#cannot emphasize enough that this is a dark fic!!!

[sunnie-angel]

bonus story (oct 31) | breeding kink

✮⋆˙ baby girl

your girlfriend jay todd is hot. like seriously life ruiningly hot. so hot you want her ring and for her to put a baby in you. and if you think jay’s not gonna do her goddamn best to knock you up with her strap, well you’ve got another think coming.

tags: f!reader, fem!jason todd, flirting, sapphic sex, fingering, clit pinching, biting, penetrative sex with a strap on, breeding kink, size kink if you squint, soft domme jay todd, squirting, pregnancy mention, cannot emphasize enough that this is woman on woman sex

⊘ this is an 18+ fic. minors do not interact, you will be blocked

It’s the purr of the motorbike’s engine that signals to you that you’re not walking home alone anymore. Leonine and low, not a hint of a sputter or hiccup speaking to a machine well kept. Hurrying you pick up your pace, trying to get to the bright lights and bustle of the main street. Lazily it keeps pace with you until your stumbling feet carry you to the end of the block and an intersection that lets it pull up right in front of you, cuts off your hope of brighter street lamps and witnesses. A heavy boot puts down the kickstand.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doin’ all by herself at this time of night,” the rider drawls, Crime Alley accent pouring thick over her voice. Slowly you back away, one careful foot after the other. She cuts you off and advances.

“M’heading home. Now. To my girlfriend,” you get out through a thick tongue. Still you back away and still she advances. The rough brick wall of the alley hits your back and suddenly you realize the trap you’ve walked into.

“Sweet thing like you, your girlfriend should know better than to let you out by yourself after dark,” she chides. Arm bracing against the wall over your head, she leans in until she fills your line of sight. “Why, just about anyone could stop by and snap. You. Up,” she breathes and your legs turn to jelly.

“She’s– she’s mean. She’s big and she’s mean and she fucks people up for a living,” you stutter out. The rider inserts one her thighs between your own, starts trailing rough fingers up the soft thin skin between them, up under the hem of your skirt.

“Yeah baby girl, what else?” she asks, fingers just brushing the fabric of your panties.

“She’s gonna– she’s gonna kill you if you touch me,” you try not to moan. A hand slips down the front of your panties, cups your sex. 

“Bet I’m bigger,” the rider grunts in your ear, spearing you open with one of her fingers as she speaks. You have to clutch at the front of her leather jacket to keep from collapsing immediately at the invasion. “Bet I’m meaner,” she says as she pinches your clit and you yowl like an alley cat. “Bet I’d fuck you better.” There’s two fingers inside you now, fucking you open faster than you’re ready for. The rough brick scrapes against the back of your thighs.

“She’s– she’s gonna–” you try to string together a threat but you can’t think around the fullness of your cunt.

“Yeah baby girl, what’m I gonna do?” she taunts you, grin all predatory and all Jay. 

You moan brokenly as she slides a hand under shirt, pulls your breasts out of your bra and starts playing with your nipples. Her fingers in your cunt start curling in on every thrust. Your mouth parts around a particularly vicious twist, breast stinging and cunt throbbing. She smiles against your throat, teeth bared at the way your clench down around her hand. Presses her thumb against your clit, just the hint of a nail verging on cruel. Bites a new bruise into your skin as you come on her hand, tight walls rippling around her at the pleasure-pain.

“Hiya baby,” Jay whispers as you collapse back against the wall, licks your slick off her hand as she stares you down. “Have a good day at work?”

“The worst,” you groan, hands working to set your clothing to rights, or as much as they can be salvaged anyway.

“Yeah? Well then why don’t you come home with me and let me kiss it better?” she purrs, handing over your helmet.

“Just for the record,” you tell her, already putting the helmet on, “that’s a terrible line. Awful. I can’t believe I’m letting you anywhere near my vagina after that.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” she says mock offended. “Just for that I’m driving over every single bump on the way home.”

Jay Todd is nothing if not two things: vengeful and a woman of her word. She hits every single pothole one the drive home, takes detours and swerves in and out of traffic just to torture you. Glued to her broad back, feeling like there’s a direct line from the vibrations of the engine to your clit, its no wonder you’re a puddle on the back of the bike by the time she pulls up at your apartment complex. She gets off the bike first and laughs when you bunch your hands in your skirt and mumble about needing a minute without looking her in the eyes. Leans in like she’s going to kiss you only to pull back and laugh as you almost face plant chasing after her mouth.

Eventually you do manage to peel yourself off the back of the bike with wobbly legs, leaving a damp spot on the hard seat. Jay lets you lean up against her on the way up to the apartment, thighs rubbing together in anticipation. Walks your right into the bedroom before shucking off her jacket, letting it fall to the floor.

You’re so mesmerized by the sight of her pulling her tank top over her head that you forget to undress yourself, so lost in the scarred expanse of her skin. She catches you staring just as her black sports bra hits the ground, catches your wide eyed desire and oh you’re fucked. Stalks towards you bare chested, grin promising all the fun for her and humiliation for you.

“You wanna touch?” she drawls, idly tracing one hand over the swell of a large breast. Dumb, you nod. Swallow. “Only good girls get to touch and you haven’t been very good, have you?”

“Wha–” you start indignantly but she shushes you.

“Kept me waiting, didn’t even bother trying to get undressed.” She grabs a handful of one breast and then drops it, sighing. “I don’t think you’ve earned the right to touch yet tonight, do you?”

“I can– I can be good,” you say through a cotton mouth. “I can earn it. Please?” 

She sighs, crosses her arms under her breasts as if to shove them higher into your face.

“Well? Get undressed then, and go pick out the strap you want me to fuck you with.”

Stumbling in your hurry to respond to her orders, you fumble with your clothing, determined to get it off off off. A seam rips but you don’t care because suddenly you’re free. Rush over to the chest of drawers and hastily pull out your favourite dildo. It’s big – not the largest of your shared collection but large enough – a deep shining red with a textured head and a flared base that makes you wince to take fully. Already your mouth is salivating at the last time Jay used this one on you, the way your cunt had ached for days afterwards.

Turning back to her, she’s already got her harness on, a few fingers lazily pumping at the curls between her legs. She’s got a bored look on her face as she crooks her finger at you to come but the light in her eyes scream that she’s going to eat you whole. Jay reclines on the bed like royalty as she attaches the strap. You stand next to the bed with fidgety hands that still haven’t been given permission to touch, worry your lip with your teeth. Satisfied, she lays back legs spread hands tucked behind her head on the pillows. The bright red cock stands straight up from her hips, gleaming dully in the low light. Idly you feel slick trickle down your inner thigh.

“C’mon on then, earn it,” she tells you and you’re a tangle of limbs scrabbling on the bed.

Desperate you line your cunt up with the tip of the strap and then push your hips down. Mewl as gravity spears you open on the plastic cock. Jay’s fingers had opened you up a bit but not for something as big as this. You’d been too stupid, too desperate to bother trying to slick it up with lube or the flowing juices from your cunt so you’re taking it dry. You choke as it’s descent slows, progress strangled by your too tight cunt and greedy eyes. You’ve got no way to balance yourself, to pull yourself up off the strap splitting you in half but Jay’s strong torso and she hasn’t given you permission to touch yet. You gasp and shudder, thighs burning and aching as you slowly pull yourself off the cock, allow yourself a few hiccuping breaths of respite, before slamming down again, letting gravity tear you open.

You get a little farther this time, cunt marking your progress with a new, lower ring of wetness around the plastic dick. Throwing your head back you force yourself to relax and push. Bear down in the hopes that it’ll feed that much more into your hungry, reluctant cunt. Jay watches the whole show with a feral grin. Laps up the way your tits bounce with every thrust. Revels in the tiny, tired whines you let out as your legs tire out from balancing the weight of you. Grows ravenous with the way tears have started to dew your lashes in frustration, in desperation. Finally, finally you manage to take the whole strap down to its base, face twisting up into a grimace at the fat bloated stretch of it. Finally she lets herself touch you, a hand coming to rest on your hip. She positively lights up with greed as you lean into her touch.

“There she is, there’s my good girl,” she coos. Your nod turns to a sob as she grinds her hips into you, forces the strap to brush that sensitive place inside you. Bunching her legs beneath her, she pushes you down beneath her, your roles suddenly reversed. “Bet you’d let me do whatever I want to you like this, take whatever I give and say thank you so sweetly.” She punctuates her words with a slow roll of her hips that has you clawing at the mattress and babbling to fast for Jay to catch. “C’mon baby girl, speak up. Gotta ask for what you want.”

“I said, I said Iwantyoutoputababyinme,” you gasp, trying to turn away and hide your face in your arms. Your whole body is on fire with embarrassment.

“You want me to make you a mommy? Is that it?” she croons, delighted and shocked. “Well that’s easy baby, just had to say the words.” She draws back her hips and rams the strap home. “Gonna have to breed this pretty pussy up until she catches. Fill you up with so much cum it’s gonna be dripping out of you for days.”

You moan at the lewd image she paints for you, thighs tightening around her hips as she drills into you.

“Poor thing, been so empty waiting for me to put a baby in you, bet your cunt was aching for it.”

“Please,” you beg, head thrown back and thrashing as Jay mouths at your tit.

“You’re gonna look so pretty carrying my baby,” she tells you, works a hand between you to tap and pinch at your clit in a way that’s got you bucking beneath her. “Your breasts and belly would be so swollen with it, they’d swing from the weight of it when I fuck you.”

Arching your back into her you whimper. She slams your hips back down onto the bed and fucks you brutally with the strap. Your cunt makes wet, sloppy noises around it that are audible even over the fleshy smacks of her hips hitting yours.

“Gonna make you carry as many of my babies as you can, gonna breed your cunt over and over again until you’re full. You’re gonna forget what it feels like to have a womb empty of me,” she growls, pushes a proprietary hand down onto the womb she’s claiming for her use. Finds that perfect spot and then sets to rearrange your guts around her strap as she mouths and bites a pretty collar around your throat. Fucks into you until your eyes are rolling back and all you can see are stars, the slick drag of your cunt and the burning stretch of her cock drowning out everything else as you shake. Something’s building in your tummy, a kind of pleasure-pressure you haven’t felt before. Every time she thrusts into your cunt, whispers dirty words about stretching you out with as many babies as your cunt can take, it builds and builds until you feel stretched thin from the pressure of it all.

The damn breaks and you sob as you squirt through your orgasm. Pleasure running wild, tearing open your veins and reducing you down to a base needy thing only concerned with milking the strap still fucking her. Jay kisses you, slow and filthy as you sob and shake, squirt still running down your legs as you tear through your high. Gently she brushes the sweat soaked hair away from your face, peppers kisses to your eyelids, nose. Grins down at you so lovingly and satisfied.

“There she is, there’s my good baby girl. Gonna be my good little ma too.”

[sunflowercider]

CARNATIONS APPARENTLY LAST UNTIL AUTUMN, WE'RE SO FUCKING BACK

I know damn well that tged is vaguely ""medieval"" to 16th century inspired but fuck you its fantasy AND its my fic so they're getting 19th century tea times ☕️

[ghost-proofbaby]

the seasons pass (but you never do) - e.m.

summary: he knew your reputation. he knew you had you way with half of hawkins. it was never going to end well - but that didn't stop him.

warnings: reader is NOT a good person (need to emphasize this), billy hargrove is involved and sort of ooc, smut, oral (fem receiving), a lot of hurt, not a 'happy' ending, reader has severe issues with self-esteem (not in the usual obvious way), very self-sabotaging reader. mentions of reader having adult relationships with multiple male characters. NOT A 'HAPPY' ENDING. minors dni - 18+

pairings: eddie munson x fem!fuckgirl!reader (with mentions of steve x reader, johnathan x reader, and billy x reader.)

wc: 8.4k+

a/n: i cannot emphasize enough - the reader in this fic is very toxic. she is not a good person. this does not end well. also, be wary, as billy is used as the easiest companion who can align with her being a bad person, so she is friends with him. this probably won't be everyone's cup of tea, but it's been a year in the works! thank you to anyone who reads. <3 also, HUGE thank you to my love @hellfire--cult for making that banner for me. i am undeserving of your talents baby.

oh, also, here's a fun playlist to go along with it.

SUMMER, 1988

It was always going to end this way. It’s how it’s supposed to go - you met him, you wanted him, you got him, you left him. There was never any illusions on your part as to what this was. He knew your reputation. He knew the ending. You knew the ending. 

It was always going to end this way. 

There was no amount of flowers he could have got you, no amount of midnight rendezvous to change this course. It never mattered how his laughter wound your chest tight or how his fingers fit a little too perfectly between yours. You didn’t do long-term relationships, and he always asked for too much from you. You could give him a summer, no more and no less. He knew that, you knew that, all your previous flings knew that. There was only one ending ever in sight for the two of you.

So why does it hurt so much when you catch sight of him around town with her? 

Chrissy Cunningham is beautiful. She’s all shades of sunrise pinks, flavors of sweetness that spur stomach aches - the epitome of enchantment and a type of softness you couldn’t compare to. And when you see her arm in arm with him, you can see that beauty of hers painted across him. Her pinks paint roses on his cheeks, her laughter etches dimples into his cheeks you’d only ever seen in the late hours of the night. She makes him happy. She makes him look lovesick. She doesn’t hide him in the darkness, she flaunts him in the light, and he looks devastatingly beautiful without the shadows. 

You should be happy for him. It shouldn’t phase you; you didn’t bat an eyelash when Steve Harrington had taken to dating every other girl in the town after your spring with him. You never winced when Johnathan Byers started dating Nancy Wheeler after a flirtatious fall with you. Billy Hargrove had been on the same page as you, ready to brave a chilling winter with you and accept when the ice melted along with the infatuation, returning your winks when you spotted each other with your newest one night stands in shared bars. 

But Eddie’s summer stuck to your skin. No amount of showers run cold, no amount of new partners who you won’t allow to spend the night, wash you clean of him. The change in the leaves only amplified the ache left in your chest when August turns to September. The flowers weren’t the only things wilting when September flashes into October. 

You miss him terribly, and it’s all your fault.

You let him stick around far longer than you should have. You let his wandering lips slot between yours and you let him sleep at your side from the very first night. When it was all said and done, you were the one that broke every single imaginary rule you had set for yourself, and the blame was yours to carry. Eddie Munson was never going to be a three month memory to wipe away with the steam of your mirror. He’d done it, he’d left his mark. He’d managed to make the streets of Hawkins feel cold and empty in his absence, to make everything dull in comparison to your life before him. 

You empty the last of your glass of wine, all bitter and tinged on your tongue, and chuckle internally as you watch Eddie’s hand’s find Chrissy’s hips from across the bar. Go figure. 

SPRING, 1987

The Hideout was busy as ever, booming with business on a Saturday night as you reentered the scene. Your ‘date’ for the night was still outside the bar, surely not even entertaining the thought of coming back inside. 

He hadn’t taken to you breaking the news that it was over kindly. 

“You never let them down easy, do you?” Billy chuckles as he leans against one of the standing tables near the bar. He had seen the look in your eyes when you dragged the nameless boy out the front door; he’d seen it plenty of times before. Starry eyed boy, ever-fleeting girl. They were fools, and they should have noticed your wandering eyes and lack of commitment from the get-go. 

“Never,” you smirk back as you approach him. The live band had just finished, the music over the speakers nothing compared to the deafening screams of the guitars that had played, “It’s not my fault the boys in this town never learn their lesson.” 

Billy only shrugs and throws back the last of his whiskey, “What did it this time? Did he drop the big L? Maybe he brought you flowers like Harrington did that one time?” 

“Oh, God,” you place a hand over your heart dramatically, “Please don’t remind me. Breaking his heart nearly broke my nonexistent one.” 

“Yeah, right,” Billy cackles, “Still can’t believe you ever gave the sap a chance. Or what about Byers, hm?” 

“Couldn’t break a heart I never had. He always had eyes for Wheeler, that’s what made it fun,” you shrug and grab at a fruity drink that had been abandoned at the table, “To answer your question, he got clingy. All jealous because I was making eyes at the lead singer,” you tip your chin towards the stage that’s now empty and take a sip of the cocktail, “Say, what happened to your date? She looked pretty.” 

“You were making eyes at Munson? Doll, I knew you were getting desperate after me, but him?” Billy cuts himself off with a low whistle. 

“Shut up,” you take another long sip of the drink. It’s sweeter than your preference, but free alcohol is free alcohol, “Tell me what happened to the blonde you were chatting up.” 

“I’m more into redheads.”

“Aw, but it looked like you two were really hitting it off.” 

“I had to have three shots before I could stomach her laughing at my jokes.” 

You reach over to pinch his cheeks, receiving sharp slaps against your wrists.

“Hot,” you coo before leaning back and ending his attack against your hands, “You know, if we both strike out tonight, we could always go home together.” 

“You struck out, the night is still young for me,” Billy grins wickedly and looks around the busy bar for emphasis. 

There’s a small commotion at one of the doors to the side of the stage, and you glance over to catch sight of the band that had been playing exiting. 

The lead singer, Munson as Billy had referred to him, was just as stunning when taken down from his stage pedestal. His hair had been pulled back into a low bun, his torso once exposed on stage now covered in a faded Judas Priest tour shirt, but his Cheshire smile on his face was just as brilliant without the stage lights. Dimples hidden by the dark bar lighting, plush lips and scruff framing his face. 

Billy catches you staring at him.

“Maybe you didn’t strike out,” he hums, “You gonna go for it, hot stuff?” 

You smile in return. Something dangerous, something evil yet inviting, “I might. I do need a new play thing for the summer, after all.” 

“Careful. I’m sure there’s a line of groupies willing to fight you for the Eddie Munson.” 

Billy had been mocking you with a shrill voice, but he had been wrong. 

There was no line of girls for you to compete with as you approached Eddie. And if there was, they wouldn’t have stood a chance. From the moment you had smiled at him, uttering your name into Eddie’s ears over the bass of the music, placing a careful hand on his shoulder and telling him how much you just adored his music, he had been hooked. You had him in your grasp from the start. 

And maybe Billy knew that as he flashed you a sly grin over a redhead’s shoulder as you dragged Eddie behind you later that night, heading for the restrooms that patrons notably didn’t use. 

It was your lipstick smeared over Eddie’s neck that night, it was your name falling from his lips as you pressed him against a stall wall, it was your hair that he tangled his hands in as you sat pretty on your knees before him, it was your nails digging into his jean-clad thighs as he fucked your mouth. No, other girls never would have stood a chance. 

By the end of that night, you hadn’t even cum, but you thought nothing of it, still smug that you’d found yourself a new supposed victim. You’d never considered which one of you truly held the match, which one of you might bleed gasoline rather than crimson blood. 

All that you considered was the fact that you’d wanted Eddie, and you’d got him, just as it always went. 

That was only the first night. 

SUMMER, 1987

You fall for him in the summer. You convince yourself you’re in control still, but it’s fruitless - you’d lost control the moment you’d tasted him on that dizzy spring night rather than waiting for the arrival of summer’s heat. 

“Come over.” 

Two simple words, yet the moment you’d spoken them over the line, Eddie had wasted no time to speed his way across town for your apartment. He was officially at your beck and call. You said the word, and he was at your dispense. 

It was the fastest he’d ever arrived at your doorstep, rapping his knuckles against familiar rosewood and listening to the familiar weight of your footsteps approaching the door. 

“Hey, you,” you sigh softly once you catch sight of him in your porchlight. The creatures of summer buzz as background noise as you drink him in. Same wild curls, same deviant smirk. There looks to be new rips in his black jeans, and his shirt is wrinkled, but none of that shatters the dreamy image of him to you. 

You still want him just as badly as you had the first night. 

“Sorry I took so long,” he teases, leaning into the doorframe you rest your hip against, “Traffic, you know.”

“Oh, of course. It’s just terrible this time of year,” you play along. You both know he’d made the fifteen minute drive in under ten minutes. But there’s something in the warm air, something electric and fluttering and addictive and palpable. You’re sure if you were to rest your hand flirtatiously against his chest as you normally did with your rotation of partners, that he’d burn you. 

Something new. You tell yourself it’s just the excitement of a fresh Summer plaything, and you ignore the voice that whispers with the reminder that this started in the Spring. 

“You gonna let me in?” he nods in the direction of your apartment behind you, bathed in a soft yellow from the dusk and the lamp on the table beside your couch. 

You bring a hand to your chin and tap a finger mockingly, “Hm, I don’t know. Should I?”

“You should,” he leans even closer.

“I might need convincing.” 

His breath washes over your cheek, so gentle you could have mistaken it for the summer breeze. You can smell the spice of his cologne, the stubborn smoke from his last cigarette. It makes your head spin.

“Convincing, you say?” he murmurs as his lips graze your earlobe, “I’ve been known to be convincing.” 

This was something you enjoyed about him. He wasn’t like other boys - he didn’t fall to your feet and praise the ground you stood on, not directly. He didn’t follow you like a lost puppy. He took the time to dance with you, to entertain you with banter and to enrapture you with the chase. Maybe that’s why Spring and Summer felt the same when it came to him. 

