with all four limbs still attached. Who knows, maybe one day you’ll look back on all this and laugh. That’s what I do. Besides, it ain’t all bad news. I got communications up! Aaaaaand someone else is real happy to see you! I think. I ain’t figured it all out yet.” He quickly lifted two fingers to his lips and whistled. There was a semi-familiar warbling sound as the little powder-blue drone hovered shakily into the bedroom, an antennae and circuit boards pasted onto its back. It was still dented on one side and its emoticon eyes were flickering and shifting in ‘I’m sick’ swirly symbols as it struggled to stay steady. “Snowball!” Mei brightened, holding out both arms. “You’re back!” The drone responded with a loud grinding noise that sounded more like an ancient modem starting up, rather than its usual cute beeps. It floated towards her, missed its mark, and went sailing over her head and into the far wall with a tone that sounded a bit like “BRRAAAPP.” She rushed forward to scoop it up as it tumbled down to the floor, hugging it anyway as its eyes shifted to a ^ ^ in happy recognition and uttering another loud flatulent mechanical noise. Junkrat coughed, looking to the side. “I mean, it’s a work in progress, but it’s sort of functioning again? So…it’s not all bad, right?” Her anger had subsided by now. It wasn’t entirely gone, had merely shifted into something a little more manageable. She was still frustrated and sad and far from happy, but she was at least feeling more herself again. She could already feel the tears coming on as she grasped Snowball in one arm and hugged the lanky junker with the other, uttering one of her horrid little undignified wet burbles against his chest. Junkrat’s grin returned fully, wrapping his embrace around her once more. “There she is! Aw, that’s it, you can cry and snot all over ol’ Junkrat as much as you like.” “I-I’m not s-snotty, and I’m s-sorry…” she sniffled noisily, defeating the point. “Sure. Come on, get it all out. We gotta make your SOS call later, but first…You have got to eat something, darl, your stomach sounds like it’s trying to get out of you.” He shepherded the red-faced Mei out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen. Roadhog was standing in front of the stove, wearing an apron that was far too small for him, its straps hanging uselessly at his sides as he gave his cook pan a flip. Junkrat sat Mei down before slumping down into a chair himself, beating a fist on the table. “Oi, Roadie! Give us a full stack! We’re starvin’ to death over here!” “Shut up,” the elder junker responded calmly, transferring the pig-shaped pancakes from pan to plate and setting them in the middle of the table. Junkrat barely gave Mei time to grab a few before he started dousing them in syrup and tearing into them with both hands. Mei and Roadhog chose to eat more primly, and with actual utensils. She was ravenously hungry, and even challenged Jamison for more, snagging a few more pancakes from the main stack before he could demolish them. Roadhog had partially lifted his pig-mask in order to eat once more, and without even looking her way, he paused and pulled something out of his pocket, holding it out to her. It was a makeshift headscarf, with two laces stitched on and bearing a patch with the familiar little pig-face symbol with the beady eyes and x-symbol nose on one side. He held out the crumpled mound of fabric in one huge palm, gesturing slightly up towards her patchy scalp. “Here.” She took it, running her thumb over the little pig before wrapping it around her head, tying the straps around the back of her neck and adjusting it so it hid the worst of it. It didn’t fix the problem, but not having to see it would certainly help more than he knew. Or maybe he did know. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Mm.” “BRRRT,” Snowball said.

[amongushq]

Welcome (back) to Among Us, MONA! DREW TANAKA ( with the faceclaim of  ANNA SAWAI ) has found shelter in NEW ATHENS, where we hope SHE will fit in nicely. Please make sure to check the “after applying” section of our navigation here!

The thing with Aphrodite is that she’s as much self-love and confidence than a person’s relationships with and to others: this is something we are shown here as Drew’s application isn’t as much about Drew as it is about all the people who have shaped her, from Silena to the boyfriend whose heart she was required to break, including her own mother because being a child of the oldest Olympian is no small feat. The permanent feature here is that Drew is putting on a mask, all the time. She’s working to turn herself into the person she wishes she were, to the point where we wonder if she even knows who she truly is. It will be interesting to see how the Hunt has changed her so far, and how it will continue to do so over time.

TW: violence, death (part iii); violence, blood, gore (part iv)

AND YOU ARE…?

i.