“I call bullshit,” you laugh breathlessly as his lips connect with your neck, making a trail of pecks until he reaches the bare skin of your shoulder. “You still haven’t convinced me to listen to Metallica.”

“We’ll get there, baby,” he whispers against your skin as his fingers sneak beneath the strap of your tank top, “Just be patient.”

The pet name strikes a kink in your armor, and in an instant, your hands are on his shoulders and dragging him into the living room, barely remembering to slam the door shut behind him. 

You never let them call you nicknames normally. Billy had been the only exception. 

But when he calls you baby, something blooms in your chest. And it’s vines and thorns alike twist and prick your gut, deflating your better judgment as the two of you are a mess of clumsy limbs that can’t seem to navigate your hallway fast enough. You can’t seem to get him to your bed fast enough. 

“Off,” he demands against your lips when you finally have him sitting on your comforter, thighs straddling his as his hands tug at the tank top’s hem. 

“What happened to patience?” you tease, but you’re already complying, shucking off the fabric and exposing yourself to him. You’d foregone a bra - it was too hot in Hawkins this time of year. 

He doesn’t offer you an answer, hardly taking the time to suck in a deep breath before his mouth wraps around one of your peaked nipples and his large hand spans across your back to press you as close to him as he can get you. You’re already moaning too loudly, sure to receive noise complaints from the neighbors tomorrow. But you’re not thinking about the neighbors or tomorrow, you can only focus on his tongue and lips, working soft magic over your body as he twists the two of you so that he’s hovering over you. 

“Fuck,” you blissfully breathe out, fingertips raking through the roots of his curls. His mouth has moved on to your other breast, leaving blooming petals of bruises in its wake. 

Another thing you’d never allow to happen with any of the other boys. 

No marks. A simple rule. A forgotten rule when it came to Eddie. 

“You like that?” he chuckles as he places a final chaste kiss to your chest, lifting his head and staring up at you with his bambi eyes. He had the kind of eyes you could get lost in, wander and wade through for hours if given the chance. Shadows of brown and honey intertwining, beckoning to you with a promise of the adoration you seeked out. 

You do like that. As a matter of fact, you love it. 

“I like it better when your mouth is busy, rockstar,” you say as if you wouldn’t listen to him talk for hours, as if you hadn’t listened to him speak about nonsense as the time passed the two of you by. 

He takes his cue, and he does as you ask. He traces roadmaps down your stomach, across your thighs and hips, not uttering a single word until he’s pulled away your cotton shorts and lace underwear. 

When he’s face to face with your heat, he finally speaks again. 

“Beautiful.”

It’s just a word. If any of your previous flings had spoken it, you’d smack them away and declare the moment over. In fact, you’d done just that with your autumn boy from last year. You weren’t here to be called beautiful, to be held carefully or to be praised as you let them take you however they pleased. You were here to get one thing and one thing only - your own pleasure. 

Your back still arches when he says the word, your vines still crack your ribs just as they had reacted to the utterance of baby. 

The thorns prickle beneath your skin when he makes you cum with his tongue once, twice, thrice too many times. When he pulls your body to his, when you allow him to forego the protection of a condom and you let him sigh contentedly into your mouth when he slides in, it all pierces you the same. 

And when your voice has grown hoarse from chanting his name and your lips have gone chapped from kissing him desperately, you break your final damning rule.

“Stay with me?” 

The plea comes out soft and heavy as your head rests against his chest. Even with your window open, the night breeze drifting in, the heat is stifling. It’s too warm to stay pressed so closely together, but it doesn’t stop you from clinging your body to his. 

He doesn’t hesitate in his reply, “Of course.” 

The two of you sink further into your sheets and each other. It wasn’t the first time Eddie Munson spent the night in your bed, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. 

AUTUMN, 1987

“You like him more than you liked the others.”

It’s not a question - it’s a fact secured in concrete that falls from Billy’s lips as the two of you lean against the brick exterior of the Hideout. A cigarette is half-gone and held limply between his lips, yours freshly lit and clung to tightly between white knuckles.

“I don’t like him,” you scoff, “He’s a good fuck.” 

You weren’t here on your normal business, scoping for another warm body to join you in your bed for the night. Eddie’s band, Corroded Coffin, was performing one of their weekly shows. 

“Right. A good enough fuck to live to see the fall,” Billy presses, raising his eyebrows at you as he takes another drag and let’s the whisps of white smoke carry off into the cool night. 

You’d just been striking out. That’s what you had told yourself. It was bound to happen eventually; you’d hit a dry streak, and you’d have to eventually find a repeat offender. Eddie was just that for you. Someone easy to fall back on. It didn’t hurt that you also enjoyed his company, especially when he’d swing you around in your kitchen while the two of you made dinner in your apartment or when he’d let you cuddle into his neck during the scary movie marathons you’d began to take part in with Halloween now looming around the corner. 

“I haven’t seen you getting lucky,” you snap, a sudden defensiveness taking over. A lie, of course. You hadn’t frequented the bar enough lately to even know the last time your former fling had gotten laid. 

Billy throws up his hands as he discards the butt of his cigarette, “Hey now, don’t get so feisty, doll. It’s okay to admit you’re going soft.” 

Soft. Soft like Eddie’s hands when he pulled your hips against his night after night. Soft like Eddie’s eyes when he watched you in the shower during the mornings after, quick to swipe away any shampoo that drips down your forehead and dangerously close to your own eyes as you wash your hair. Soft like your voice every time you asked him to stay, over and over, never learning your lesson. 

“I’m not going soft,” is all you say as you put out the cigarette, not even half-finished, and move to go back inside. 

You’re not having this conversation. There’s nothing more to dissect. You weren’t going soft and you couldn’t like Eddie, it wasn’t in your nature. 

It’s a mantra you repeat to yourself as you take in the sight of him still setting up the stage. You catch his eye and he grins at you, and you remind yourself you’re not soft. No, whatever this feeling is, it’s not soft. It is angry and loud, it is demanding and sharp. It is copper on your tongue and it is raging storm clouds in your mind. It is the opposite of everything he has been to you; it is every contrast possible to the way he treats you. 

He treats you like a human being. You’re not a prize, you’re not an idol – you’re just a person, and sometimes, he treats you as if that’s the greatest thing you could possibly be. 

When the show is over and rounds have been bought for the band, he comes home with you. He staggers on his feet and you know he’s had too much whiskey for his own good. Normally, any guy this drunk would be told to piss off.

He’s not any guy. He’s Eddie. 

And so you take his drunken state in strides. You let his body lean into you as you guide him up the steps to your front door, you only smile when he gets handsy, you offer weak laughter at his terrible jokes. 

“You only want me for my body,” he teases you between kisses when you hook your fingers into his jean’s belt loops to keep him close and upright, “Don’t you?” 

This is the part where you tell him yes. You’re supposed to tell him he’s nothing more than a cure for the looming loneliness. 

You shake your head. 

“I’m not, but I can’t ride your personality, can I?” your fingers retract from the loops, and trace their way up his chest, memorizing the muscles beneath the t-shirt. It’s too faded to see the band logo once advertised. 

“You could try,” he sways, and your wandering fingers curl into fists into the cotton material, “P-Probably be pretty hard, though. Just like me.” 

He takes one of your hands and places it over the bulge in his jeans. 

If he were any other guy, you’d play into it, because if he were any other guy, you’d be expecting to get something out of this night for your own selfish needs. 

“Not so fast, rockstar,” you bring your hand back up to his chest as he hiccups, brows furrowed at your subtle rejection, “Let’s get you inside, yeah?” 

It’s an uphill battle of gangly limbs and stumbling steps. He falls against your hallway walls more times than you can count as you guide him to your bedroom and allow him to splay out on the mattress. The laces of his combat boots are impossibly knotted, but you win the war in the end and tug them off of him. He wiggles his toes within his socks, and watches you with half-lidded eyes.

“This is the part where you try to ride my personality, right?” he tempts you, the wiggling in his toes flowing up to his eyebrows, eyes alight with mischief. 

Your hand is gentle as you grab his ankle, exposed from jeans that had ridden up into scrunched material around the bottom of his calf. “Right. Let me get you some water first.” 

You leave him to rush to the kitchen, gathering the glass of water you’d promised along with a bottle of painkillers from your medicine cabinet. For a moment, you take in the silence and lean your palms onto the cold kitchen counter. 

Five months. Two months too long, technically, if you were comparing it all to your track record. He’d seen the eggshell white walls of your apartment more than your own mother, more than your closest friends. At this point, even on your most lonesome nights, you found yourself leaving an Eddie-sized space on the sheets beside you. One of your pillows now permanently smelt like him. There was a mug in your cabinet reserved for him and his ridiculously sweet coffee preference. You’d bought his favorite brand of cigarettes just last week, far stronger than your preferred menthols, and you’d found one of his socks discarded in your dirty laundry. 

No, this wasn’t soft. It couldn’t be.

When you finally return to your room, he’s already asleep. You still leave the water and the pills on the bedside table for the next morning, when he’d need them. You try not to think too hard about the way that even in his drunken slumber, he’s left a perfectly you-sized space beside him, arm thrown out perfectly so that you can curl into him once you’ve brushed your teeth and dressed down into pajamas. 

The last thing you remember before you fall asleep against him is the way your soft hand grazes over his stomach in soothing circles, and the way your brain softly whispers in the hope of his hangover not being too cruel to him come morning light. 

WINTER, 1987

“Eddie! Stop it!” you squeal when he nearly takes you down with him as his back connects with the polished ice beneath the two of you. 

Ice skating wasn’t the best idea for two people who were notoriously uncoordinated. But he’d asked you to come with him, and you’d put up little resistance. 

“Ow, fuck,” he groans, still laying flat on his back with his eyes squeeze shut, legs spread wide as you wobble on your skates, “That fucking hurts.” 

“I bet it does,” you nearly giggle, childish with your rosey cheeks and pink-tipped nose. Your smile is infectious once he opens his eyes and catches sight of you fighting back your laughter.

It was the first time the two of you had ever gone out before dark with each other. Although, you were sure by the time you two had finished your goofing off inside the indoor ice rink, it’d be night. 

“Oh yeah,” he drawls, struggling to lift himself onto his elbows, “Laugh it up, chuckles. Don’t think I’ve forgotten your first fifty falls.”

“Fifty?” you squeak, forcing faux offense, “I only fell twice, thank you very much.”

It takes a bit for him to finally find his footing once more, plenty of hesitant and awkward movements to simply stand up right before you. Once you’re nearly face to face again, he’s pouting. “Kiss it better?” 

Your feet shuffle beneath you, struggling to keep your balance. Your hands fly out and grab onto one of his forearms for balance, “Where’s it hurt?” 

“Right here,” his free hand lifts to point to his lips, accentuating his pout further. 

“Funny,” you muse, “I don’t recall you falling on your face - this time.” 

He huffs as you begin to lose your balance again, one of your hands slipping down his wrist until your fingers are intertwined to the best of your abilities given the angle. His hand is freezing from the ice. Even despite his teasing, he’s quick to work with you, keeping the two of you standing straight with ever-shuffling feet. 

“Residual pains or whatever they call them,” he waves off, tapping his lips again to make a point. You roll your eyes, but you’re still quick to lean forward and peck him. 

“That’s all?” he whines, already moving in for another kiss. 

Any onlooker would assume it’s a date. But it couldn’t be - you didn’t do dates. It was two friends, two acquaintances really, hanging out for the sake of fun. Just as you fell back on Eddie when your nights grew forlorn, he had seeked you out for comfort on his isolating days. It was just another perk of your arrangement. 

An arrangement that had dragged on for eight long months. 

“You’re greedy,” you mumble against his lips as he tries to deepen the kiss and you deny him. 

“Of course I’m greedy,” he replies, nipping at your bottom lip playfully, “Can you blame a guy when it comes to you?” 

You couldn’t, you really couldn’t. You’d had your fair share of possessive types in the past, the kind that felt the need to always claim you as your own. And you would have found it hot, too, if it didn’t feel like they reduced you down to nothing more than some trophy to parade around town. 

Eddie didn’t do that. He was still greedy, he had still gotten daring with marking you as his own as of late, but he never reduced you. He never forced you to shrivel in size, never tried to compact you into the box he needed you in. He took you as you were. 

You were enough for him. For the first time in a very long time, you were enough.

If you thought about it too long, you would have become dizzy out there on the ice with Eddie. So you don’t think about it. You indulge yourself in banter and echoing laughter, in the scolding looks from nearby parents when one of you makes a crude joke loud enough for their children to hear. You claim your indulging him with the incessant kisses, but you know deep down they’re also for you. To feel his lips on yours. To feel his hands on your hips. To feel his fingers between yours. 

To feel like enough. 

You’re both still giddy when you approach the counter after several hours have passed, dropping your rented skates on the counter as you glance to the arcade filled with patrons. Glowing lights and trilling noises emit from the area, tangling with giggling that you can’t quite place as coming from there or the ice. It’s loud enough that Eddie has to lean in closer to the teenager working the cash register. 

He insisted on paying. You’d tried to fight him on it, but he insisted it was his treat. 

It’s during this momentary separation, in which your worlds’ briefly stop revolving around each other, that you spot him. He must have been here for as long as you and Eddie had been, and you must have just been too wrapped up in enough to have noticed him sooner. 

Just as you see him, he sees you. Just as you prepare to turn on heel, to return to hiding into Eddie’s enough, he’s calling your name. 

It’s loud. It mingles with the sounds already coming from the atmosphere. Eddie doesn’t hear him, but you do. 

“Steve,” you try to greet him with a friendly tone through your clenched teeth, taking a few steps further away from Eddie, away from enough and blissful delusion, “I haven’t seen you in forever.” 

“Yeah,” he looks as if he’s seen a ghost as he approaches you, “Yeah, not since, uh- well, you know.” 

Not since the night you’d officially cut all ties with him, somewhere between Jonathan and Billy. You’d broken his heart. You’d nearly broken your own. 

Your lips are pressed into a tight lip smile as you try to redirect the conversation, “How’ve you been?” 

“Good! I’ve- uh, yeah, good. You?” 

I’ve been on a downward spiral of breaking every single rule that I have spent my entire life curating for my dating life, and I know you’re aware of this by the way you just looked at Eddie over my shoulder, and the way your brow is furrowing, and I get it. I get it. I fucked up. 

“I’ve been alright,” you force your jaw to relax, you force a kind and shy smile. It’s almost akin to the ones you’d originally flash him to get him in your grasp, “How’s Nancy?” 

Nancy Wheeler. After you left Steve the first time, letting whatever situationship that had begun just fizzle out, he’d ran into her arms. From the get go with Jonathan, you’d always known you were a placeholder for her. Even Billy had made a damn pass at her once you guys gave up at spring’s dawn; he’d claimed it might as well be a tradition now, only laughing as Nancy shot him down as expected. 

Nancy Wheeler was everything you weren’t. She could promise these men security, stability, commitment, a future. She didn’t hide them. They weren’t dirty secrets forced to only wander into her arms late at night, they weren’t kicked out at the end of each night once she’d had their way with them. 

Nancy probably never had her way with men, you realized, more likely letting them have their way with her.  

“We broke up,” Again. He forgets to add the again. 

They’d gotten together after that first time, been together while you had fun with Jonathan, broken up the moment you were finished with Jonathan and he could go to where he belonged – with Nancy. 

Of course, when Jonathan chose a different university to go to, somewhere far away from Nancy, those two had broken up. Steve had swooped in again. It was a never ending headache of small town gossip you had grown tired of hearing about. 

“I’m sorry,” you aren’t really, “That’s… forget I’m asked,” you’d feel worse if you hadn’t seen the girl waiting to the side for Steve. His date, no doubt. 

“No worries, it’s been a while since it happened anyways,” he shrugs it off, but you can still see the hurt in his eyes. 

He’d once called you drunkenly, going off on how he was going on all these dates trying to find you or Nancy again, how none of them were you or Nancy. Which, at the time, just irritated you because Steve, why do you still have my number? But now? Now, you almost get it. You almost understand the pain of searching for a familiar face in the eyes of strangers because any time you had gone to your usual haunts these last seven months, you found yourself searching crowds for wild, messy curls and warm brown eyes. For shades of honey and the scent of tobacco drowned out by cheap cologne.

You hadn’t been striking out anymore, the realization hits clear as day. It’s not even that you were being as picky as you normally were – none of the guys were Eddie. None of them had freckles below their right eyes that made your breath catch, none of them had the same calluses along their fingers from years of guitar practice. None of them had the same boyish grin that shone through the dark of your room at two in the morning, leaving you with no choice but to let him stay. They weren’t Eddie.

“You like him more than you liked the others,” Billy’s voice reverberates from the back of your mind. 

The truth seeps into your bones like ash and flames, a fever burning you from the inside out. 

Steve only fans the flames when he nods over your shoulder at Eddie, “So, are you and Munson a thing now?” 

Flames. Hot coals in the back of your throat, lively embers trailing down your spine. You’re watching the entirety of who you had worked so hard to become over the years bursting into flames. 

“What?” you whisper, not realizing Eddie had finished paying behind you, “No. No, we- no. We aren’t anything. We’re just… we’re just friends.” 

Even the word friends whispers away into smoke, choking you up. 

“Friends? Looks like you two were on a date, like he’s your boyfriend or something.” 

“Well, we’re not. He’s not.” 

Steve hardly buys it, but when Eddie joins your side once more, you don’t even offer him a glimmer of a farewell. You grab the wrist of your friend, your not boyfriend, and you high tail out of there. Still choked up, still running, still reeling. 

It’s still light when you leave the building and your hand drops from Eddie’s. You’ll both pretend the cold is from the weather, and not the distance you put between him and yourself. 

And if he heard your conversation with Steve, he doesn’t bring it up. Not that night, at least. 

SPRING, 1988

“I can’t do this anymore.”

You got him in the spring – it makes sense that you lose him in the spring. 

“What do you mean?” you play dumb, painfully coy as you continue to rinse the dishes. Plural. Dishes that the two of you had just dirtied through a painfully tense dinner together. In your apartment, at the counter of your tiny kitchen, knees not even so much as brushing. 

“This,” something has broken inside of him. Snapped, shattered, splintered. “It’s been a year, and I keep telling myself that you’ll come around, but-”

“Come around?” you cut him off with a laugh, one that stabs not only through his chest but your own. A double-edged dagger that has been sharpening itself for a year now, “Come around to what, Eddie?” 

He hadn’t expected the way you lash out, the cold storm that you had been consumed by since the winter night where Steve had looked at you like something had changed in you. As if you had finally gotten better, as if you had had something sour in you all along and Eddie had managed to magically drain you of it.

He couldn’t. He never was going to be able to. 

“Me?” he’s not sure of himself, voice wavering and eyes sparkling as they widen with tears of frustration, “Us? Fuck, I don’t know, but I can’t keep-”

“You thought I would come around to the idea of us?” your voice is cool and collected, nothing like his, as you finally turn around, “What, like we’re dating?” 

You were. A year of this back and forth, and you were too stubborn to just accept it. It was your downfall. It was the bleeding wound for not only yourself, but for Eddie – for this, as he had called it. 

You like him more than you liked the others.

So, are you and Munson a thing now?

A good enough fuck to live to see the fall.

You were never going to be enough for him. In your lifetime, you’d always known what you were good for, and it wasn’t for boys like Eddie Munson. 

“What else do you call this?” he motions vaguely to the dishes, to the fridge that holds his takeout, to the hallway he had tumbled down more times than you could count, “We’re more than just good friends, sweetheart.”

“We both knew what we were getting into.”

“Did we?”

Come over.

I might need convincing.

Stay with me?

You should have been smarter. You should have been more careful. 

It’s a brutal fight, and it’s the everything you had been waiting for. The illusion of softness finally breaks. Whispered words of care have become sharp insults, all the small moments where you had made mistake after mistake with him are now weapons. If the dated walls of your kitchen could speak, the tiles would murmur of all the blood being spelt as brutal defenses are sent back and forth from both sides. 

“I need more.”

“I can’t give you more.”

“You could, you just don’t want to.” 

“What’s the difference, Eddie?”

You were never going to be enough. You should have seen that, clear as daylight from the beginning. You were something rotten from the moment he met you, and he had just been too stupid to recognize all the decay. 

Of course I’m greedy. Can you blame a guy when it comes to you?

Why couldn’t he just accept what you were willing to give? Why did he have to push, to persist, to insist upon you laying more of yourself out for him? You had already dissected yourself beyond repair, made the cuts that would never heal and bared your innards in a way that you never should have to begin with. 

Stay with me?

You wish you were still just lazing in between your sheets with him. A you-shaped space at his side, a pillow on his side of your bed. You wish he had never picked a fight he had every right to rage. You wish, you wish, you wish.

Stay with me?

And then you lose, you lose, you lose. 

“You were just some idiot who thought you could change me,” you seethe at some point, aiming damning arrows for every exposed bone he’d ever given you a glimpse of, “What made you think that? Hm? Was it when I paraded you around the town, calling you my boyfriend? Or was it every time I told you just how much I loved you? Was it when I fell to my knees and kissed the ground you walked on, Eddie? Go ahead. Tell me.”

You were just rubbing salt in the wound at that point. Saying everything he had wished for over the last year, that you never gave him. 

You never called him your boyfriend. You never told him you loved him. You never did, and you never would. 

When it’s all said and done, it’s everything you had expected. A screaming match that the neighbors will complain about the same as they’d complained about every late-night rendezvous between the two of you. An effective cutting of ties that you’d been anticipating for a long twelve months. If it were the movies, maybe the fight would have been more effective. Something that would delve into the lead up of love confessions, an ending where you wind up in his arms and he’s whispering every which way that he still cares for you, even with your teeth bared and your sharpest knives poised. 

It’s not a movie. It’s everything you expected. 

But you hadn’t been prepared for the ache. When your own vicious words left a taste of ash on the tongue, when his eyes flashing with something harsher and less caring for you left a hollow ache that rang in your ears longer than his voice did. You didn’t think that you’d feel the cutting of ties. Every nerve ending in your body feels that jagged edge that saws through all that you two had tried to build over the last year, but it’s far too little and far too late. The foundation was cracked – you were damaged. 

You lose him. The world doesn’t end; the night carries on even as he grabs his leather jacket and leaves behind the sock in your dirty laundry. And when he exits out your front door, hiding away any tears that might have slipped free, just as you were, you feel that unexpected whisper inside of you. 

Stay with me?

You sleep alone that night. For once, the smell of tobacco and his shampoo makes you throw the pillow that was once his across the room. 

SUMMER, 1988

She deserves him.

Chrissy Cunningham deserved Eddie Munson far more than you ever had. She was enough. 

Summer can stain, but it can’t erase. Even in the months of aftermath, even for every tear shed in private and wave of yearning that would drown you in the dead of night, you never changed. It had hardly taken weeks after Eddie had walked out of your life for you to return to your old ways, going back to the bars and seeking out the latest warm blood to lose yourself in that night.

It didn’t matter that you compared each and every single smile to Eddie’s. It didn’t matter that you’d have to grip your sheets until your knuckles turned bloody to avoid touching the strangers hovering over you, hoping to feel familiar skin and a comfort long lost instead of whatever poor soul you’d dragged home with you. 

He deserves a love full of life. A love that breathes him in and doesn’t drain him. One that could let him feel the sun on his skin rather than hiding him away in the night.

A love that doesn’t tick away each passing season, because it’s a love that doesn’t have a ticking time bomb attached to it. 

“Never thought I’d see the day Cunningham got her claws in Munson,” Billy mumbles around a cigarette at your side. 

He didn’t tease about Eddie those first few months. One look at you, and he had known. 

“She didn’t get her claws in him,” you say, monotonous as you reach for your drink once more, “I’m happy for him. They look happy.”

They do. They really, really do. A love that burns like summer, and has never been touched by a dying autumn or cruel winter. The type of happiness Eddie would have never been able to find from you, try as he had. 

Billy taps some of his ash into the tray at the center of your shared table. Surely, he had better things to do, but he stays. It was probably entertaining, watching you pine and regret for once in your life, “Looks can be deceiving.”

“Their’s don’t. I bet you that there’s a ring on her finger before next summer.”

You don’t want to imagine the pain that would ignite in you. That’s the type of emotion that would far surpass any regret you currently feel. But you seem to enjoy torturing yourself, eyes still zeroing in on her left hand, as if you already see the glint of whatever diamond Eddie would seek out for his worthy lover. 

“And I bet if that happens, you skip town within twenty four hours of finding out.” 

He’s right. Nothing was truly tying you to this sleepy town, and the reminder of your worst mistake, your most terrible slip up of all time, would easily send you running with your tail between your legs. 

“Probably,” you sigh, no longer putting up a front. You hadn’t even tried batting your lashes at a single man since Eddie and Chrissy had arrived at the bar. You were striking out tonight, on your own volition, “Maybe I’d move to California. I hear the men there are easy enough.” 

“They are,” Billy laughs, throwing his head back. It’s enough to garner attention across the bar, numerous girls being enticed as if he might be a siren beckoning to them, “Take it from one. The girls on the west coast are prettier, though, so you can’t blame ‘em.”

The girls on the west coast probably resemble Chrissy. Golden skin, golden auras, golden light. Honeyed words and the sweetest of blushes across coy cheeks. They probably embody every sunset and sunrise simultaneously, and you can only stand there green with envy.

“You are awfully easy,” is all you can offer in reply. The banter has started to fall flat since Eddie. You’re no fun – hardly taking any bait that Billy will hand over so generously. 

Maybe, if you had tried a little harder, you could have been one of those girls. Clear blue skies, not a sight of the storm clouds that you still let consume you. 

Maybe Eddie would have stayed if you had tried a little harder. 

There’s no real hope for it now. You’re left to being nothing more than a conglomeration of pathetic pity parties and the taste of cheap beer these days, hardly worth the chase once the boys get close enough to see the rot. You’ve stopped trying so hard to cover it up; you’d ripped yourself open for Eddie, and had never found a way to properly suture yourself back together so that anyone new might not get a glimpse of all the bad. They could spot it from a mile away these days. 

It doesn’t help that you no longer try to cover it all up with overly sweet perfumes or sickly sweet pickup lines.

Billy’s laughter didn’t just draw the attention of the girls around the bars. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see a pair of whiskey eyes find the two of you, locking on you far too easily to have not known. 

You notice, because of course you notice him. But when Billy notices, it catches you a bit more off guard. 

“Like I said,” he drawls, and you nearly panic when he grabs his drink off to leave you behind, “Looks can be deceiving, hot stuff.”

Your eyes find Eddie’s quickly, not listening to a word that Billy is saying. Chrissy is saying something, something surely important, but her boy isn’t listening. Her boy, her conduit for all her sunshine, is staring right at you and has no plans on looking away any time soon. 

He’s seen the rot up close and personal. He’s the one who’d handed the treacherous scalpel over to your shaking hands, encouraging you to open up in all the ways you never wished to. 

You shouldn’t do it. You’ll regret it. You really shouldn’t do this.

“They never learn their lesson, do they?” 

You don’t know who Billy is talking about.

Eddie, who almost seems to be under your spell, taking a slow slip of his neat whiskey, staring you down as if he’s brimming with bad ideas that he hopes you can hear from across the room. 

Or you, who should know better. You hurt him, you broke his heart, you don’t deserve him. And yet, you’re selfish as ever, mind reeling with possibilities of how you wish the night would end.

You can hear the bad ideas. Clear as day. Especially when Eddie only breaks eye contact long enough to lean in to Chrissy and whisper something that effectively dismisses her, leaving Eddie all alone and in your gaze. 

“They don’t,” you say, throwing back the last of your drink.

You know where he’s heading. And you know where you’re heading. A moth to his flame, going only where he will allow you. You’re a ghost of the menace you once were. The other men, the other bodies that kept you warm these nights; none of them were him. You didn’t want them. You weren’t soft with them. They never stayed, because you never asked them to. There was only one man in this bar, in this entire damn bar, that would ever fill the hole left behind in you after Eddie’s summer. Eddie’s spring, Eddie’s autumn, Eddie’s winter. 

And he was walking outside the bar, almost tauntingly as he sauntered through the doors, beckoning you with each and every step. 

Perhaps this time, Eddie’s the one who needs a summer plaything. 

“This isn’t going to end well,” Billy taunts you as he takes a few steps back, knowing damn well as to what was about to happen. Bad ideas, downright terrible ideas. 

Eddie is playing the same game as you were once a master in. It dawns on you; Chrissy Cunningham wasn’t his newest love. She wasn’t his sweetest sunrise or gentle spring. She was a passing wind, just like all the boys you’d enticed before him. She’s already moved along, pretty hand resting on the shoulder of a new beau and not even paying any mind to Eddie’s absence. She may deserve him, but she doesn’t have him.

Nor do you. The roles have been switched, and you should know better. He’s leading you to an inevitable death, whether it be a little one or something of catastrophic value. He is leading you right into your own demise. Just as you used to do with every new victim you’d set your mark on before him, before your summer, before it all. 

All your old tricks, turned to weapons against you.

And you’ll let him. A moth to his flame. A dog at his window sill. 

“It never does.” 

Stay with me? 

Maybe, this time, you’ll be the one staying. If only for the night, and if only for Eddie.

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im bo (she/her, lesbian, early 20s)

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Call of Duty

full length fics:

don't leave me locked in your heart (20k, ghost x soap x reader, dark) (#dlmliyh for extra bits)

howling and barking (8.6k, ghost x soap)

run until you feel your lungs bleeding (6.4k, ghost x reader, dark)

i'll eat you whole (10.8k, ghost x soap, dark)

lamb to the slaughter (26.3k, ghost x soap, dark)

drabbles:

won't you stay? (4.3k, ghost x soap, dark)

johnny goes to the groomers (1.4k, ghost x soap, dark)

ghoap x reader primal play (3.5k, companion to dlmliyh, dark)

ghoap x trans male reader (1.8k, puppy play pwp)

johnny "wrong hole" mactavish (1.7k, soap x reader pwp)

angry sex with soap (3.6k, soap x reader ft ghost pwp)

ghoap x reader purge au (5.7k, dark)

ghoap x reader alt purge au (4k, dark)

cbf-turned-bully!soap x reader (3.5k)

perverts!priceghost x reader (3.8k, dark)

au's without full fics:

a/b/o au (mostly alpha ghost/alpha soap/omega reader)

soulmate au

serial killer ghoap x reader (and x blind reader)

conqueror ghost x princess reader x knight johnny

zombie apocalypse ghoap x reader

writing challenges:

1,000 follower celebration

kinktober 2023 (70k, 31 chapters)

kinktober 2024 (incomplete)

Other Fandoms:

you’re obsessin’ (just confess it) (challengers, tashi x patrick x art)

[mylordshesacactus]

The Barrissoka Fusion You Never Knew You Wanted

So in celebration of FINALLY rounding out the originally-planned slate of barrissoka Disney AU/fusion challenge fics, I thought I'd put together a masterlist for those of you who are new, returning, or just never got around to them when they were first posted!

By sheer good luck, there are an even split of AU types--three fusions (ie, Star Wars characters adapted to a non-GFFA setting), and three alternate timelines (where the core setting is the same, but events developed differently--in this case, in a way analogous to the core plot of the movie the challenge was based on.).

Fusions

Through The Darkness And The Shadows

Setting: Fantasy-Medieval AU: Beauty and the Beast

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, a young princess lived in a shining castle…

It'll Sound Like A Promise

Setting: Fantasy-Medieval (Scotland Redux) AU: Brave

A clan leader’s heir had to strive for perfection. That was why Ahsoka was currently hiding in a tree.

Look To The Sky With Hope

Setting: Pirates/Fantasy Age of Sail AU: Pirates of the Caribbean (62k, 5 chapters)

Anakin Skywalker. Every sailor knows that name. Captain of the ghost ship Twilight, ferryman of the dead. Some say he preys on merchantmen, out of vengeance for the loss of his ship and crew; others that he and the charred black phantom are an honest sailor's friend, a protector in the dark and the mist. According to Ahsoka, the truth is both and neither. But the Twilight is...well, it's not real. Barriss Offee may be new to this whole pirate thing, but she knows that. It's a legend, a story, a sailor's superstition; like mermaids and Fridays and the Kraken. The ship of the dead and its captain, they're just a myth. Aren't they?

Alternate Universes

Going My Way?

AU: Aristocats Podfic: By Writers_Block, available here.

Shipwrecked and stranded on a remote agricultural planet, Barriss Offee doesn't dare reveal her identity as a Jedi for fear of drawing unwanted attention that might endanger the younglings in her care. Enter the charming, compassionate young spacer Ashla, who drops everything to take the group under her protection and asks nothing in return, as Barriss grows more and more unhappy with the necessity of lying to a young woman who's been nothing but honest with them. Meanwhile, Ahsoka Tano and her master are on an undercover mission. She really wishes she could tell the scared young mother she's taken in that she's a Jedi, but, well. The mission has to come first.

Back To The Wind

AU: Cars. (I cannot emphasize enough that this is an AU and not a fusion. They are not cars. They are people. For the love of god. It's just a plot adaptation. Please stop asking me if they're supposed to be cars.)

A hyperdrive malfunction strands Ahsoka in a nearly-abandoned trading settlement in the Outer Rim. That's not the problem. While she works off her community service sentence, she ends up in the unofficial custody of a weirdly hostile Mirialan who won't stop giving her these long, searching looks and talking about the failures of the Jedi Order like she knows something Ahsoka doesn't. That's not the problem either. The problem is...Ahsoka's starting to wonder if she really wants to go back.

When These Moments Have Passed

AU: The Fox and the Hound

Jedi Master Plo Koon was sent to Shili to retrieve a Force-sensitive youngling...and arrived just a few hours too late. Years later, a Jedi padawan and an indentured bounty hunter find themselves in the same spaceport. They shouldn't be friends, not really, but...they're more alike than they are different, straining under the weight of roles they can't escape. That bond is stronger than the galaxy's expectations. Until it isn't.

Bonus

While these are NOT part of the very specific "I can turn any classic Disney movie into a barrissoka AU, fucking try me" original challenge that spawned all this, they're some very nice AUs and if you're into AUs in general, you'll probably appreciate:

Iced Offee, Caramel Twist

AU: Coffeeshop AU

(What? Someone had to write it.)

Mirror, Mirror

AU: Sith AU

(Series/Duology)

[voxmortuus]

Hello. Vox here. 30's. She/They. Married. Requests are OPEN!

↝I write all types of fanfiction. Dark toned, smut and kink, super dark and possessive, the list goes on. You can find various themes ↝here↜. That is my new masterlist, my old one is attached. ↝What will I not write? Underage reader! Won't do it. I will call you out for it. I have a strict policy will not write minor readers so please respect that. Other than anything is really a go. ↝I ask that you please not steal my work and post it elsewhere. I cannot emphasize enough to please not do that. I do not consent to you taking my work in any way shape or form and posting it elsewhere. Reblogs are always welcomed and appreciated. Comments and loves are always welcomed as well! ↝I do not consent to minors reading or interacting with my blog or my works. ↜ ↝You can pretty much guarantee anything you click on to read here has smut so treat it as NSFW. Always read the trigger warnings before you read. Again. I do not consent to posting my work anywhere. Do not steal my work. And again, no minors interacting or anything with my work. You will find yourself blocked and I won't be nice about it. ↝Characters I will write for Aaron Taylor-Johnson.↜ ✭ Sergei Kravinoff - Kraven The Hunter ✭ Sergeant Allen "Ize" Isaac - The Wall ✭ James Frey - A Million Little Pieces ✭ Ford Brody - Godzilla ✭ Count Aleksey Vronsky - Anna Karenina ✭ Ray Marcus - Nocturnal Animals ✭ Ben Leonard - Savages ✭ Tangerine - Bullet Train ✭ Divider & Header Credit to @nyxvuxoa

↬Quiver - Smut Prompt ↬Kitchen Quickie - Smut Prompt

↬A Solitary Love ↬Honeymoon ↬NSFW Alphabet

↬The Taste of You - Smut Prompt

↬"Use My Thigh" Smut Prompt

↬I Think It's Time

↬NSFW Alphabet ↬Netflix & Chill

↬Heat Waves ↬Where You Belong ↬The Taste of a Virgin - DARK FIC. PLEASE READ TRIGGERS ↬Right here. Right now - Anon Smut Prompt

↬Eat Spit Get Dicked ↬U-Turn

↬Begging You! - Smut Prompt

[sleepy-shinx]

Submas Pokemon Weaknesses and Resistances - A Guide

Hi everyone! I know type advantages are hard to keep track of in Pokemon, so I wanted to make a quick guide specifically for the boys’ teams to make fic writing easier. I know people like to make their fics as accurate as possible, but the Pokemon type chart is very convoluted and hard to keep track of and I’ve seen people get it wrong sometimes.

This is, like, just a super minor pet peeve of mine, but also please understand that if you’ve gotten it wrong in a fic, you’re SO valid. It took me a while to get used to the type chart! There is absolutely no judgement coming from me. ✌️

ANY TYPES THAT AREN’T LISTED UNDER A MON ARE NEUTRAL DAMAGE

If a resistance is listed as 1/4th damage, that means both the Pokemon’s types resist that type. Resistance makes a type do half damage normally.

Similarly, if a weakness is listed as 4x damage, both of its types are weak to that type. Weakness makes a type do double damage normally.

Main teams

Chandelure (Ghost/Fire):

Weak to: Ghost, dark, water, rock, ground

Resists: Fire (takes no damage if ability is Flash Fire and raises its special attack), Bug (1/4th damage), Bug, Steel, Poison, Fairy, Ice

Immune to: Normal and Fighting (and Fire if ability is Flash Fire)

Eelektross (Electric):

Weak to: NOTHING!!! Mold breaker earthquake Haxorus is a well-known joke, but I have seen fics in which the author does not take Levitate into account. Unless an opposing Pokemon has Mold Breaker, or Gravity is in effect, or Eelektross has been Smacked Down (there is a rock move called Smack Down that takes flying/levitating Pokemon out of the sky), or its ability has otherwise been negated, Eelektross has NO WEAKNESSES. If its ability has been negated, it is weak to Ground. Also Eelektross ONLY has Levitate as an ability, nothing else.

Resists: Electric, Flying, Steel

Immune to: Ground (see above)

Galvantula (Electric/Bug):

Weak to: Fire, Rock. Not Flying or Ground! Bug resists Ground and Electric resists Flying!

Resists: Fighting, Grass, Electric, Steel

Haxorus (Dragon):

Weak to: Dragon, Ice, Fairy

Resists: Fire, Water, Grass, Electric

Excadrill (Ground/Steel):

Weak to: Water, Fighting, Ground, Fire

Resists: Rock (1/4th damage), Bug, Dragon, Fairy, Flying, Normal, Psychic, Steel

Immune to: Electric, Poison

(Also extra fun fact… Excadrill’s hidden (rare) ability is Mold Breaker 😊)

Archeops (Rock/Flying):

Weak to: Water, Steel, Electric, Rock, ICE. Rock does not resist ice weirdly enough.

Resists: Fire, Flying, Normal, Poison, Bug (just half damage, Rock ALSO does not resist Bug).

Immune to: Ground

Also a casual reminder of Archeops’s only ability, Defeatist, one of the worst in the games, which halves Archeops’s attack and special attack when its health is below 50%.

Crustle (Bug/Rock):

Weak to: Rock, Steel, Water

Resists: Normal, Poison

(Bug/rock is such an interesting type combo…)

Klinklang (Steel):

Weak to: Fire, Fighting, Ground

Resists: here we go… Bug, Dragon, Fairy, Flying, Grass, Ice, Normal, Psychic, Rock, Steel. Steel is a REALLY GOOD defensive type.

Immune to: Poison

Durant and Escavalier (Bug/Steel):

Be ready for one of the WEIRDEST type combos in Pokemon.

Weak to: I cannot emphasize this enough: BUG AND STEEL TYPES ARE ONLY WEAK TO FIRE. It is also 4x damage because they are both weak to fire. Like I said, a weird type combination, but steel has so many goddamn resistances and bug has several WEIRD resistances (like ground and fighting) where they all just cancel out each other’s weaknesses just leaving us with the 4x damage to fire. These two Pokemon are the MAIN reason I wanted to make this post.

Resists: Grass (1/4th damage), Bug, Dragon, Fairy, Ice, Normal, Psychic, Steel

Immune to: Poison

Garbodor (Poison):

Weak to: Ground, Psychic

Resists: Fighting, Poison, Bug, Grass, Fairy

Accelgor (Bug):

Weak to: Rock, Flying, Fire

Resists: Fighting, Ground, Grass

Second friendly reminder that Accelgor can have the ability Hydration, that heals any status conditions when it’s raining!

Boldore (and by extension Gigalith, Rock):

Weak to: Fighting, Grass, Water, Ground, Steel

Resists: Fire, Flying, Normal, Poison

Gurdurr (and by extension Conkeldurr, Fighting):

Weak to: Psychic, Flying, Fairy

Resists: Bug, Dark, and Rock

Ingo’s Hisui Team

You know I can’t leave the squad out.

Gliscor (Ground/Flying):

Weak to: Ice (4x damage), Water

Resists: Fighting, Bug, Poison, Rock

Immune to: Electric, Ground

Tangrowth (Grass):

Weak to: Poison, Flying, Bug, Fire, Ice

Resists: Electric, Grass, Ground, Water

Magnezone (Electric/Steel):

Weak to: Ground (4x damage), Fire, Fighting

Resists: Steel (1/4th damage), Flying (1/4th damage), Electric, Bug, Dragon, Fairy, Grass, Ice, Normal, Psychic, Rock

Immune to: Poison

Probopass (Rock/Steel):

Weak to: Fighting (4x damage), Ground (4x damage), Water

Resists: Flying (1/4th damage), Normal (1/4th damage), Bug, Dragon, Fairy, Ice, Psychic, Rock

Immune to: Poison

When Probopass is just a Nosepass, it is pure Rock, and its resistances and weaknesses are the same as Boldore’s.