Silena pushed her trunk of belongings below her bed, almost fizzing with excitement. Her nails were still painted a raspberry color from a week ago when she was claimed, like a present left from their new mom, and they were long and almond-shaped.

“What are you going to do about those?” Drew asked. Her own nails were back to being square and plain. Silena gave her a quizzical look. “You said that you had to keep your nails short for violin,” Drew explained, her tone curious with no accusation.

“Oh, that.” Silena answered knowingly in her soft, lilting voice. “My dad let me quit before summer. Divorce guilt.” They shared a wicked, cosmismerating grin.

If anything was fate, it was their friendship. Silena and Drew were born exactly three years and one month apart (June and July 18th, respectively), had arrived at camp in the same year, and then were claimed within a week of each other. They had spent months in Hermes’ cabin together, spent many nights fantasizing who they might be, and now that they finally knew who they were, and that they were lucky enough to actually be sisters, they wore their parentage with pride.

Even though Silena was only twelve, boys were already starting to crush on her, with her summer-y dresses, her blue eyes, and her blonde hair. Her hair wasn’t actually that yellow, like she had poured half a bottle of Sun-In into it. It was black like Drew’s, but unlike Drew, Silena could now change her appearance at will. Drew was green with envy.

“Ladies!”

A single loud clap echoed across the cabin, and they turned to see their counselor, Ava, standing in the center of the room, smiling like a cat declawed.

“Now that you’ve finally got acquainted with our cabin, there’s only one thing left for you to know.”

ii.

For a son of Athena, Roman was good-looking. Everything from his diction to his wardrobe was polished; his father was not particularly wealthy, but Roman put painstaking effort into dressing as if they were. To Roman, appearance had always been a powerful weapon he had wielded, second only to his smarts, and he maintained it immaculately. From the crest sewn on his blazer that designated his private academy that he wore even at camp, to the secondhand sweater that he ironed by hand, to the frame of his eyeglasses, Roman was—elegant. It was not the right word for him, but it was close. At sixteen, he was two years older than Drew, but he was still fine boned and a little fragile looking, with blue eyes pretty enough to be a girl’s.

The first time she saw him, despite her better instincts, Drew had felt a flutter of interest. And when he had taken an interest in her, with her badly drawn pink eyeliner (she could never understand why she was still so terrible at makeup), instead of Silena, she felt like she was glowing again with her mother’s blessing.

If she knew how it would end before it had begun, was it wrong for her to have let it run its course?

“You want so badly to be like one of your siblings? So pretty and cool and cutthroat? It’s transparent, Drew. I guess it was too much to hope that one of you would be different, huh? That one of you would be different and have a heart.”

If she knew how it would end before it had begun, why had it affected her so much?

“You’re pathetic,” is what she had said, and she knew it was cliche, but her heart had all but stopped and any other witty reply was caught in her throat.

He sighed, took the frame of his glasses, and wiped the lenses on the fabric of his shirt. It was a nervous tic, something that Drew had grown accustomed to and something that she knew she would not see again.

“We could have been something good, really good, Drew.” Roman finished scratching his lenses and absentmindedly set the glasses on the table next to her notebook. He wiped his eyes on the back of his left sleeve. They looked at each other for a few moments. They both did not say anything because there was nothing left to say. Were those tears in Roman’s eyes? Maybe Drew should have said something.

The door opened and closed as Roman left, and half an hour later Silena sat down next to her on her bed and let Drew let a few teardrops drop into her shoulder and soak into her brown locks.

It wasn’t until later that night when she noticed that he left his glasses lying on the bedside table. The next week, when Drew had finally gathered the courage to find him again to return them, she found him sharing kisses with a girl from Demeter, sitting on the fallen log they used to sit on together when they were avoiding Capture the Flag .

“So pretty and cool and cutthroat,” the tape repeated, blasting from the speakers as soon as Drew opened the door to their cabin. Ava rolled on her bed nearly in tears with her laughter. Her green eyes met Drew’s conspiratorially. “I mean, I could see why you liked him, what a flatterer. Did you see him with Katie Gardner? What do you think she’d say if we played this for her and everyone else in camp after the bonfire?” She arched one perfectly drawn eyebrow at Silena’s disapproving look. “It’s just a thought, Suhlene. I do know that you’re the head now.”