Alakazam (Psychic):

Weak to: Things humans are typically afraid of; Dark, Ghost, Bug.

Resists: Fighting, Psychic

Machamp (Fighting):

See also: Gurdurr lol

Weak to: Psychic, Flying, Fairy

Resists: Bug, Dark, and Rock

Lady Sneasler and the Sneaslets (Poison/Fighting):

Always good info to have ya know?

Weak to: Psychic (4x damage), Flying, Ground

Resists: Bug (1/4th damage), Dark, Rock, Fighting, Poison, Grass

Use this information wisely. Or not, I don’t care. Good luck with your writing/anything else you use this information for!

Also, if you have any questions/comments or think I got anything wrong, please let me know (politely) in the comments or in a reblog!

(Also I would super appreciate it if you’d reblog this post, it took a while and I’d love if it could reach as many people as possible so anyone who needs it could have it for reference!)

[sneppu]

Hello! Welcome to The Sneep Zone

You may call me Nagi

Main blog: @nagoo (I'm also on Bluesky! absolutely NO MINORS on the bluesky, no exceptions. nsfw art will be going there.)

u better be able to tell fiction from reality i stg.

first and foremost: fuck jkr. i do not endorse her. i do not agree with her. we dont do that weird shit here.

we do different weird shit instead (bask in the decadence of The Sneep)

This sideblog is for me to post all my Snape art and Snape related ramblings! I am addicted to snape fics, and have found myself needing to make fanart for some of my favorite writers. such things will be posted here!

Severus Snape is my favorite guy!

I am known to refer to him as: Sneep, Snorp, Sneb, The Sneberous Sneb, The Snebulous One, He Who Sneeps In The Dark, SneepSnorp, Mother, Sneppu, El Sneepo, Snorpo, Snib, The Best One, The Only One That Matters, The Community Boyfriend, Babygirl, etc.

rest assured, I am talking about Severus Snape every single time

I ship him with everyone! yes, even [insert character]. I always tag ships so block the tag or w/e if theres one you dont like.

I truly and genuinely, from the bottom of my heart, do not care even a little bit about The Grievances u may have about my ships or my sneeps. I cannot stress enough how much that is not my problem. If you're the type to throw a tantrum over ships and fictional content I'm just gonna block you tbh.

Dark/Fucky content WILL be found on this blog. Snape was practically MADE for that shit and I like to project my traumas onto him so like. ykno. I expect adults with critical thinking on here ONLY.

in my ideal world, everyone would love and cherish Sneep. I tend to focus on marauder's era Snape

not to be rude, but i kind of only care about Snape really. the slytherins are cool and chill too (especially Lucius, Rosier, and Mulciber), but i mostly care about how they interact with and potentially fall in love with The Sneep. the marauders are rat bastards and i ship them with Snape in a "grovel eternally for the scraps of his affection" kind of way. I am not sorry.

dont expect nothing serious from me unless im waxing poetic about Snape or heavily projecting my own Tragic Past onto him tbh, and even then...

i have zero interest in any debates whatsoever. i cannot emphasize this enough, my thoughts are disjointed and nonsensical. The mere thought of having a serious debate about anything is stressful and unpleasant. I mean it as kindly as possible when I say it makes my eyes glaze over.

i am just here to draw Snape and shitpost about my favorite little guy.

i dont care that he's mean.

he shouldve been meaner, actually.

he's better than me and he's probably better than you too, because i wouldve absolutely lost it big boy style.

Art tag: #nagi nyart

Have you ever written a fanfic about Severus Snape? If so, please PLEASE read this post Here

this shouldnt even have to be said but please do not??? take me stuffs and completely re-upload it without credit or permission?? dont do that to anyone, actually? like idk basic courtesy towards artists or w/e. you know better, i know you do.

BUT that said.. using my stuff for your header or profile pic is fine with credit somewhere easily visible, like the profile description, or pinned post!

[belindarimbi13]

my thoughts on the color version of mitsuya's design.

For a long time, I always had the impression that the dress is in black and white colors.

Like, I've written enough Doramitsu fics to emphasize these colors.

... The renowned dragon soars up to the heavens in light cashmere, and the other dragon falls to earth, draped in heavy velvet seeking for love ...

For anyone asking why, it never occurred to me that the color could be in any spectrum of red, because I regarded the velvet in the sentence as the type of fabric Mitsuya used, rather than the color of the dress.

Before the fan translation came out, since I cannot speak Japanese, I somehow thought that the darker one would represent Draken and the light one would represent Mitsuya. I remember seeing the design and thought to myself about how it resembled Draken in volume 25. So the darker one must be Draken's!

But the description throws me off because one seemed to symbolize someone's going to heaven and the other fell onto earth, seeking for love. Considering the story behind Mitsuya's design, of course I would think that:

Light = Draken

Dark = Mitsuya

I used this formula for years. God knows, I'm writing enough coda/post-canon for chapter 238-239 using that formula.

But who would have fucking known that I was actually wrong right all along?

Now, let's talk about this official confirmed color version of the manga.

The darker one apparently consisted of red color with a gold accent. While the light one as you can see, is all white.

And we definitely could not ignore the fact that the model of each design is having a certain someone's hair right?

It looked a lot like Draken here.

And Mitsuya here.

And don't tell me that those color compositions didn't remind us of them?

Now, I know that sometimes the colored version didn't match the anime. Like here's Draken's hoodie was black, not red.

But take a closer look at these designs and tell me that this is not the representation of Draken

and that this is not the representation of Mitsuya

The color version caught me off guard, especially since Wakui decided to give the model's hair, Draken and Mitsuya's hair colors. This is a fucking representation of them at the finest, Mitsuya reinvent Twin Dragons through his design. In every sense.

I just found out, how far he went for that.

Those designs could be interpreted in many ways, but one thing is for sure.

Don't. Tell. Me. Mitsuya. Didn't. Love. Draken.

Because he did, he does, and he will always do.

[rollercoasterwords]

tried to read wfrau as i saw people rec it, but there's something bothering me in that fic. i don't like the alpha-male-ification of remus in wfrau. remus is not a beast who can fight another beast werewolves. he was a timid, sheltered boy in canon, but it's like you're making him fit into the fanon toxic wolfstar heteronormative box. it feels weird to read. please don't make me start on why it seems like you hate sirius OR use sirius as a self-insert to indulge in your fetishization of remus. like why do you write sirius as abused, when it was canonically remus who was disabled. can you consider rewrite some points in the fic, aligned to canon?

lmao where do i even start with this. uhhhhh okay first of all to answer your question - no, i will not be rewriting to make my non-canon-compliant fic more compliant with canon. if you don't like it, i suggest you don't read it! i'm not writing the story for you, and i'm not really sure why you think it would matter to me whether you like it or not. there are plenty of other fics out there that you can go read.

this fic was explicitly written to be a werewolf-fighting ring au. if you don't like remus fighting other werewolves, then i'm baffled as to why you even started it in the first place, considering that it's clearly tagged "werewolf fighting ring." i don't agree with your interpretation of canon that he was a "timid, sheltered" boy; even if i did, this fic is specifically exploring how the characters would be different in an au, non-canon-compliant version of their world. if the gay romance between two men is too heteronormative for you, there are, again, other fics out there that you can read. and if you don't want to read about "toxic" relationships then u DEFINITELY shouldn't read this fic, because none of the relationships in it are wholesome and healthy lmao. if you think i hate sirius...i don't even know what to say lol. like yeah i hate him so much that i've written hundreds of thousands of words of fanfiction about him. that checks out! and remus is fetishized in this fic for being a werewolf, which is a topic that gets explored in-depth in his pov chapter and is not something condoned by the narrative. i'm assuming you didn't read that far, though, and that what you mean by "fetishization" is the fact that sirius finds him sexy. so. again, i think you probably should just not read this fic if characters being sexually attracted to each other bothers you. i write sirius as being abused because that's the story i wanted to tell; not really sure how remus being canonically disabled is something that would cancel that out? those are two separate things. and remus's canonical disability is his lycanthropy, which....also exists in this fic. and is another topic that gets explored throughout the story.

in conclusion i truly cannot emphasize enough that i am not the person out here reccing this fic, i am not trying to grow an audience or go viral or any of that bullshit. not sure where you got the rec from, but i have actually asked people not to post about my fics on tiktok to try and avoid them blowing up there, because i do not want people like you reading them. i include an entire warning on the first chapter about the fact that this fic is dark and deals with heavy topics; i've tagged the fic thoroughly and have also included "additional tags to be added" to remind people that it's a wip and things are subject to change. all this is to emphasize -- i really, really, really don't care if any person reading the fic dislikes it. i don't care if they dislike it so much that they have to stop reading, because i don't care how many people are reading it in the first place!! i'm writing this story purely for fun, for myself, so i'm going to write what i want to write. even if you intended for this message to be polite, it just comes off as incredibly entitled to ask a stranger on the internet to spend hours of time and labor tailoring a story to your specific tastes, and if you think this type of message is okay to send then i think you should genuinely sit down and reevaluate the way you approach fandom. nobody is making you read fics you don't like, so just....don't read them.

[ellitx]

Just A Little Bit | Heizou x Reader

You’re in a hurry for brunch with your friend but your husband decided to make you stay a bit longer with him. 

my second heizou bday fic. i know im late but whatever. i crave for domestic husband heizou stories 

warnings: fem!reader, established relationship, nsfw content

word count: 5.9k

Vigorously blinking once then twice, the sleep was shaken loose from your eyelashes in fine, golden specks of dust. Shapes before you were still molten into a hazy blur, emphasized by fulgent beams of Sunday morning light that flooded through the bathroom door and propped open halfway.

It's as though your brain had woken up shortly before your vision got the chance to and now it had some catching up to do. Your silhouette was presented to you— weary and lightly slouched in the mirror, circling a toothbrush within your mouth at a reluctant pace.

Shrouded in post-sleep delirium, you realize you've forgotten to wet it before you squeezed the toothpaste upon it, where you're reminded by the dryness of the sharper-than-usual mint taste on your tongue.

Without paying much mind to it, you exude a groan through gritted teeth, proceeding to brush them.

Mentally, you browbeat yourself for having gotten up this early on a damned Sunday, let alone freed yourself from your sleeping husband’s firm, love-infused grasp you found yourself encased in upon waking up. However, to your own demise, you almost forgot the plans you had made for this day.

And judging by the claim of the clock adorning the wall that you checked mere minutes prior, you were dealing with the better part of an hour to get ready in order to make it there in time. Considering your drowsy composition, you would have to make each minute count.

Once your surroundings swim into view more or less clearly, you're suddenly taken aback by the state you're in. A succession of marks bloomed upon the side of your neck, trailing down to your collarbone and disappearing beneath the crisp white cotton of one of Heizou’s button-ups you're enveloped in.

Each one of them deviated from the rest in color ever so slightly, gleaming at you in different shades of dark purples and reds.

You cannot deny your awe. It doesn't look bad per se, but the hints of a possible attack having gone down are there. Though there wasn't one; not in a way one would think, anyway.

Whenever frustration has built up within Heizou to a point that diminished him to nothing but a huffing, grumbling mess when he’s at a dead end of finding clues, he would almost become primal in nature. You, of course, secretly wallowed in these particular occasions— the roughness of his touch and pace, the hoarseness of his voice drilling into your ear, the sharpness of his teeth each time they'd sink into your flesh.

Catching yourself dwindling away into a lustful daydream, you forced your thighs together and squirmed restlessly, meaning to ease the tension that has flourished between them. This action forced you to focus upon the knife-like soreness tugging at your lower abdomen, left there the night before— also by your husband, also feverishly, also in an act of passion.

You want to be sort of mad at him, but it's difficult to be. Instead of falling victim to displeasure, your stomach flutters again.

Fuck, you're done for.

Clearing your mind— and the least attempting to— you bend towards the sink and spit out the toothpaste, consecutively rinsing your mouth with a cup of water. You're stirred to alertness by the brisk sound of the bathroom door clicking shut to your left, which prompted you that you're no longer alone here.

Originating from the same direction, faint footsteps crept up to your side. Having splashed a handful of frigid water upon your face, you surged back into the air. To nobody's surprise, Heizou has settled behind you, close enough for his body heat to merge with yours being palpable, but not close enough to make actual physical contact.

He's donned nothing but his trousers, which seemed to be clinging onto his hips for dear life. Not only were you able to follow his happy trail with your eyes, but almost caught a glimpse of the base of his shaft. The outline of which, just by the way, is more than emphasized to you on behalf of the drab fabric. You gulped, the minty freshness on your palate inducing a numbing tremor.

Heizou’s forlorn eyes took a clumsy, yet amiable guess and plateau upon where he assumed your face was, beaming widely. That dark maroon hair of his was all sorts of tousled, sticking out in ten different directions and all four cardinal points.

You were sure he followed your heartbeat here and was currently stalling so as to make use of the silence in order to register its spike, justified by his sudden appearance. It flattered him thus he delights in a hearty chortle.

“Good morning,” you crooned, cutting his glory short. Intent on continuing to dream for at least a little while longer, you studied his charming features in the mirror.

“Morning, sweet,” Heizou retorted through a smile, using his voice for the first time this morning, which was prompted to you by the profound rasp of it that tugged at your heartstrings in an alluring fashion.

He finally made the decision to grasp onto you, his palms wandering beneath the cotton of his shirt that you're wearing, taking hold of your bare hips beneath it. His fingertips pranced upon your skin, and he allowed your bodies to collide by pushing up on you from behind. This was when his arms wholly twined around your figure, pulling you into the soft curve of his slightly bent frame.

His torso was firm and placid against your back, and you were debating whether or not to falter in his grip. He's so pleasantly warm, and though you've only left your shared bed a few minutes ago, you've already grown to miss that signature fervor of his that you know to be the most comforting quality on earth.

Once you shut your eyes, if only for a fraction of a second, it's as though you're still entangled in him, obscured by silk sheets, drifting in and out of sleep as one tends to on a lazy day.

Soon enough, you snapped out of it by forcing your eyes open and repeatedly batting your eyelashes— Heizou heard it, or at least that's what the slight twitch of his head told you.

The reason was simple: You have matters to attend to.

Reaching for a scrub on the right-hand side of the sink, you grabbed the tub and screwed it open. Your hypersensitive husband lightly hummed at the sudden whiff of pomegranate it exuded, theatrically exhaling and thus fanning his lukewarm breath over the back of your head. He then freed one of his hands from around you, using it to peel back the neat collar of the button-up you're wearing, attaching his hot lips to the nape of your neck.

Heizou’s palm consequently snaked underneath your breasts, though loosely, applying the slightest bit of pressure that was nevertheless enough to send your mind down a frenetic spiral.

In contrast with the languid kisses placed upon the back of your neck, he sent sensations tumbling down your back that provoked your nipples to stiffen in an instant and a faint yelp to tear free from your depths.

In response, he merely smirked against your skin, pressing more wet kisses upon it. As though on command, you slanted your head to the side, firmly believing the motion will enhance the sensations you're granted.

Your perception might be manipulated by the placebo effect, but for all you know, it's working just fine. Heizou proceeded to slowly pull away, abandoning the spot upon the nape of your neck that's practically aching for attention now; fluttering and tingling from the ticklish play of your husband’s breath.

Soon, he proceeded to sweep your hair out of the way from the crook of your neck, letting it cascade down your spine. There's care obscured in his motions that you've never encountered with anyone before him, and it left you breathless.

“Why're you up so early, hm?” he questioned in a gravelly tone, and you're suddenly swallowed by the tart wave of regret.

You know you can never get away with fleeing him or his bed, nor is he capable of sleeping well without you, anyway, prone to waking up with the merest stir you caused. He deserved that rest you cheated him out of— with all the work he's been taking on lately, let alone the nightly endeavors he partakes in every now and again, sleep should be his top priority.

Guilt has nagged away at your intestines. You almost find yourself apologizing, but then Heizou lodged his face in the space he just cleared for himself and the steady contact his breath made with your sensitive skin sent an icy shiver racing down your frame; it's refreshing, though frustrating.

If he continues like this, you'll not only be late but exhausted and possibly more marked-up than you already are. Had the situation been different, you wouldn't catch yourself complaining in a million years, but you've been putting off meetings with Sango for as long as you can remember— with half of the excuses to be traced back to Heizou— and don't want to leave her hanging this time around.

Thus, you ignored your husband’s affection and the numbing effect it has on your mind as you dipped your fingers into the scrub and scooped some of it out.

“I'm meeting Sango for brunch, remember?”

You reminded him, only to receive an affirmative hum in return. You started working the scrub between your fingers, lending it warmth before you decided to apply it.

“I already feel terrible after blowing her off so many times. I can't possibly be late.”

“Not even a little late?” Heizou mumbled, sucking greedy kisses onto your neck. His lips dallied along your heated flesh, and every now and again, he flashed his tongue to slide it over the outlines of the marks he's given you last night.

He knew exactly where they are too— the tease he is— it must be the burst of your system and the blood that drained away from them he was smelling. You cannot help but lean into him— it's an instinctive reaction you fail to prevent.

Your body was guilty of naturally responding to his touch, which your brain sheepishly convicted.

“A little bit— just for me?”

His right hand released your breast then it slid downward. It proceeded to loom around the center of your chest, coming to a halt just a breath of a touch over your nipples, where he traced the maroon stains littering the skin stretched over your clavicles.

His calloused thumb caressed the surface, and in combination with the barely noticeable sting of the mark, you're left to endure pleasure so bittersweet it caused your insides to churn.

“Heizou—!”

You choked out, caging a moan that was about to erupt within your mouth. He's kissing your neck in a way that reminds you of all similarly sensual encounters you've shared with him, which, in its turn, caused ardent arousal to pool between your legs.

Since Heizou sniffed away at the air a little more forcefully than normal, you assumed he must've noticed. Having thrown a glance at the mirror, you find it harder and harder to contain yourself. The sight of you captured in his arms, his entire attention focused on your body and your body alone, your eyes hooded and skin ablaze, is nothing short of debaucherous.

Your frame fitted into his so perfectly, the back of your thigh translating the luscious feeling of him gradually hardening against you. His breath was less controlled now, and you delighted in his agitation for a split second. However, you're not one to talk. You're practically melting into his embrace.

“I can taste you off the air, [Name],” he groaned in between planting sloppy kisses upon your neck. His tone is dark, though breathy.

“My wife’s so sweet, so delicious. Can't I make you feel good? Can't I please you, sweetheart? You took me so well last night, I have to express my gratitude.” You whimpered at the sole obscenity of his words, your stomach wringing and twisting at the spilled praise.

He's irresistible, and fuck, you don't want to dismiss the pleasure you know he can bestow upon you. Not when he's offering it to you so gallantly.

With your judgment clouded and all senses heightened, you gasped.

“Hmn! J-just a little bit…”

You failed to recognize where the desperate aspect of your response finds its origin, but you cannot take it back now. Heizou’s lips stretched into a grin against your flesh, and he shifted them to gently nip at your jawline.

“That's it, darling,” he uttered. His left hand gifted your hip an approving squeeze and his voice grazed your ear, coating it in a layer of calidity.

“I'll be quick, I promise. I’ll make my sweet wife cum like I know she loves to.”

The hand that was teasing your sensitive nipple and circling the marks bedecking your chest gradually drifted downward. His fingertips scattered bursts of fervor over your skin, and you stertorously watched the coarse scenario unfold before you in the mirror.

It's a leg-trembling sight, and Heizou knows you're delighting in it, which to his surprise, merely stung him with the prick of jealousy.

The shirt you're wearing is only buttoned halfway, wherefore it peels aside further than would be considered modest, revealing the better part of your left breast. His palm captured the tender mound as your breath hitched treacherously, and kneaded it ever so slightly, enough for the heat between your legs to graduate to a fire.

You issued a whine, needy and hoarse, which signaled him to keep going. After all, you're on a schedule here.

His palm wandered lower, sweeping aside the cotton of his shirt, thus revealing the smoky-pink lace of the underwear you slipped into this morning.

At first, he curiously slid his fingertips along the fabric, just to acquaint himself with it. By now, he's learned all of your lingerie by heart, has his preferences set in stone, and this piece happens to be one he's especially fond of. This realization elicits a groan from him, and in no time—whilst his lips are still gently glued to your jawline— his fingers pushed aside the hem and sneak into your panties.

You shuddered, where his free hand stabilized you, and he comfortingly shushed into your ear. That doesn't help with your agitation, whatsoever.

Heizou started off slowly, first sliding his fingers along your slit and coating them in the slick that's gathered there.

“Man alive… so wet for me. Always so good and wet for me,” he mused, more to himself than to you, partaking in a few more gentle caresses along your core. In response to his teasing, you whimpered, bucking your hips towards the hand that was buried in your underwear.

Soon enough, your husband’s joint middle and ring finger grazed your clit, which they consecutively started rubbing. This is where the first proper moan erupted from your mouth, and you reclined into his frame, one hand clutching onto the bathroom counter for support, the other stumbling upon his free hand to settle on. You don't care that your fingertips are stained with scrub— if only, Heizou welcomed the scratchy sensation on his skin.

His fingers kept their pace, nice and quick, causing white-hot pressure to swell in the pit of your stomach, that you know only Heizou and only him can diffuse. You issued successions of mellow moans and dared to glare at the mirror – and fuck, you're in shambles.

Your mouth was pried open, knuckles were tense from grasping whatever was in your reach, flesh was practically scorching hot, and Heizou’s strong and firm arm was twined around you and steadily working your core. His fully hardened cock urged against you from behind, building piquant friction as you rock in his grip.

It's blissful enough to break out crying, you thought until his fingers rearranged and two of them plunged inside you, his thumb taking over the focus on your clit.

“H-Heizou!”

And suddenly, your entire understanding of pleasure is redefined. His digits curled within you, and you're convinced you won't last much longer like this. Your heart is going haywire beyond your ribs, threatening to crack them. It seems to be the only thing Heizou could hear aside from the array of sounds you gifted him, and he's set on nudging you over the edge right here, right now.

“‘m close…” you rasped, though he was already more than aware of the fact. You used the outcry as an excuse to dilute your moans with at least one coherent word— to not seem as frenzied, at least a little sane, maybe.

Heizou’s voice was low and spread heat across the shell of your ear.

“Let go for me, darling.”

His order was one you cannot disobey, and with another “C'mon, give it to me” falling from his lips, your cunt throbbed and spasmed as you came undone at the merciless pumping of his fingers.

Your legs gave out beneath your weight, your figure suddenly too hefty to hold up, and Heizou was forced to bend his knee for stability as you slumped into him. The whines fleeing you echoed across the bathroom walls, and while you reveled in the bliss your orgasm brought on, he led you through it to the best of his ability.

When the pleasure promptly faded, your eyes fluttered open. You're too ashamed to look at yourself in the mirror, anticipating a picture that'll figuratively cripple you more than you already are. Instead, you panted your pent-up agitation out, clawing at the dissolving remnants of your discharge.

Once your heart lulled, Heizou teasingly dragged his fingers out with a delicious smack, bringing them up to his face and placing them into his mouth to suck on. His tongue swirled along each curve to collect all of the slicks he gathered.

This you cannot disregard, marveling at the reflection of him doing it, still folded into his grip. Your stare burned into him, and his flushed face was suddenly adorned with a smirk. The desolate emerald eyes you love so much ghosted over the mirror once more, and the realization that he's at least trying to find you enchanted you.

Your temple was covered by a glistening film of sweat, hair was unkempt and in sure need of getting taken care of soon.

“I need a shower,” you declared, breathless. The reason you voiced your intention was the realization he'll request to stick around for it, and there's nothing you wish for more. After all, there's still time left. You finally allowed yourself to be a little late, however little persuasion it took.

“That can be done,” he responded as he rested his palms upon your hips. This statement of his meant he was joining you— you hear it in the lingering lustful tone and see it in the curve of his lips. He promptly twirled you around to face him, and after a quick peck on the tip of your nose, lifted you onto the bathroom counter.

You shifted around, getting comfortable and propping yourself up by grasping onto the edges with your hands. Your husband knelt before you, clutching onto your heel and lifting one of your legs into the air.

He kissed a long, ardent trail along it, eliciting some needy panting from you until he was greeted by the much softer and more sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. The overwhelming smell of your pooled slick has overtaken his nose entirely, and God, what on Teyvat he wouldn't do to put his mouth on you and nuzzle into your pleading heat right now?

Nevertheless, he suppressed the urge by detaching his lips from your skin and tangling his finger in the lace of your panties. One second later, he's sliding them down your legs. Once you're freed, they're discarded onto the tiled floor. Soon thereafter, he rose back into the air, slotting himself between your legs and starting to glide his hands over the shirt you're wearing.

It's the same one he came home in last night and the very same one he swathed your glistening, sweaty body in once he was done with you. The recollection caused him to clench his jaw, and he could barely conduct his fingers upon the buttons from the balmy arousal blooming within him. The fact he's painfully hard, straining against his trousers, wasn’t helping either.

Once the button-up was undone, Heizou guided it off your shoulders. By doing so, he released a waft of your scent to come flooding his senses – it cost him a mellow groan.

You shed the shirt completely, nipples perked by the cold of your sudden bareness. As you leaned forward and hooked your fingers in the waistband of his trousers, you absent-mindedly captured your lip between your teeth. Once you slid them down his thighs, his hardened cock sprung out, flushed and upright against his toned stomach— veins defined as ever, leaking at the tip, and flushed from all the blood urging it on.

You cannot lie, the sight was an enticing one to have, which is why you leaped from the counter and dropped onto your knees before him, colliding with the fuzzy rug covering the floor.

Before you get the chance to take any action, though, be it by wrapping your hands around him or even opening your mouth, Heizou caught your chin.

“Not so fast, sweetheart. Today's about you. Plus, didn't you say you were in a hurry? We're showering together and have you get you ready, hm?”

Oh, now he's playing that game. Backing out after finally convincing you to give in to him. You want to hate him and you really try to, but fuck, with his cock hard and rouge on eye-level with you, you're fully convinced you could never find yourself hating Shikanoin Heizou.

Annoyed, you surged upward with a small pout; having taken his hand, you led him towards the shower, where you opened the door and tugged him inside after entering yourself. In his turn, your husband switched on the water, and it came splashing down onto the two of you, gradually heating up.

Still, you're fucking aching for him. Despite having come for him just minutes prior. Despite having him all to yourself for years. Despite having plans to attend in less time than you expect. He can't possibly be teasing you this way after igniting your potent flame.

You gently nudged his taller figure against the wall, lacing your fingers through his damp hair and joining your lips. His palms adhered to your waist, pulling you closer. You veered your body against his erection, meaning to wind him up so he yielded to you at last.

He reciprocated by gasping into your mouth, water leaking into the kiss after dribbling down your faces. For a moment, it appeared as though you'd stolen his composure, but he regained it shortly before you could pride yourself on that achievement.

He trudged forth and pinned you against the tiled wall right across from where you had captured him prior. Once again, he nipped at the skin of your neck, though more vigorously, and this time around introduced his teeth. His lascivious biting has punched the remaining air out of your lungs, which you made noticeable by gulping for it.

This is where his hands set off on a roam across your body, exploring every patch as though he's never touched you before, never made you his before, never ruined this perfect skin of yours before.

He tapped his fingers along the curve of your waist, pads prancing upon its damp, balmy surface. Each minuscule collision elicited a hitched breath from you, and you sent your own hands swerving over his lean, though tender-skinned chest.

Heizou, however, changed course and slowly but surely traveled up to cup your breasts. He palmed the tender mounds, digits toying with your hardened nipples captured between them. You whimpered, the sensation penetrating you to your core.

“My wife’s so beautiful,” he uttered into your flesh with a sated groan, gradually directing his hands back down.

“So perfect,” he sighed, exasperated, and added a breathy All mine. Soon enough, his palms glided towards the tenderness of your thighs, where they squeezed and kneaded and massaged them, whilst his mouth mumbled incoherent chants against your skin.

Whatever it was he's crooning, you understand it's nothing short of delirious – in a way that prompted you he's wholeheartedly in love with you. And as his fingers strayed along your figure, you gifted him alluring successions of deep, grateful whimpers.

Heizou has your body memorized – each stretch, each bend, each sweet spot that could send you down a pathos-filled spiral.

Not much later, his lips caught yours, nipping at them like he was starved for your taste. Even you can sense how flustered he's become, how much desperation he's driven by, how badly he's out to please you.

“Archon, you drive me insane...” he hissed into your mouth, the rapid pace of your heart aligning with his husky breathing. You maintained him pressed flush against you by his shoulders with zero intention to ever let go— the effect his previous statement had upon you was colossal; each limb of yours was buzzing with excitement and your pulse was transcending the realm of health. You could die right here, and it wouldn't be a half-bad way to go.

For a little while, you kissed him back. Soon enough, though, it becomes unbearable to tiptoe around the lechery in this manner— thus, you spoke your mind. Or, more accurately, whined your mind.

“Can't you fuck me? Please, Heizou?” The sheer rashness you filled his name with flustered you, and you struggled to comprehend he was capable of turning you into a pleading, begging, whimpering, faltering, pathetic mess. But then again, you're fully used to it.

The groan your husband issued in response was deep and worked-up. He yearned, more than anything, to grab you by your damp hips and slam you down his length at a pace that'll bruise you from the inside, swallow each outcry you give him, and keep it sacred in his lungs. Stimulate you until your hot tears leak into the shower water racing down the curve of your cheek, but he digested that yearning.

Today, he wanted to be gentle with you. He means to worship the body that's offered up to him so generously whenever you unite in acts of intimacy. He wished to deify you— to prove to you how pure of a goddess you truly are to him.

“I'm afraid that if I fuck you,” Heizou let out a stuttered groan, his dick hardening between your thighs. “We won't be leaving this shower until noon.” He panted and you know he's telling you the truth. If this had been going down on any other day, you'd have gladly accepted that offer. “So, no. However...”

He lowered himself upon his knees, snaking his palms around the backsides of your thighs. In no time, he flung your legs over his shoulders with zero difficulty, keeping you pressed against the cool wall and readjusting his position in order to gain better access to your sex.

In response, your hands dug into his burgundy hair, seeking support in this position he placed you in. His fingers sprawled out over your hips for stability, and he aligned his mouth with your sopping, aching cunt.

Wasting no more time, his tongue made electrifying contact with your heat and parted your folds. A yelp slipped from your mouth, and you're overwhelmed by the friction he's spreading across your center. It roused a stirring within the pit of your stomach that you cannot, by any means, allay.

First, he merely glided his tongue along your slit to prep and work you open, yet soon enough, his lips hungrily closed around your sensitive clit. Once he started sucking upon that sensitive bud, you tilted your head back, launching it against the wall and lightly rutting your hips against Heizou’s mouth with all sorts of whines and moans escaping you.

It should be forbidden to feel this fucking good, you pondered since you've come closer to heaven more than you can count with your husband. There was just something about him— something that transcended your ability to comprehend but lured you in magnetically, nonetheless.

His tongue swept and worked your clit like it was the only thing it knows how to do, and you reveled in the sensations branching out throughout your frame. Your eyelids fluttered, your mouth gaped with threads of sighs of pleasure leaking out of it, and your torso and arms erupted in beady goosebumps— even though the water pouring down upon you was a degree shy of scorching.

You're heaving all over and struggling to claw onto the last shreds of sanity you're left with. Heizou withdrew them from you with each forceful flick of his tongue. His mind was dimmed with the taste of you that filled it, gathered in a thick, tangy cloud, causing his hardened cock to give helpless twitches at each moan and spasm you awarded him with.

You're close to the point where you'd offer your life up in exchange for the incoming orgasm, the raging fervor buried within your depths setting your body ablaze. Heizou was more than aware of how close you'd grown to him. Your heart has sold you out to him so brashly, and as your thighs clasped shut around his head with agitated anticipation, he channeled a guttural groan into your heat.

It did you more favors than you expected it to, bliss bursting in the pit of your stomach at once as he continued bobbing his head and simultaneously lapping away at your clit to lead you through the sudden orgasm. Your muscles tensed up, your core pulsating against your husband’s skillful mouth.

He swallowed each throb, each flutter, each thump, and God, does it sate him. If it were up to him, he'd have you coming on his face until the end of time. It could seriously send him over the edge alone— and before he knew it himself, it did.

Once you're clambering down your overwhelming high, he desperately spilled onto his own stomach, siphoning broken-up moans into your heat, his eyes closed taking in every drop of your white fluid.

Your thighs were stiffly clenched as his fingertips twitched upon them with the dawn of his orgasm, nails digging into your sensitive flesh. His chest swelled with force. Words fail to describe the shock you're taken over by, however arousing the situation translated to.

Hands still securely tangled in his hair, you massaged his scalp. “Ohh, Heizou...” you whispered your husband’s name, starstruck.

You're not sure you can come up with a better response to the ongoing, thus you simply marveled at the aroused detective: flushed, exhausted, wallowing in his high whilst still nuzzled against you. Once his orgasm started wearing off, the groaning against your center ceased, but it's nevertheless obvious that he was trying to savor every last bit of bliss he could get before it slipped away from him entirely.

At the same time, you're elevated to a degree of astonishment that robbed you of all ability to respond to the outer world, and at this moment, all you knew was you and him. And the fact he just came from solely eating you out.

In no time, Heizou gently lifted your thighs from his shoulders, setting you down on the wet ground with utmost care. His knees yielded to a crackle as he stood up, pain briskly dashing through his frame. He ignored it.

Instead, he rose to your level, cupped your hot face, and invited you into a soft, loving kiss. Your flavor played on his tongue so fervently, and he shared it with you— an offer you cannot ever refuse. He kissed you deeply, cordially, sweetly.

You’re loved, and what's more, loved by him.

But you're also late. And still need to shower.

Therefore, your palms landed flat upon his chest. You proceeded to gently push him away, and unfortunately break the kiss much to his disappointment.

“Now I really need to get ready.” you panted, a blush playing on your face. Even though Heizou couldn’t see it, he filtered it through your tone. By now, you've already taken hold of your body wash and spurted some of it into your hand.

Once you began spreading it over your glistening skin in languid, thorough motions, he delivered you his usual mischievous expression.

“Need any help with that?” he inquired and who are you to say no?

The next few minutes were spent with Heizou posing somewhat of a help, rendering assistance with washing your body, but also diluting the deed with tender kisses and not-so-innocent caresses.

You were definitely late to brunch by the time you were out of the shower, and the very moment you haphazardly wrapped a fuzzy mint towel around your figure— which soaked in the soapy droplets of water trickling down your body— you're already racing across the house towards the ringing telephone.

It laid upon the front counter of the kitchen, and as you took the handset, you were faced with an enraged Sango.

Fuck.

You cursed in your mind, preparing for the worse.

Sango’s voice spilled out of the speaker at once, calling out your name with a harsh undertone. You're stung by guilt the second you hear it, toying with excuse variations within your head as her words flew on in that grainy fashion everyone's familiar with.

“[Name], where are you? Look if anything happened, emergency or not, you have to call me immediately. I’m worried sick if something might have happened to you! You know what, I should drop by your house.”

“W-wait no! I’m fine really! I’m going to be a bit late so you don’t have to come here.” You assured, but Sango wasn’t taking any of it.

“Look, if Shikanoin— er, Heizou’s doing horrible things to you, I won’t let him get away with it! He’s—“

The call was cut off and you felt a presence ghosting behind you, and it didn’t take you too long to notice the handheld in your palm had disappeared. Once it came to a conclusion, you spun around, only to perceive him standing before you, a towel loosely tied around his hips and wet strips of hair dropping into his beautiful face.

What's more: Your husband was taking your call with a smirk on his face.

“Mrs. Shikanoin is unable to attend your brunch today. Hm? She’s sick, that's why she woke up late.” He glanced at you and seeing your disbelief reaction was enough to gauge out a chuckle from him. “Now now, I’m being a caring husband, that's all. I don’t want to see my wife pass out and get hurt when she’s out sick.”

He felt no remorse at all. That smirk was enough to say everything. The cocky, rapacious asshole Heizou sometimes is...

Heizou ended the call and the termination of plans with someone you care about pained you. You don’t know how you would face Sango and explain everything to her.

“Well, then,” your husband dragged the words out with mischief smoldering in his voice, “guess you're all mine for today, hm?”

[kholnt]

I just wanted to say how much I looooooovvveeee your Lost Link fic! I love the idea of what would happen if Wild remembered his past. I wanted to know how you think his knight training went? I definitely think that it was a terrible experience that gave him a whole wagon full of horrible coping mechanisms and bad habits(and from where the fic is going, I'm guessing you think similarly), but I wanted to know how you thought his training went. Anyway, just wanted to say how much I appreciate and love your work, Thank You!

WAAAH THANK YOU FOR YOUR KIND WORDS!!! (but give all of the writing credit to @/eponatheestallion <33 cannot emphasize that enough) BUT! you basically got it in one! his knight training was NOT kind to him in the slightest. i mean, even with the canon material we HAVE it still doesn't particularly spell a good time. (staring at mipha, zelda and purah's diaries respectively. and creating a champion. and possibly aoc but thats a different timeline + i barely know anything abt it so its there In Spirit) i will warn you that this ones gonna be long bc botw diaries TEND TO BE YAP SESSIONS! AND im a yapper so i'll just give you the tldr:

lost's knight training was abhorrent for his mental health and plays into a LOT of his mannerisms and why he is the way he is

ANYWAY! i'll just talk abt things that have been established either in the au or in botw canon :) any blanks you can fill on your own

as for canon things heres some things that stood out to me (formatted to be paragraphs for my sanity):

"A youth named Link was brought to me a hundred years ago, covered in wounds and on death's doorstep. Link… So young, yet so courageous. He was the youngest knight to have ever been appointed to the Imperial Guard at Hyrule Castle. He was also a gifted swordsman who was selected as captain of Princess Zelda's personal guard. I thought his skills would be enough to defeat Ganon in glorious fashion…

It was the best we could do…" -Purah's Diary

~~~~~

"When I finally got around to asking why he's so quiet all the time, I could tell it was difficult for him to say. But he did. With so much at stake, and so many eyes upon him, he feels it necessary to stay strong and to silently bear any burden.

A feeling I know all too well… For him, it has caused him to stop outwardly expressing his thoughts and feelings. I always believed him to be simply a gifted person who had never faced a day of hardship. How wrong I was… Everyone has struggles that go unseen by the world… I was so absorbed with my own problems, I failed to see his." -Zelda's Diary ~~~~~

"At the request of Hyrule's king, a group of outsiders came to greet us at the domain. One of them was a Hylian child of only about four years of age. His name was Link. He made quite a first impression. He was curious and full of energy, with a ready smile. Are all Hylian children that way?

One thing that surely sets him apart is his swordsmanship, which I hear is exceptional. He has even bested adults. He must be somewhat reckless, however, as he was covered in bruises. Wishing to be helpful, I healed his wounds for him." ~~~~~

"Link came to visit the domain. It feels like forever since he was here last. He no longer resembles the child I first met. He is now an accomplished knight and keeper of the sword that seals the darkness. I am so proud. However… He hardly speaks anymore, and smiles even more rarely. He is still the kind soul I knew, but something has changed.

I asked him if something had happened, if something was wrong. He merely shook his head. Perhaps it is his newly acquired height, but I feel he is ever looking past me, into the distance beyond…" -Mipha's Diary