Later that night, in the dark of their cabin, still warm from the feeling of love and family, Drew had whispered, “You’re seventeen, and you still haven’t passed yet.”

Silena, however, must have had already fallen asleep.

iii.

“Silena Beauregard knew better than that. Aphrodite is about love and beauty. Being loving. Spreading beauty. Good friends. Good times. Good deeds. Not just looking good. Silena made mistakes, but in the end she stood by her friends. That’s why she was a hero. I’m going to set things right, and I’ve got a feeling Mom will be on my side. Want to find out?”

For a brief flash, Drew considered taking the dagger from Piper’s hand and stabbing her in the chest. Not that she had paid any attention in combat classes on how to disarm an armed demigod, but she thought that she might have been able to accomplish it with the sheer force of surprise on her side. Or maybe Drew could have just commanded Piper to do it. But that could have gotten messy quickly since Piper could also charmspeak.

Piper had never even known Silena.

She hadn’t had to watch as one of her closest friends became someone altogether different. She hadn’t had to watch Silena find better friends, upend the entire cabin’s dynamics and break decades-old traditions when it suited her fancy. By the time Silena changed her hair back to black, and admitted to being in love with Charles Beckendorf, Drew almost couldn’t recognize her. Little did she know that Silena was keeping even worse secrets than just a boyfriend.

All Drew had ever wanted was a sister, someone to stick by her. Silena was the one who threw that away, and for what, for a boy. In the end, she might have stood by her friends, but she hadn’t stood by her sister. And in the end, wasn’t that the greater crime? She had betrayed a love between the strongest of friendships for a love that was fleeting and idiotic. Then, she had died because of it, and others had celebrated it. Maybe that, above all, is what Drew would never forgive her for.

Maybe that also made Drew melodramatic, but in the past, heroes had literally killed for less. All’s fair, after all.

No, she thought, Mom would be on my side.

“I… step down.”

The thing was, in another universe, at another time, Piper and Drew could have even been friends. She and Silena really were that similar.

iv.

They never feared Aphrodite until it was too late.

They spoke of her in poet’s words: seafoam, silk, pearls, roses; they paired her with doves and porcelain, and blamed her only for innocent infatuations of youth or the puckered red mouth of a vain girl in the mirror. So easily did man forget that the same love that pushed a fourteen-year-old girl to fall for a sixteen-year-old boy at a summer camp also drove lovers to carve out the heart of their other and eat it raw, tendons caught between teeth, messy and feral and mad – that it was for beauty that a thousand ships launched, and for love that that Achilles charged into battle and slayed Hector. How easily they forget that the great goddess had no mother, but was spawned from the severed appendage of a great god and the foam of the sea.

This is what Aphrodite is about.

Aphrodite arose from the waves fully-formed, borne of violence and the thrashing of the ocean (they should have known she would carry a wrath in her bones before they carried her up to Olympus, for what is more vicious than the blood of a god and the raging sea?). The greatest of all the gods feared the madness her beauty would instill in them all, so he tried to dull her power by marrying her off to the ugliest, the lamest, of the pantheon. Even with the forged weight of Hephaestus around her heel, Aphrodite flourished – how could she not – how could they not love her when she was love itself?

It was always man that believed he had to choose between fear and love – for certain women, there is no distinction. There was a reason Aphrodite preferred the god of war to her actual husband.

All forces of nature are deadly from the start: sharks are born swimming; wolves arrive with teeth; the most fatal of snakes come into the world ready with fangs full of venom. Girls, too, can be born with their weapons already intact: lacquered stones in their ribs like gallstones that do not hurt, but manifested solely to weigh their hearts down so that they cannot be stolen or carried away; knives kept under tongues; bodies curved like the serpentine arch of the devil’s horns, a blatant warning sign misunderstood as an invitation: Beware all ye who enter here. There is no return.

Like mother like daughter.

“You, a Hunter of Artemis?” asked the interviewer, chewing the end of a pen, and Drew belatedly recognized him as one of the scrawny Apollo campers that Drew used to relentlessly taunt.

She glanced at her nails. “How else would I stay forever twenty-one?” Drew said, before she bared her teeth in a sharp smile. “Yes, me.”