~~~~~ "The details of how Link obtained the sword a hundred years ago have been lost to the mists of time, but since he was in possession of it for a number of years prior to becoming a Champion, he was likely around twelve or thirteen years old when it happened."

~~~~~

"After the Champions for the Divine Beasts were chosen, there was an incident at Hyrule Castle. A Guardian went berserk during a test run. Link deftly defeated it, earning himself a great deal of recognition. Impressed, King Rhoam made him Princess Zelda's appointed knight. With no regard for his own personal safety, he loyally fulfilled his duty to guard Princess Zelda with his life." -Creating a Champion

(there will be another thing later but its separated for a Reason.) ANYWAY! these are like. BIG things in canonical material that I feel like are important, especially if they're highlighted. i'm not really going to elaborate much since its kind of spelled out already but i'll say a few things nonetheless (also for consistencies sake i'm going to say lost but do know this ALSO applies to wild) he was the youngest knight appointed in history. like even that alone is FUCKED??? i don't remember if it was something in canon, fanon or something kay n i made up (but it doesnt rlly matter since its canon to the lost hero au ANYWAY!) but he became a knight at TWELVE soon after pulling the sword. then proceeded to become a royal guard at 17. this is a kid surrounded by adults in a generally Unsafe Environment, that alone is enough for some level of fucked. ill explain the "hes been training since he was four" later since i have Thoughts about that, but on a unrelated note do notice that mipha makes the assumption that lost is reckless and not through actually seeing him being clumsy. hyrulean guard when i get you now, to me the vow of silence was something that stemmed from before the calamity and started up in his training. because thats a twelve year old being forced to be a hero when he never got the choice to. OBVIOUSLY hes going to shut down. again, this will be expanded upon later also. lost is canonically self sacrificial. VERY self sacrificial. no further comments, just saying OKAY. NOW ITS LATER BC ITS TIME TO YAP ABT THE "inspired by canon but like. its canon plus." canon is bent in specific ways bc the way link is characterized (in cac specifically) makes him very uh,,,, inhuman i suppose. i love looking at scenarios where decisions have consequences, and it's that specific reason why i enjoy "what if" aus so much.

yes, lost was still trained when he was four. no it was not formally. to me, lost had an interest in swordsmanship because his dads a knight! hes going to be exposed to at least a little bit at an early age. he was insistent on wanting to learn, so with the power of sticks, pot lids, and a lot of positive reinforcement, he learned how to do the movements of swordfighting. he'd never been given a proper sword until the guard brought him to zora's domain. lost's dad never wanted to force the position of hero onto him, so he never gave him a sword. everyone knows that he's the hero except him, and lost's dad would rather keep it that way until he's old enough to climb mount lanayru (it happens much earlier than that) now abt the fucking "According to tales told by the long-lived Zora, Link visited Zora's Domain when he was younger and formed a bond with them, defeating a Lynel and teaching various skills to Zora children. This story sheds light on both his physical abilities and his strength of character." from creating a champion just like. isn't canon in this. the only other recorded time lost fought a lynel in zoras domain was when he was already zelda's guard and he was not younger. so by proxy it must've been when he was four WHICH ISN'T HAPPENING SORRY GUYS!!!! i'm not having a four year old fight a lynel hero or not!!!! it's referenced in lost hero canon (the soldiers accompanied made jokes and tried to egg lost on but it got shut down real quick since a. his dad was there and b. literally anyone who have thinking caps would go "yeah um... no actually!") and now its fanon time :))) when lost was in the army, he was usually trained separately from the other knights, mostly because of skill difference. as a CHILD he was able to clear soldiers, he needed different training period. as for the actual formal training, it was extremely strict. terrible conditions stemmed from an awful reward "system" (that usually led to lost being extremely fatigued and starting an endless loop of punishment. there is a reason why lost can push through awful conditions: hes used to it) all blanketed with the justification of "he's the hero of hyrule." they trained him to be a weapon, not a person. he doesn't have a sense of self nor an identity outside of "hero" "champion" or "weapon." things like "brother" got stripped from him when he joined the academy. they didn't bother with setting up a future for him. he eventually figures his shit out but thats YEARS down the line, and even then he's still suffering from this,,,, self objectification? idk how else to describe it when he wasn't getting grilled for "not swinging his sword hard enough" or having his foot a centimeter off even though he hasnt had the privilege of Basic Necessities To Survive in (insert timeframe) he was usually doing something in the coliseum. as it turns out, having the hero show off in front of an audience by fighting a lynel (or multiple) is a GREAT money maker! shame he wasnt usually told beforehand!

being forced into heroism is a big reason as to why hes the silent knight. he never wanted this. being separated from his family (whom of which i have Many thoughts about. same for his childhood honestly) and surrounded by strangers who have no care for who he is but rather what he stands for was absolutely awful, and only made worse by his age. being silent and just dealing with it is how he coped, and its eventually going to boil over (just give it a few years) his knight training was one of THE worst things to happen to him, right under failing to save his kingdom and inadvertently being the cause of hyrule's demise. it's the reason why he acts the way he does. he wasn't allowed to forget, so instead it influences almost everything he does, says and thinks. SO YEAH IT WASNT A GOOD TIME

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Surrogate: A Malevolent Podcast Fanfic

The King in Yellow has a plan.

The first part works, and Arthur Lester is broken.

The second half blows up in his face. John has gone mad, and Hastur’s adopted daughter is upset, but that’s not all.

It turns out a certain Outer God wasn’t done watching that show, and when he arrives with director’s notes, not even the King in Yellow can refuse him.

AO3

----

This fic is fluffy AND dark?

I took the Emotions Box and dumped the whole thing in without a hint of self-restraint.

CONTENT WARNING: It includes one of John and Arthur’s absolute lowest points, and though not explicit, he suffers from suicidal ideation. He does not act on it, but it’s there.

Proceed with caution.

-----------

Faroe is a year and a half old, and she must sit on his lap to reach the keys of the piano.

She plays a low F sharp.

“Yes! Now… here. This comes next.” He plays the next few notes an octave above middle C, high and sparkling.

His voice is deep, and it is terrible, but she is not afraid.

She giggles, and—slowly—mimics it, two octaves lower. F sharp, G, F sharp, D—and after a trepidatious moment, the final F sharp.

“Very good! I’m so proud of you. My smart little girl. You’re so good. Who’s my little girl?”

A giggle, such a tiny sound, like her throat hasn’t even finished developing, and she is simply too young to be self-conscious. “Dadah.”

She’s playing the low notes. He’s playing the high ones. Is there meaning to this? Some hidden portent?

No. It simply happened that way, and he does not know if he should try to find reason in it.

She is remarkable. “Such a good girl. I’m very proud of you, Faroe.”

“Love you, dadah.”

#

Faroe is two years old, and trying to sing.

She has a range of about six notes (fitting for her developmental stage—he’s checked), but she hits them with an accuracy unusual for her age.

It’s not precise, of course. She skips from note to note as lightly as a hummingbird between flowers, never firmly landing on any, but brushing close enough to share the sweetness.

“Faroe, my darling. Such a good girl.”

“I love you, daddy.”

Maybe the fucking human was right not to have let go of this.

She truly is remarkable. Continually surprising in her cleverness, and her ridiculous humor, and her effusive love.

Regardless, her skills and self change nothing.

Faroe’s specialness only emphasizes how much Arthur Lester deserves what’s coming.

#

Faroe is two and a half, and who could have guessed how she’d take to the harp?

Confining her to one instrument was such a human thing to do, and he hadn’t even considered it. At his prompting, she tries them all.

Wind instruments, she doesn’t care for.

Percussion, she enjoys while inventing uncoordinated dances, but does not like to play.

Brass is much the same as wind.

Piano is all right. She shows talent, but no joy.

But string—oh, string.

Anything with strings, she loves, and embraces, and becomes in some sweet way he cannot define, but must be human magic: her small, clumsy movements going smooth, her tiny, pudgy fingers caressing with grace far beyond her years.

She would have absolutely been considered a prodigy among the short-sighted humans. She will be so much more than that now.

Curious, that he finds himself making plans for her beyond the end of this plan. If all goes as originally conceived, she won’t even be alive to—

“Daddy, look,” she says, and catches the harp strings with each succeeding finger as easily as she breathes, tiny digits curling to pull sound toward herself like muses gather dreams.

Remarkable.

If her father was anything like this, perhaps he could understand the Piece’s... reluctance.

But of course, no. He had seen into Arthur Lester, down to his core, and found him only distasteful.

“Daddy?”

“You’re doing so well, my darling. I’m very pleased with you.”

Her smile carries a weight he’d never imagined. For him, she plays some more, an uncomplicated and unsullied worship, given freely with no expectation of remittance.

She checks as she does to make sure he is watching, and it is in this brief, mortal moment that Hastur realizes he’s fallen in love.

#

This was not the plan.

He watches her play among his dancers, those sharp and terrible creations—watches her bound without fear between them because she has never been hurt, never known pain beyond the negligible bump or scrape.

That is according to plan.

She is healthy and lovely, and absorbing knowledge at a rate his study has shown him is unusual for humans, even at her developmental stage.

That, too, is according to plan.

But he no longer wishes to finish the plan as intended.

Is this what the Piece went through? This… illogical abandonment of principle and pride?

Perhaps.

Though he still could not see why. Faroe was worth some flexibility. Arthur was not. What a disgusting creature for the Piece to have latched—

“Daddy, are you watching?” she calls, darting between sharp and stone-hard dancers, who would be dangerous for anyone who had not grown up among them.

“Always, my dear,” he says, and it is true.

So the plan must change.

The result could still be the same.

He is a god, and absolutely has the right to change his mind.

#

Faroe is three years old, and the timing could not be more perfect.

He's been leaving clues for Arthur over the past year, burning hints, plastering Arthur’s life with reminders of what he’d lost and what he’d done.

An unending stream of them, merciless, too subtle to dismiss.

And with constant pressure, there’d formed a crack in that ugly human psyche.

Seemingly nothing. Left alone, it would heal.

Unless one applied a wedge just so, and then hit.

It was crucial to act before she grew much older, before she became too self-aware to demand penance from strangers. Crucial to act when she still lacked the ability to analyze, to question (beyond the endlessly-repeated “Why?” which he had decided was more to hold his attention than to gather knowledge).

Crucial, to do this before she could develop too much empathy. The Piece’s human was nothing if not pitiful, and he would not risk the plan going sour over that.

“We have guests. I need you on your best behavior, darling. Will you make me proud?” he says to her, unbothered by her wriggles, by her curiosity, by her constant personal quest to see if she can climb out of his tentacles (she cannot).

“Yes, daddy!” she agrees, which has to be enough.

They are here.

#

It wasn’t hard to bring them. A little pressure here, a few disposable cultists there, and the Piece and his thing are arrived.

The Piece is worried. Has been for a few months now, certain that something is very wrong with Arthur, but he cannot identify the cause.

They step into the dark, those two—Arthur Lester frowning at gloom he cannot see, John Doe narrating as usual.

The King has chosen a room they do not know, a place John would never recognize, because this plan has been in the works for years, this particular moment envisioned many times, and it has to be just right.

He waits until they’re too far in to turn around.

Come too far to run, to leap back through the silent, slowly closing door.

Too far to do anything but receive.

“Hello, Arthur,” says the King in Yellow, and steps forward in a bloom of light like the heavens opened to augur him.

It is everything he wanted and more.

Arthur’s horror—delayed, because Hastur chose the right day, and Arthur’s sanity is already trembling and painful.

The Piece’s rage—immediate and tinged with terror, because he knows that this setup will have no flaws, errors, or ways to escape.

Arthur tries to shoot him.

Cute.

“Now, is that necessary? I merely want to talk,” says the King in Yellow, and extends his reach to simply take the gun from him.

He might have broken Arthur’s hand. Well, humans are fragile.

The screaming is annoying, though, because it catches her attention.

“What’s wrong with that man?” she says, her voice quavering in the way it does when she’s becoming upset.

And Arthur hears her.

The gasp, the freeze. Beautiful.

“This is a bad man,” says the King in Yellow. “There he is, do you see him? He is very bad. What do we do when we have been bad, Faroe?”

He uses her name on purpose.

That isn’t enough, though. That isn’t nails in the proverbial coffin.

Not that it's a coffin he’s going for. This is a wedge, designed to split.

“What?” says Arthur in a tiny, weak voice.

The Piece has, to the King’s pleasure, gone silent in shock.

Good. That will make this even easier.

“We say sorry,” says Faroe, dutifully, the mental exercise pulling her, fortunately, away from looming empathy.

Arthur? whispers the Piece.

Hastur lets Faroe down.

Slowly. Taking his time. Ensuring the Piece sees how comfortable with him she is, how utterly at ease, because he will tell Arthur.

She… she’s… in his arms, Arthur, the Piece says, slipping by habit into describing things for the blind fool. She's not even afraid.

Yes. Perfect.

She looks… about three, maybe four? I can’t tell. Health blooms in her cheeks. She wears… his yellow, a sort of… single, wrapped uniform, comfortable and loose, along with yellow flower barrettes in her hair. Oh, Arthur—she’s coming closer.

“I can’t,” whispers Arthur, which could mean anything, and then he falls to his knees.

Just bang, right down, sure to bloom those fragile joints blue and yellow within the hour.

How many reminders did it take to bring Arthur to this place? How much effort from the King’s agents? It was all worth it, because it worked.

This is the moment.

He has sown those seeds, and now, he will harvest. “Go on, Arthur. Apologize to my little girl. That is what we do when we are bad, is it not?”

Arthur, she… The Piece runs out of words.

Regretful, that Arthur Lester is physically healthier than he was the last time they met. This might have just killed him, before. Oh, well.

“Faroe?” he whispers.

“Yes, I am,” she says, confident, not quite mature enough to read his defeated body language, his stricken face, his pallor so drained that he looks a little like blue-veined cheese.

“Go on, Arthur,” Hastur says, his pleased rumble filling the room, packing itself into the silences. “You owe her an apology.”

“Faroe,” whispers Arthur, and makes the tiniest move.

“If you touch her, you will be very sad at what happens next,” Hastur warns.

Because that is what he had planned.

Because—

Because.

He can still say it. He doesn’t have to mean it.

Arthur clenches his fists and does not touch. “Faroe?”

“Yes,” she says.

He makes one, broken-sounding sob.

“You should say sorry,” she instructs him. “Since you were bad.”

And… there.

Right there. It’s not an audible thing. It’s not visual. But oh… there it is.

Three years in the making.

More than that in the planning.

Right there, the moment of a mortal mind going snap.

Arthur? Arthur!

The Piece felt it, too.

Good. Hopefully, that would speed this along.

“Faroe,” whispers Arthur Lester. “I’m s… I’m sorry, Faroe.” His breath comes fast, shallow, and wet. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry!” He covers his face with his good hand, and he is sobbing now, if that is even the word—vocalized sounds on every exhale, high, pained—more pained than those he made with a broken leg, if Hastur remembers clearly.

Which he does.

“I’m sorry, Faroe! I’m sorry, Faroe!”

Arthur! Fuck, Arthur! Arthur!

It’s a little much for Faroe.

She doesn’t know what to do. Her distress is rising, and that’s according to plan, to the original plan, which Hastur is now struggling to follow. She’s beginning to cry a little—damned empathy, combined with confusion, maybe fear.

He can comfort her after. It’s all so close. “Now, John,” he croons, and he is chiding, gentle, firm. “You know that’s a waste of energy, don’t you?”

The Piece ignores him. Arthur! Arthur!

Faroe reaches up and pats Arthur’s face. “You said sorry. It’s okay, now. It’s okay.”

He startles badly, so badly he almost falls over, but lowers his hand.

He can’t see her. He still stares in her direction, as if caught in a wondering horror beyond imagination.

“I forgive you,” she says, because that’s what she’s been taught to do.

Then absolutely done with this overwhelming scene, she turns around and skips back to Hastur.

To her dad, even if he’s not her father.

He gathers her up, relishing her fearlessness, her familiarity, and lets her squirm through his loose tentacles like her own personal playground.

Arthur is quiet.

Kneeling still, his hands limp at his sides. His head is down.

Oh… oh, it is satisfying. Every inch as much as he’d hoped.

Arthur! Fuck, Arthur, don’t do this! Arthur!

“Are you ready to come home, John?” says Hastur, almost gently.

Silence.

He sighs. Stupid stubborn Piece.

“Daddy,” whispers Faroe, which isn’t much of a whisper. “He looks weird. He’s weird. Why is he weird?”

“Well, Faroe, he’s done a lot of bad things.” There’s no point to this if he’s not going to rub it in. “But maybe now he can do a good one. What do you think? Should he do that?”

“He should be good,” she says, thoughtfully, and then returns to wriggling through his limbs for fun.

“The good thing would be to let go, wouldn’t it?” says Hastur.

Arthur agrees.

Of course he does. He’s thinking… well.

Arthur has no plans to live much longer after this is done—but even this low, he doesn't want to drag John with him.

Hastur will grant him a single point for that.

Time for the finale. “John,” Hastur says, warm. “Come home. There will be no punishment. Come on, now. You’ve been released. Can’t you feel it?”

Arthur!

The left hand rises, feels along Arthur’s unresponsive face.

Hastur sighs. This is the only part he couldn’t fully plan out. “John. It’s time.”

No response.

Really? Really?

Maybe he didn’t understand his toy had broken. “If you stay in him, you’re going back to the Dark World.”

Finally, he gets a response: Good.

What? “Excuse me?”

Good.

The left hand slides over Arthur, as if making sure his organs have stayed inside.

Arthur hasn’t moved at all beyond breathing.

Arthur. Talk to me, Arthur.

Right. Now it was time for some nails. Hastur tickles Faroe.

She giggles—that free, wild sound only small humans seem able to produce.

Arthur slowly curls down over himself, wrapping himself tightly with his right arm, head completely down. “She’s happy?”

What? Yes, she’s happy. Arthur!

“John,” says Hastur. “I have done you the courtesy of using your… chosen name. He’s already released you. Do I need to take you? I’d hoped to spare you the indignity.”

The sound that comes from the Piece, then… isn’t right.

It’s not a sound Hastur can immediately place. It isn’t a growl (the Piece lacks the vocal cords). It isn’t a roar.

It’s some kind of… groan.

He doesn’t know how to interpret it.

Kill me! John demands. Because if you don’t…

“If I don’t… what?” says Hastur, sounding calm.

He isn’t calm.

This part isn’t in the plan. This is where the Piece should realize his vehicle is broken, and—

The left hand keeps roaming, sliding up to wipe away the constant flow of tears, even thumbing away snot (ew!).

As if care of Arthur Lester matters more than dignity.

Arthur, he whispers.

“John,” Arthur whispers. “I’m sorry.”

It was her birthday, or something today, right? the Piece says. You’ve been fucked for months, but today… you’ve been moving like you’re already made of broken glass. That’s why he picked today, isn’t it?

“She’d be… she’d be… eleven, John. I…”

I’ve got you, Arthur. The left hand cups Arthur's downturned face.

“I know.” It’s barely audible. “I’m sorry. I…  I think I’m done.”

Arthur, no. Arthur, no! Arthur!

“Excuse me,” says Hastur. “We were in the middle of a conversation.”

Fuck YOU! the Piece suddenly bellows. What have you done? How dare you? How dare you?

From within the folds comes a tiny, shocked gasp. “He said a bad word,” Faroe whispers loudly.

Oh… Hastur is so proud.

She heard the Piece! The minimal magic training he’s given her worked! She heard it!

“He said a bad word,” Faroe says, louder, because she hadn’t got the expected response.

“You’re quite correct, my darling.” Hastur shifts his limbs enough to lift her free, head popping out of writhing, black tubes. “What should he do, then?”

“Say sorry,” she says, automatically, which is even better, because now there might be a second—

John Doe laughs.

It is a… strange laugh.

Wild, unhinged, too far, like electric shocks in the guise of sound.

Instinct makes Hastur pull Faroe back into himself, hiding her between his many limbs.

Oh, go ahead, says the Piece. Go ahead, use her again. Do anything you want. It won’t matter.

“Excuse me?” Definitely not going according to plan.

The left hand slides over Arthur’s face again, his lips, his eyes. Arthur turns his head away, but the hand turns it back, gently cupping his jaw. Arthur. I’ve got you.

“I…”

I know. You’re done. Arthur… it’s all right. You have my permission.

Arthur exhales like he hadn’t breathed this whole time, and turns his face toward that hand. “Thank you.”

They just came to some weird suicide pact, right in front of him, without so much as a by-your-leave.

“So I have to just take you, then?” says Hastur, sharp.

Go ahead.

He’s too accepting of it. “You think to resist?” Hastur scoffs.

Not at all. I intend to make every deal with every demon I can find. I intend to gather every syllable of forbidden magic and cursed spell I can earn. I intend to hover and hide and hone in vengeance until to come near me is to be cut. I will destroy you for what you’ve done to him.

Well.

Right, so.

Um.

It's just a human. “Fool,” says Hastur, sounding a lot more sure than he is. “I’ll simply keep you isolated until you calm down.”

Go ahead. I can do a lot on my own, isolated, with nothing to risk.

“Nothing to risk but yourself.”

You already destroyed the part of me that matters.

This was getting ridiculous. “Then perhaps I’ll send you to the Dark World instead—apart from him, separate. He kills himself, he’s going a different path than you—you know this. And I’ll simply fetch you after a few thousand years.”

Go ahead. We both know what happens to beings who go down to death with only vengeance as their fire.

At last, Hastur growls.

He’s tried not to do that, not to frighten Faroe; he knows the sound scares her, and it does so now. She stops playing, goes still, emits a tiny, frightened gasp.

“I am not angry at you, Faroe,” he says, low. “You’re all right. Stay hidden, all right?”

“Okay, daddy,” she whispers, but she is still afraid of him.

Afraid of him because of them.

The fucking Piece. “How dare you defy me like this? You think you’re going to win anything? You think I can’t outlast you, overpower you, wear you down like a stone in the sea?”

I think you broke what was mine, and I am going to make you pay even if it takes me until the end of time.

Drama. It couldn’t be anything el-

“Okay, okay, cheese and crackers, rock and a hard place, we get it,” says a new voice, and a thing appears in the middle of the room.

That is an Outer God.

Hastur stumbles back, too shocked to think clearly, physically buffeted by the presence this thing brings.

An Outer God in the form of a human, an Outer God standing right there like the suddenness of a created sun, burning everything near.

What? How? Why?

It's wearing a suit identical to Arthur’s except rumpled, somehow giving the impression that it was out carousing until all hours.

It is barefoot, and its feet leave red, smoking prints.

Outer Gods bring chaos. Outer Gods bring death. Outer Gods bring carnage.

Faroe. Of them all, she is in most danger.

Whatever it wants here, it can have it, and Hastur does not hesitate further.

He tries to take her away.

And… he can’t.

Can’t.

He tries again, harder.

It comes with a weird zap, like his attempt to access his own power has been short-circuited, and that has never happened to Hastur before.

The Outer God has to be doing this.

Faroe. Faroe. He has to protect her.

“Well, this isn’t ideal,” says the Outer God, striding right over to Arthur and the Piece as though they’re the most interesting thing in the room—and as though the King in Yellow, the Shepherd God, doesn’t even exist.

Absurdly, Hastur is offended.

“Lemme see, lemme see. Oh, oh, there we go,” says the being in an utter mockery of tenderness, and tilts Arthur’s face up.

Arthur doesn’t respond. Whatever is in him that would have responded cracked about ten minutes ago, and he lets the Outer God do whatever, tilting his face from side to side.

Kayne, growls John, familiar, dismissive, and Hastur is completely confused.

“Well, fuck,” says Kayne. “You broke him. You fucking octopus. You broke him!”

What?

Kayne, go the fuck away if you’re not going to help me hurt him, says the Piece as though addressing this being wasn’t the maddest thing Hastur has ever seen.

It should fill the Piece with terror. What the fuck was happening?

Hastur tries to leave again.

No good.

He tries to just… put her away, to slide her into a tiny pocket dimension.

He can’t even open one.

Unfamiliar feeling is speeding his own breath now, so unfamiliar that it takes him a moment to realize what it is.

Is he dying?

No. This is fear.

Actual fear.

He keeps Faroe hidden deep in himself, as protected as he can.

Kayne—the Outer God—turns slowly to look at him.

And the unfamiliar feeling spikes.

He was wrong. This isn’t fear. This is terror. Debilitating, weakening—

“Oh, you don’t know terror yet,” says this Kayne (that can’t be his real name, the fuck kind of name is that), and turns back to the Piece and his broken toy. “See,” says Kayne. “This is why I stopped after the music box in Carcosa. Didn’t want this to happen. Well… fuck.”

John makes a low, angry noise. You want some chaos? Something to watch? I’ll give it to you! Give me the power to hurt him. Do it now.

Kayne snorts. “The effective way to do that is to kill her, fuck her up, rip her to pieces, and that’ll hurt your guy a lot more than it would him, even now.”

Hastur's breath catches.

So... his plan seems to have well and truly blown up in his face, though why it did—

“Oh, you think so, squid for brains?” says Kayne, turning to look at him again (and Hastur wishes he would not because every time he does it’s like switching out his ichor for bitterly cold helium). “You fucking cephalopod. I won't even give you the courtesy of saying cuttlefish because they are smart.”

Hastur makes one small, lost noise.

Give me the power, growls John.

“No, no, no. I was watching this. I wasn’t done.” And the Outer God begins pacing.

Released, Arthur slumps back down again.

Hastur peeks at him. Arthur is… waiting. Waiting to die. Waiting until he’s sure Faroe won’t see, hear, experience anything that might upset her, that might even give her so much as a bad dream.

Even now, at a point so low he might as well have dug it with his face, Arthur is considering Faroe’s welfare above his desperate need to just end.

Fine. It's deserving of another point, at least.

“You fuckers killed Iroh,” says Kayne, still pacing.

“What?” says Hastur.

“Four books down to three, all because of this. Ugh! I. Was. Watching. That.” And suddenly, so suddenly, so fast Hastur cannot see him move, Kayne is right there, right in front of his face, disparate heights be damned, and one of Kayne’s hands has pierced through his arms to just brush Faroe with his fingertips.

Ichor sprays.

Hastur flails, because now he has to protect her from his wounds (she’s mortal, so mortal, it would burn), because this monster has damaged him so quickly and with such ease that if he’d wanted to kill her, he could have, and Hastur wouldn’t even have been able to do anything to stop it.

Kayne starts pacing again, one arm dripping with Hastur’s black, hissing blood, leaving stains along the floor that send up rising smoke. “Right. Okay. How do we fix this, babes? What do you think? We could wipe it and do a full reboot, but I don’t wanna. That takes too long, and I really don’t have that kind of patience.”

Hastur is healing, yes. He is.

Slower than he should be.

Faroe has picked up on his terror, and she begins to cry. “Daddy?”

Oh. Oh, no. No, this is worse. This is worse than—

Kayne is right in his ear, lips brushing the cowl. “Than anything? No, we haven’t even gotten near that yet. Better not upset her. I’m not in the mood for the sound of babies screaming.”

Hastur makes one, low sound. “Faroe, it’s… I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

“Daddy,” she whimpers, unable to see or hear what’s going on, merely responding to his fear, his tension.

“Try harder,” Kayne, and pinches the end right off one of Hastur’s many arms.

The pain is—

Hastur is not used to pain.

He’s had pain, sure. Sometimes. Way in the past of forever, when he was still new, and pecking orders had yet to be established. More recently, when the Piece was torn away.

This isn’t pain like that.

He is surprised into a roar.

Faroe screams.

She’s three. All she knows is her daddy is upset.

He has to rein this in. Protect her. Keep her sa-

She’s gone.

“No.” Hastur bellows, searching himself. “No!”

Faroe Lester Yellow is in Kayne’s arms.

“No!” Hastur roars, and lunges.

Right into some unseen barrier he cannot pass, and it is immediately obvious she can’t hear him anymore.

She’s hyperventilating, clearly confused, staring up at Kayne.

“Well, look at you! What a big girl you are,” he says with such a warm, kind voice, with such a warm, kind smile that of course she responds, focuses on him, begins to calm, because what else would she know to do? “Hello, MacGuffin," he says.

“Hi,” she says, still tear-streaked. “I’m not MacGuffin. I’m Faroe.”

“Faroe! You sure you’re not a MacGuffin?”

And it’s perfect delivery and perfect play, and Faroe giggles, swapping emotions the way small humans can. “Nooo, I’m Faroe!”

Kayne laughs, and oh, it’s warm and sweet, and oh, his hand on her back is sharp and long and darkening and filling with terrible power. “Oooh, I get it now. Faruffin, nice to meet you!”

That gets another giggle. “I’m not a Faruffin!”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” says Kayne teases, and his long, blackened fingertips on her back have begun to glow a terrible purple that leaves afterimages.

Hastur is hurling himself against the barrier with such force that he’s completely torn out the floor, exposing pipes and bedrock.

He can’t get through.

He can’t be heard.

He can’t. He can’t. He can’t.

And then two things happen at once.

Do it, says John, low and virulent, tightly holding Arthur’s other arm as if to keep him from just falling apart.

That is already shocking, but the second thing is even more.

“Kayne.”

It’s barely there.

Almost inaudible.

Arthur's face is turned toward the sound of his daughter’s voice. “Please. Please don’t hurt her.”

Kayne turns to look at him.

It’s even quieter this time, like a memory of sound. “Please.”

Kayne beams. “Well, fry me for dinner and call me baloney! We may not need to go salted earth, after all. Hey, Faruffin?”

More giggling. “I’m not Faruffin.”

“Sure. Know what just happened? Your daddy fell asleep, and oh, no! He had a bad dream.”

She gasps. “Oh, no!”

“You know what bad dreams are like, don’t you?”

Faroe takes that so solemnly. “Uh-huh.”

Hastur freezes, gasping. He’s exacerbated the wounds, and ichor hisses as it drops from his limbs.

“You know what he needs?” says Kayne like he’s playing a game, keeping her attention like a bauble on a string. “He needs to get his surrogate ass in gear so he doesn’t blow his audition for his new starring role! What do you think?”

What?

Faroe is struggling with this one. “You said a bad word,” she finally says, focusing on the part she could understand.

Kayne kisses her forehead.

He does it looking Hastur in the eye.

He does it with such unblinking, unyielding warning.

Faroe sighs, wriggles. Uncomfortable. Unsure. “Put me down.”

“Is that how we ask for things?” says Kayne, holding her close, gaze locked onto Hastur. “Uncle Arthur was polite. He said please.”

“Please put me down,” she says.

“Hear that?” says Kayne. “Hastur. What do we say when we want something?”

Hastur has never said “please” in his life.

Not beyond teaching her to do it, or teaching rebellious fools to beg.

Is that what he is now? A rebellious fool? “P… Please.”

“Eh,” says Kayne, loosening his grip so she slides right onto her feet. “C plus. Go on, Faruffin—your daddy needs some love.”

She can do that. She was raised in that, overflows in that, and if she sees him like this—

Hastur manifests an illusion.

Looks normal and welcoming as she runs for him, makes no sound as he cauterizes his own wounds so he doesn’t burn her with ichor, gives no indication of pain as he cooks off the spilling of himself before it can do her harm.

“Daddy!” she pronounces, and hurls herself into his many arms. “You had a bad dream!”

“I did,” he says, sounding calm, keeping the limbs he cannot repair back and out of reach. “But everything’s okay now. I have you.”

There’s a slight tremor in his voice.

“Better,” says Kayne. “B minus. Oh, but let’s get back to the interesting part.” He turns to Arthur.

Hastur is bizarrely insulted again, even in the midst of the worst horror he’s ever known.

Kayne crouches before Arthur, touches his chin, tilts his head up. “Say it again, Arthur. What you just said.”

Why? Seeing if his blasted mind could retain anything? Just to fuck with everybody? Hastur doubts Arthur will even—

“Please don’t hurt her,” Arthur says. “Please.”

Kayne sighs.

It is such a sound, too long, weirdly pleased. “How about that? It seems all hope is not lost, gentlemen. Hulu’s bought the rights.”

Hastur’s not sure he heard that right. “What?”

“Cartoon Network got in there for a bit, but that was all, you know, fuck the Fox executives, and who wants that? Predictable. No, no, no. No.”

Kayne, John growls.

“Quiet, Snippet.”

“Please.” It’s not even a whisper. “Not her.”

Hastur never thought he’d find himself agreeing with the Piece’s disgusting human.

Kayne snorts. “You’re lucky she’s so young. Some folks love messing with children, but me? No, thanks. They just don’t… feel it all, yet. Can’t understand what’s happening to them. Lack that special flavoring that comes with knowledge of inevitable doom. I fucking hate kids. They taste like oatmeal. Without salt.”

Arthur’s eyes are still leaking. He swallows. “Kayne, please.”

“I heard you the first time. No more speaking unless spoken to.” Kayne pats his cheek, stands, and claps his hands, sharp. “Here’s what we’re going to do: miniseries.”

What are you talking about? rumbles John. I need to hurt him.

“Shush. Ya boy is almost gone, but not quite. And you know what’s going to keep him around?”

Faroe vanishes from Hastur’s arms again.

And Kayne has one hand raised, one finger up, at Hastur, who suddenly knows if he doesn’t play whatever role he’s been assigned, he won’t get her back at all.

Faroe is in Arthur’s arms.

He didn’t even move to hold her. Kayne just did that.

“Daddy!” Faroe cries in startlement, pulling away from him.

Arthur lets her go.

Kayne goes down to her eye-level, on his knees, and holds her shoulders. “Hey, now, sweetheart! Easy, there. Aren’t you a good girl?”

“Yes,” she says, and wipes her face in her sleeve.

“That man needs a friend,” says Kayne. “He doesn’t have any. Isn’t that sad?”

“But… he’s weird.”

“He is weird! Wouldn’t that make you even gooder to be a friend to someone who doesn’t have any? I bet it would make your daddy super proud.”

She looks toward Hastur with such hope of approval.

Kayne turns his head all the way around like a fucking owl and smiles at him.

It’s so much threat couched in a mortal, human face that Hastur briefly cannot breathe.

He has no choice but to go along. “That would… be good. Yes, Faroe. It’s good to be…” What does Kayne want? “Friends to the… weird man.”

“His name is Uncle Arthur,” Kayne slides her over to Arthur again, lifts Arthur’s good arm, wraps it around her.

She’s stiff, uncomfortable, but trying. She reaches up and pats his cheek. “Hi.”

Arthur loses it.

It’s ugly crying, and suddenly he’s clutching her, even with his broken right hand.

Faroe is…

She’s badly startled, fully out of her depth.

But she doesn’t cry. She wants to make her daddy proud.

Hastur is proud.

He’s also terrified.

Faroe pats Arthur on the head. “Hey,” she says. “It’s okay. Hey, guess what?” And she starts to sing.

It’s the little lullaby Hastur has sung to her since she was first recreated from dust and memories.

A lullaby he’d never taught to her, but she’s smart, and so, he did not have to.

“Sleep my baby on my bosom, Warm and cozy will it prove. Round thee father’s arms are folding, in his heart a father’s love.”

Oh…

It works. Arthur’s horrible sounds slow and quiet. His breath still hitches, but suddenly, he’s rocking her, and he’s singing, too.

“There shall no one come to harm thee. Naught shall ever break thy rest. Sleep, my darling babe in quiet; sleep on m… father’s gentle breast.”

They sound good together, horrifyingly good together, and something deep in Hastur feels like it’s twisting.

“Gross,” says Kayne, and walks toward Hastur.

He cannot move. Cannot pull back. Knows no spell that would keep him safe .

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” says Kayne, crunching over ruined floor. “You hate him.” Arthur. “He hates you.” The Piece growls in agreement. “Thanks to this shit, he also hates her.” The Piece hates Faroe? “And Arthur’s just fucked, but only mostly.”

“He said bad words,” Faroe whispers to Arthur.

Arthur makes a sound that could be a broken laugh. “He did.”

“You know what I hate?” says Kayne. “Found family. It’s all forgiving, and loving past differences, and closer than a brother, and all that shit. But you know what I don’t hate?”

Silence, apart from Arthur’s still hitching breaths.

“I axed you a question,” says Kayne, light and sweet.

“What do you not hate?” Hastur manages, unable to take his eyes from Faroe.

“Forced family.” Kayne’s smile is terrible. It is supernova. It is world-wide plague. It is extinction and the finality of galactic collapse. “Everyone grinding in misery, suffocating, unable to escape or find relief or reach consensus. Everyone desperate to get away, willing to do whatever—leap over the side and drown, marry the wicked baron, whatever—but they can’t. Hey, Faruffin! Come here. I need to say sorry.”

She kisses Arthur’s cheek, makes a face at how wet it is, then heads right for Kayne, her little sandals slapping.

Why, Hastur thinks, did he never teach her of danger? Why did he keep her so safe, always protected, unaware of and unprepared for the realities of the universe?

“Love,” says Kayne. “It makes you stupid as fuck, didn’t you know? Oh, Faroe, I did it again! I said bad words. Aren’t I just awful?”

He does it with such exaggeration, with such faux warmth, that she giggles. “You should say sorry.”

“I’m sorry. I said bad words. Do you forgive me?”

“Yes!”

“Good girl. Now, run to your daddy.”

Which was pointed.

Which hurts Arthur all over again, and he flinches as though stabbed at the quick sound of her tiny feet racing away from him and toward another.

Wasn’t this happening because Arthur had broken? What the hell did Kayne want?

Hastur gathers her up. Hides her again. Knows it’s pointless, knows he can’t protect her.

There is nothing else he can do.

“You’re all going home together!” says Kayne. “All of you!”

What? snarls John. He’s back to touching Arthur with that hand, grounding, wiping at those unceasing tears.

“A miniseries works great at about six episodes, you feel me?” says Kayne. “So I think six years is a fair amount of time.”

For what? I’d sooner explode the fucking sun than go near him.

“Uh, did you even hear a word I said?” says Kayne. “That’s the point. Six years of absolute misery with each other until I decide whether to renew… or cancel with prejudice.”

“I don’t understand,” says Hastur.

“Heh. Maybe I’ll spice it up mid-way with more forcing. I’m thinking Larson and Yellow. What do you think, Snippet?”

What the fuck? No!

“Who?” says Hastur, baffled.

“That little sliver you’re missing?" Kayne says to Hastur. "The teeniest, tiniest bit? Don’t tell me you didn’t notice—that’d just be depressing! Oh, I stuck him in a century-old psychopath. He’ll be super spicy by the time he comes on board.”

Don’t you dare!

Kayne ignores him. “Arthur’s musical. You need music shit, right? Dancers, all of that? A composer?” says Kayne.

Were they still having the same conversation?

The slice—yes, Hastur had noticed, but it had happened when the Piece disappeared, so he’d assumed…

He can’t keep up with this. “I… I have a royal composer,” says Hastur.

“Oh, you’re right! Hnnng…” Kayne pretends to strain for a moment. “Welp, now you have a royal opening.”

“What? What?” Fuck. Hastur feels it, feels the shock of his people, feels the cries he cannot hear.  Karloff is dead. “What?”

Composer? The Piece sounds furious. That’ll hurt him!

“I seem to be getting through to you people very slowly, so I’m going to dumb it down,” says Kayne. “I don’t give a fuck about the pretty little princess right now. She's no fun to play with at this age. However.”

He lets the pause stretch just enough, like sinew tightening around everyone’s hearts.

“She won’t be boring forever. And I can’t imagine what I might get up to if I don’t have something else to watch when that time comes. Get it? So Arthur has a new job making music for his arch nemesis. Snippet—you’re gonna have to fix him. I’m not invested enough to fuck around with that.”

What? says John.

“You, Hastur, my ugly little decapodiform, are going to have to make space for all of that to happen. You’re going to have to do it while Snippet over here plots your death, ‘cause he doesn’t seem the forgiving type to me.”

“Is that supposed to frighten me?” says Hastur, defaulting to a phrase he puts zero thought into because he’s so overwhelmed.

“It should. I suspect li’l Arthur’s welfare is the only thing standing between you and… well, lemme put it this way: I’m not the only one of my caliber drawn by the note John’s soul sang when you succeeded in your fucking stupid plan.”

More Outer Gods?

Hastur can’t feel them. They’re so far beyond his power, which has always felt like enough, that he can’t even tell they’re there.

He hadn’t known Kayne was there, either.

“Helpless is a good look on you! Yes. There are more. Gathering like vultures. Oh, we are all hungry for what he’s doing now—but lucky! I got here first. There are so many deals being dangled…” Kayne smacks his lips. “But mine is the only one that accounts for Arthur staying alive.”

John says nothing.

As if this is true.

As if he’s… hearing things Hastur cannot, offered only to him.

Stay with me, Arthur, he says instead, stroking Arthur’s face.

“Why?” Hastur demands, unable not to, so confused why something like Kayne would care about any of this.

“Dense! You’re nowhere near as fun as the other guy,” pronounces Kayne. “Still—you better hope John doesn’t just decide fuck it and take one of those offers. I suggest being nice to the human you loathe with all your being.”

Hastur looks at the Piece, then back. Arthur is back to limp, head down.

Hastur is repulsed.

Kayne’s not done. “And of course, if nobody does it right, she becomes the spin-off. Get it now? You want her happy and well and all that shit? You’re all going home together, one big forced family. You get to raise her together! As a village! There’ll even be days off!”

Hastur feels sick.

He can’t recall the last time he expunged, vomited, expelled.

He just might now.

Together?

He’ll have to share his daughter?

Kayne sighs, tilts his head back. “Ugh. Well. We’ll see if this is worth it. Make good, peons, I don’t have all century.”

And he’s gone.

Just gone, with no surge of power to indicate his departure, with nothing to tip anyone off whether he’s even still here.

But he must be.

What note does John’s soul sing?

I hate you, says John. This isn’t over. Not after what you did to him.

“We have bigger concerns, you fucking idiot,” says Hastur.

Tiny, from within his arms: “You said a bad word.”

Hastur trembles from curl to cowl. “I did, baby. I did. I’m sorry.”

Arthur. Did you understand what just happened now?

Hastur stares. He’s never heard his own voice so… tender.

Arthur takes a long moment to answer. “I had her. In my arms, I…”

She’s all right.

“She’s happy? Safe?”

Yes.

Arthur slumps.

But she won’t be if you… if we go.

Arthur has definitely not processed anything. “What?”

“Damn it,” Hastur mutters. Did Kayne mean it? He has to accept music from that? Arthur’s hand is broken. “Tell him to hold out his hand.”

No, says the Piece.

Hastur growls. “Karloff was obedient. Your Arthur’s going to have to learn.”

Karloff was a pompous, perverted ass, who’d sooner fuck a trumpet than compose anything of beauty.

Faroe pops out from Hastur’s arms. “Say sorry.”

John wants to hurt her.

Hastur inhales.

It is startling, frightening, sharp. John has fixated on her as the thing that broke Arthur, the wedge used to spread that crack and split him like a log.

And if she is hurt, Hastur will be, too.

That’s not rational. That will hurt Arthur more.

The Piece is not okay.

Somehow, when Arthur broke, the Piece broke with him.

How?

It shouldn’t have done that.

How?

“What is wrong with you?” Hastur says, evenly.

You really don’t get it? Really? Look at his face. Look at hers. They’re similar enough that you can use your imagination and apply his expression to her. I know you’re less than I am, practically stupid, but you can do that.

“Less!” scoffs Hastur. “What foolishness are you—” And he glances at Arthur’s face.

She does resemble him.

She’s healthy and he’s not, pristine and he’s not—but the base.

The base is the same.

And almost against his will, he pictures that hollow, blank, defeated look on Faroe’s face.

Hastur goes very still.

Faroe pats his arm. “Daddy. I’m hungry.”

She’s… she is not broken.

She—

“John, I don’t think I can do this,” Arthur says so quietly.

For her. I understand I’m not enough.

“John, that’s not what I—“

We’ll start there. If you go, she dies. That’s Kayne’s deal.

Finally, it’s gotten through. Arthur inhales.

And then he does something Hastur would have thought impossible: in every sense, internally and out, Arthur sits up.

“I won’t let him hurt her,” he says.

And it is… remarkable.

Damn it.

It’s like watching flowers bloom on a dead and broken branch.

Fuck.

Faroe is not used to her needs being delayed. “Daddy.”

Faroe is not broken.

Trying to think of what it would be like to see her done unto as Arthur…

Hastur is more afraid than he was when Kayne appeared. “Yes. Yes, we… should all have something to eat.” Fear like this isn’t natural to him. He doesn’t like it. He tries to focus on the practical. That damned hand—“Tell him to hold out his hand.”

I’m not doing anything for you. You want to do something, you fucking do it yourself.

“Hey.” Faroe frowns. “It is rude to use bad words.”

John is not okay.

Hastur doesn’t feel okay, either. “Arthur,” he says. “Hold out your hand so I can heal it.”

You’d think a simple command (with a reason given!) would be easy enough for him, but no. Like everything else, Arthur has to make this difficult.

Arthur ignores him completely.

Solid choice for his new composer. This would work out great. “Arthur!”

Ha! says the Piece, as though he’s won something.

Hastur wants to break more of him. “Arthur!”

“Not yet,” says Arthur.

“What?” Says Hastur.

“Not yet. I… the pain helps. I can’t… not yet,” Arthur says.

The hell did that mean? He wanted to suffer? “Arthur, Kayne has given you a job, which you will do. I need to repair your hand for it.”

Arthur doesn’t want the repair. He wants his broken hand to reflect how he feels inside.

“Daddy, I’m hungry,” says Faroe, who is too young to grasp delayed gratification.

“We are all leaving,” says Hastur. “Once Arthur’s hand is healed.”

For Faroe, Arthur submits. “Fine.” He raises it.

Every single thing was going to be a negotiation, wasn’t it? Disgusting.

Arthur. We’ll get through this, John soothes.

“We… we will,” says Arthur, showing nothing as Hastur works his hand, though Hastur knows it hurts tremendously. “She… she’s happy?”

She’s perfect, Arthur. And… if we do this, I think she might even be safe.

Arthur hangs his head again, though this looks like relief.

This plan had gone so wrong. “Why is an Outer God interested in you?”

Arthur. He’s interested in Arthur. And we don’t know because Kayne doesn’t know. Arthur’s a mystery.

What?

That thing?

Hideous, flawed, hypocritical?

How could—

He looks down at the tiny human in his arms.

At Faroe, who watches him expectantly, waiting to be swept away and given what she needs, trusting him with such intensity that it feels like she’s caught him in a spell.

Hastur looks at Arthur and absolutely cannot see any of that.

But Arthur bloomed after being broken.

But Arthur entangled with the Piece to the point of self-destruction.

But an Outer God is paying mind.

So maybe he was remarkable, too? Somehow?

Arthur? Arthur Lester?

Fuck.

“Macaroni,” says Faroe.

“Apples,” negotiates Hastur.

Faroe makes a face. “Macaroni and apples.”

“Eat your apples, I’ll give you some macaroni.”

Arthur makes a tiny sound. It might have been… a good sound. Which would make sense, because Faroe is adorable.

Which… Arthur cannot see. Ugh. He’s still blind. Hastur sighs. How is the stupid human supposed to compose anything blind? Is Hastur going to have to fix everything himself?

Faroe isn’t done. “And a cookie.” She looks positively sneaky.

“No cookies until dinner.”

“But I made friends,” says Faroe.

This was true. “One cookie.”

Arthur reaches with his right hand and grabs his left. “I need you.”

Eh?

John makes a low sound. I’m sorry, Arthur. I should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve… should’ve protected you, somehow.

“I… you are enough, John. You are enough.” Arthur's voice breaks.

John’s responding sound is… a sob?

Some terrible sound, rife with feelings Hastur has never had and does not want to experience.

Whatever disgusting thing is going on there, he will not be a part of it. “Come. Composer and Piece. As if we have any choice.” He opens a portal.

It is such a relief to be able to do that again. To feel his powers again.

Though now, after this, they feel so small.

He has a daughter to feed.

He has plans to remake.

He has six years to ensure she is safe from an Outer God.

That isn’t possible, as far as he knows.

There has to be a way.

“I get to watch her grow,” whispers Arthur. “Should I be grateful?”

He took her from you! The only thing you should have toward him is hate.

“No. I… I lost her with my own hands, John. I can’t hate someone else for that.”

Ugh. Hastur’s not listening to this. He goes through the portal.

Six years.

John is growling as Arthur follows, trusting John to guide him. More to your left. He’s going to pay for what he did to you.

“I don’t care,” says Arthur.

I do.

Was Hastur going to have to protect her from the other half of himself, too?

No. No.

If Arthur is actually remarkable, and the Outer God isn’t full of shit, then Arthur will sway the Piece.

Faroe might do it on her own, too.

She’s good at love. It’s uniquely human magic, and Hastur knows no defense.

“Daddy?” says Faroe. “Who’s Larson?”

He has no idea how to answer that.

Maybe Kayne was… right.

Maybe raising her together, with others to help, would be better for her.

It would hurt him.

But if she would benefit, then… so be it. “I hope you’re ready to answer that, John, because I have no fucking clue.”

Faroe sighs. “Daddy, you aren’t supposed to say the bad words, especial.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He hides her in his arms.

It’s all that he can do.

----------------

NOTES:

Ouch?

I don’t know. The bug bit my brain and I had to write it. My apologies.

Might I suggest this for something fully lighthearted to wash out your mouth, as needed?

What’s going to happen in six years? Oh… I have thoughts, but I decided to leave it open.

Does it count as found family if they’re forced? Kinda a difficult question, isn’t it?

The music Faroe is learning to play at the beginning is Faroe’s Music Box, composed by Harlan Guthrie. It’s part of CODA, the episode of the podcast that literally inspired this fic.

The lullaby Faroe sang to Arthur is here, with "mother" swapped for "father." It’s traditional Welsh, and honestly one of the loveliest things I’ve ever heard. Obviously, I’ve linked a big old orchestral version, but it works super-well in tiny voices, too.pain

[rigelus]

TWO

MAIN SYNOPSIS: You're not sure if you want to light the fires that will see the world burn, or put out the fires, either way, you're doing both. After a secret meeting with Rigelus of the Asteri and his charming--yet deadly proposition--to join him in the Eternal city and rain down hellfire on all who have wronged you, you decide to accept what should be a suicide mission. Only it isn't, and as you walk into the Eternal City and away from the five men who love you the most in the whole world, you cannot hope to ever see them again... unless you're not as burned up as you thought you were. Unless you burn bright, as a double agent.

chapter one / two (you are here) / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten

the light of stars is an explicit (i cannot emphasize this enough.) reverse harem (kinda) sjm crossover x reader fic. there are some inconsistencies, which i am in the process of fixing! most of this chapter is under the cut, it clocks in at about 3.5k words and I wasn't going to make everyone read that lol

You wake like a ghost in the night, haunting the halls of the camp you have called home with your fellow rebels for so long now. The abandoned mansion of a once great king—it was perfect for a rebel strong hold. It had been lost to view for centuries, and only your magic could undo the warding on the cloaking spells. For a moment, the happy memories of discovering the place and your triumph over your magic makes your frown disappear for a long moment. But none of it could last, the people would never accept a queen with five king consorts, that was practically a fucking harem. You groan to yourself and wander out to the veranda where you know he is waiting. 

Your greatest enemy. 

The decision is made, in your mind, you’re the only one you have to consult with anyway. They will wake to a bed without you, assume you didn’t sleep well and are getting breakfast. But when they realize no one has seen you for hours and and hours, they will want to tear the world apart. Went the world in two. 

But they cannot. They have enough to be getting on with, as heads of the rebellion you’ve carefully created. Against your own people. 

Rigelus’s profile cuts an impressive figure against the night. The strong back, tall stature and broad shoulders make something feminine in you soften—though you do not want it to. Rigelus and you had known each other eons and he knew each and every one of your dirty secrets. How you loved to fix broken things, and how this rebellion was just one more broken thing you had chosen over the eons to fix. 

What you couldn’t live with is seeing the magic fade. Rigelus had promised to cast out the magic from the world, to banish it like one would an unworthy solider from their little band of Lightfall Squadron soldiers. It would suffocate all you loved. 

You wanted your freedom above all. Your freedom to love who you wanted, and marriage to Rigelus was nothing more than a legal contract. Maybe he would let you keep a harem in the in the Eternal city—not that your young, wild and carefree warriors will ever want to see you again. 

It was nothing you hadn’t borne before. 

“Hello princess,” Rigelus croons, his voice hasn’t changed from all the eons you’ve known each other. Where yours is sweet and soft, his is hard and otherworldly. 

As if they’d cut you from the same cloth, but dyed his too dark. 

You scowl, “We’re not married yet, don’t call me your princess, and if I am to be your wife—I will be queen.” 

He turns slowly to look upon you, as if he has all the time in the world. He is wearing a different body than the young, athletic boy he’d been wearing to deal with Bryce and Hunt’s transgressions. No. This was as close close as he came to a true form. “Not yet, no.” Rigelus puts slim fingers into his pockets, and he looks on at you, “but we will be by the end of the night.” 

You bark out a foul laugh, a spoiled sour feeling seems to be churning in your stomach—and yet…

And yet, would it be so bad? You and Rigelus have been clowning around this godforsaken universe for a few hundred millennia. What does it matter if you marry him? He’s the only one who knows your secret—besides Eopshoros, his sister. 

And she might as well be your sister too, for how you’ve missed her. 

You had risked your immortal life, a truly immortal life, not one that would burn out in a couple thousand years for Tamlin today. For part of your heart, your hope. 

Rigelus scowls, as he notices your eyes brimming with tears at the memory. 

“Don’t think I didn’t notice your little stunt.” His gaze hardens with some unspent emotion. 

“Rigelus, did it bother you that much?” You sniff hard as you ask him an impossible question. He looks on at you for all the world like you could burn the world down and he’d see no reason for forgiveness, that the forgiveness would have been granted as soon as you lit the fire. 

He rankles his shoulders, “They are below you in every way, and so is this conversation.” 

“But Rigelus—“ 

“It is our wedding night and I will not have it ruined by candles in the wind.” 

And he snuffs out your hope just like that. 

*~*~* 

You arrive at the Eternal City and Rigelus disappears to change, likely with his man servant, Arobynn Hamel, fussing about cufflinks. 

And you’re swarmed by people, a whole team of fucking people stripping you down and plucking, pruning and waxing you. Life with the rebels was hard, you were sure this body hadn’t seen a good waxing and plucking for… at least three years, since the blockades on supplies. 

Seems the Eternal City was facing no such supply shortage. 

As a matter of fact, when you are zipped into a lovely emerald green, mermaid fit gown—as was customary for weddings in the Eternal City—you realize that perhaps it would indeed not be horrible. Perhaps you could live with your people’s antics and just try to enjoy the night. 

Rigelus is outside, smoking clove cigarettes when you meet him. It was not necessary for a bride and groom to stay separate before nuptials, in the Eternal City. Rigelus exhales smoke through his nose, looking more like a dragon than ever before. 

“How in god’s name can you stand these?” You say, coughing. Still, the sweet, spicy smoke, tickles some distant memory, of parents who had fought more than they loved you, and you know the marriage contract will come next. You wish you felt worse about it, than you do. You know you’re truly about to sell over your body in name and deed. It’s traditional in he Eternal City for husbands to own their wives’ magic. To control it. And you cannot for the life of it think of anything less appealing. You’re not even sure if Rigelus could contain your power, should you deign to sign it over: lock, stock and barrel. 

Rigelus flicks the butt, and you grimace, “Litterbug,” you whisper under your breath, he doesn’t even smell like smoke, and you wonder if this is something he does to take the edge off how much he’s missed you, and the chaotic sphere of politics he has to entertain. 

Your hair is in some elaborate updo, and the pins are truly hurting, “Rigelus?” You pause, looking at the men in suits, through the glass windows, silouetted by the night sky. “Could you fix this pin?” You gently tug on the bond between the two of you, knowing it had been there. 

Rigelus bends over double, breathless. “A little warning, before you do that, again, princess.” 

You bend down, though it’s a tough stretch in this dress, and take his face in your hands, “You knew it was there and you didn’t tell me?” 

He groans, rubbing his ribs, so the bond was tied there? The bond was literally tied at his heart bone? You grimace, gods no this wasn’t happening, you should flip him over the railing of the veranda. How ridiculous. 

You blink and you meet his gaze, piercing, filled with pained tears at your magical tug, which you’re now sure had knocked the wind from his sails, if not his lungs. “I will do anything to preserve their safety, and not throw away five years of freedom from you—but at the same time, even an hour of time…” You swallow hard, around the word, “at home has given me more energy and wisdom, freedom and restored my strength than the hundred years I spent beyond it’s borders.” You sigh, kiss his forehead, as the lovers of old did. As if to say, I understand you better than anyone else in this universe, let me, let me, let me in. 

It hurts to see him like this but you know he’ll draw it out for every minute it’s worth. And you know you’re just as vicious as he is. It’s tit for tat around here. No peace to be found under these stars. 

“One might think you remember how you used to say we’d be married, when we were small.” Rigelus bemoans. 

You stop dead in your tracks, because of course you remember. How could you not? But is he remembering or preparing to weaponize that memory? 

“Rigelus—don’t you dare.” It is both a warning and a plea for peace. 

He rolls his shoulders uncomfortably. You stand and try to put some distance between both of you. But he is kissing you. Your mouth is full of the scent of clove cigarettes, sweet and spicy and something else too. 

He’s gripping your hair to keep you from pulling away. Rigelus should get a hard slap for this. But he won’t. You lean into the kiss, and you can feel his end of the bond lighting up, a lone star in the darkness of a bond you had long let go to seed. 

He feels like the closes you will get to heaven. You kiss him for the longest time, until both your high fae vessels protest at the lack of oxygen. 

You separate from him reluctantly, and taste him on your lips. “Are we doing this? I want to get out of my gown, and these fucking pins are about to puncture my brain.” 

Rigelus is grinning at you, though, as if you’ve hung the moon in the sky. He kisses you again, and you don’t want to ever miss him, grudgingly or not, ever again. Rigelus is kissing your lips, and cupping your face. 

Someone clears their throat, it’s Arobynn Hamel, Rigelus’s man servant. “Your Grace, the minister awaits.” 

You and Rigelus take a long moment to disentangle yourselves. And in the old language of the stars he whispers, “Aven, mas doray.” 

You’re aware there’s company around, and through the huge glass doors you can see that the minister is glaring through brightly lit windows at your amorous display. You squeeze Rigelus’s hand for a long moment, while Rigelus and you walk inside.

Te ceremony is fast, so fast you barely remember it, and mostly consists of signing magical documents. When you get to the end of the pile, you notice you did not sign a prenuptial. You could take him for all he’s worth tomorrow, for fucks sake. 

Still, part of you is giddy at the idea of spending many midnights with your bright star. 

For right now, though, you must perform the duties of a wife.

[leslie057]

Why are we diagonal pt 1 for WIP wonders

hi anon! i thought someone might ask about this one lol. the fic is long but not super fleshed out yet because i didn’t exactly outline a “plot”

i picked a good passage for this though, have some silliness

He is (and she cannot emphasize this enough) a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed drunk. So alert and flushed and filled with energy and grateful to be breathing. (If you can even believe it).

Overly complimentary. Really. It’s not like he’s flirting with strangers, it’s not like he’s engaging in extended conversations with them, and it’s not like he planned on saying anything to anyone before the stuff was in his system. Just a few drinks get him there, though, then he feels this need to flatter every soul that passes, throat suffused with a confusing mix of nonchalance and admiration and authenticity. You’re so much better than everyone else they have here, to the band in the bar. You have a good bartender voice, to the girl behind the counter. Whatever that means.

Two things: shivering and complimenting. This is what alcohol does to Jonathan Byers.

Seems like a boy who would pout, or get moody, or cling or whine, or fight or fall asleep. He’s had nights like that, sure, several of them, but for the most part, when he drinks—which isn’t often—he’s a weirdly sugary presence.

And so it’s fun to get him to that place. To get him drunk. Her signature magic trick…can’t pull a rabbit out of her hat but, look, she’s about to turn her quiet boyfriend into a little bit of a people lover. A little bit.

“Nancyy.”

Ignore that.

“Nancy Wheeler.”

Okay, sure.

“You don’t need to keep addressing me before you speak,” she murmurs, some adoring smile on her face, possibly. She isn’t drunk, she’s a cozy type of tipsy. This is ideal. (For tonight, anyway.) Proposal for her senior thesis is due in a week, first Friday in November. She’d like to get some writing in before bed. And she’d like to go to bed.

On the flip side, he deserved insobriety. She overencouraged, only taking small sips from his glass.

“But I like your name,” he says, “it’s so soft.”

In the backseat of the blue Cherokee, she watches the blurry scene outside the window, hand on the back of his head.

“Lauren is so clean,” is his next compliment. “I love her car, see how clean her car is?”

“I see.”

“Will you tell her she has a clean car?”

“You can tell her.”

“Lauren?”

“Yeah?” Nancy’s best friend plays along. She eases into the driveway of Nancy and Jonathan’s triplex.

“Your Cherokee is very clean.”

“Thank you. Hey do you need any help with him, Nance?”

“Oh no, he can walk. I mean I can steady him, but…”

“You’re so steady,” he sighs.

“Sit for a second,” she says. She climbs out of the car and goes to the driver side door. A twenty is pulled from her quilted jacket. “I know you’re going to fight me on this, okay, but I do owe you.”

“Please don’t give me that.”

“You’ve done too many favors this week. For me and everyone else.”

She truly, genuinely hates taking money. With her hands, she smooths back wavy hair and covers each side of her face, dark eyes clouded with mild regret.

“Don’t think about it, just take it! I could have hid it in your backseat just as easily—”

“Laurennn.”

The girls ignore him.

“Lauren.”

“Nancy, I don’t want your money, it’s as simple as that okay? Maybe you can get my coffee for me or something, after class on Monday—”

“Lauren Paschen.”

“What, Jonathan?”

He’s sitting up straight, holding a cold water bottle against his chest, a sense of calmness in his expression. “Nancy would look so good in your sister’s wedding dress.”

[tortoisebore]

sooooo for scientific purposes how fit is remus?

i love science 👹 so much 👹👹

i am an average joe remus truther at the end of the day. like when i picture him and how he sees himself and how other people perceive him it’s very much “oh that’s a guy.” like he’s just a guy. crooked bumpy nose. kind eyes. nice smile. teeth just a little crooked just a little wonky.

however.

i think sharpshooter remus is a little more oof than i usually picture him for a few reasons

1. basketball physique. hello. the shoulders (!!!!!!!). the arms. like……,the cardio on this man. he is a string bean and on the 6’4 side of 6’3 but also strong as hell. there’s a bit of a slutty little waist happening beneath all those big hoodies and sweaters and loose jerseys he wears. fucking drool worthy shoulders i cannot emphasize this enough

2. his hair specifically gets my gears going. puts a little gas in the tank if u catch my drift. i love literally all depictions of his hair in every fic (currently daydreaming ab crushofdove’s remus in ‘you wouldn’t like me’ with the shaved sides and little moons) but something ab this remus’ hair makes me feral. like it’s not light brown but it’s not dark brown. the little curlies at the back of his neck???? fucking kill me. not curly enough to be curly but too curly to be wavy. very easily disheveled. i want to braid it and pull it and bite it and cut a little tiny bit of it and put it in a locket around my neck.

3. let’s talk about height again bc oh my god. tall. big n tall. but not big n tall in a gangly, awkward kind of way. there’s no tripping over limbs going on here. thats a 6’3 & 3/4 man w precise control of every tiny little muscle in his body bc he’s played a sport that requires agility and speed and strength his whole life (i’m a puddle of goo, you’re a puddle of goo, sirius is a puddle of goo, we’re all a puddle of goo 🫠)

4. in my head this specific remus also has a very stunning gorgeous bronzy complexion. he very much gets a tan in the summer & all his little freckles go dark brown. in the winter it fades to a very pretty olive tone that sirius likes to say matches his own pasty winter complexion even though it very much does not, but remus lets him believe it anyway bc he’s too nice for his own good

5. this isn’t an actual physical trait but it’s arguably what makes him hottest: his voice. i have it very specifically nailed down in my head. it’s a little quiet, a little on the breathy side, it’s not ever shrill or sharp. it goes higher when he laughs and lower when he’s saying something particularly dirty near sirius’ ear (but we haven’t got there yet, dw ab that one rn). it’s very warm. very sweet. very sultry. very hot.

i could go on and on and on and on but let’s settle and say that sharpshooter remus is a HARD 8 from afar and a solid 15 when he’s got u against a door.