#currently running my hands across the green velvet couch and leaning my head against the pillows to look up at the small vintage chandelier

[buck-yyyy]

sorry for telling you all about my personal philosophies on life and how that ties into the art form that is the apartment i built in my head, do you still think i’m hot

[existslikepristin]

Impromptu Review

Thanks for editing this one goes to momirene and Worldsover, and for helpful beta reading feedback from them and one dork who wants to remain anonymous.

Tags: TheLounge, Red Velvet, SNSD (Girl's Generation), Joy, Sunny, loneliness, potential traumatization of cats, a hoard of hell-themed sex toys, a strap on, a butt plug with Jiu's face in it, and bisexual problems.

The front door of Sunny’s apartment swung open so fast that Joy felt a breeze from the vacuum it left behind.

“Joy! You’re here!”

Joy blinked. “Yeah, I said I would come over.”

“It’s been so long since we’ve met up! Come in, come in!”

“It’s only been like a month though.”

Sunny grabbed Joy’s hands and pulled her through the doorway. “It feels like so much longer than that!”

Joy smiled and took her shoes off in the entryway. “You seem more excited than usual.”

“What? How so?”

“Well for one,” Joy said, pointing at the kitchen, “It looks like you prepared for a whole party in here.”

The kitchen’s island was covered in plates of snacks and several variations of alcoholic beverages. Additionally, Sunny was noticeably sweaty, like she had just run around the house preparing for guests. Joy figured it would be best not to bring that up.

“What? No. That? That’s… yeah, that’s a lot of food, isn’t it?” Sunny’s posture drooped, as if she’d already expended all of her energy on her greeting.

Joy pulled her into a side hug. Her height served to straighten Sunny back up. “What’s going on, girl?”

Sunny sighed and leaned her head on Joy’s chest. “I dunno. I’m just excited. Haven’t had a good social night any time recently.”

“Aw! But what about these cutie kitties?”

Sogeum popped her head out from behind the wall and gave Joy her signature droopy, grim stare without so much as a meow. As soon as Joy shuffled in her direction though, she turned and went back into the living room.

“Well, you know. Can’t really have a real conversation with the cats.”

Joy hummed her agreement and stepped into the kitchen. “I’m always happy to talk to you Sunny. They don’t call SM a family for nothing.”

Sunny groaned, loudly.

“Um. Okay,” Joy said when Sunny didn’t elaborate. “Not a family? Just a bunch of really close friends?”

“Yeah, that’ll work better. Not a fan of the family motif.”

Joy picked up a cracker and chomped down. “Gonna… explain? Family is normally a positive thing, isn’t it?”

Sunny grabbed a bottle of wine and yanked the cork out. “Yeah, totally, for sure. Hey, do you like Chardonnay?”

“I…” Joy didn’t want to skirt around whatever issue Sunny was having, but was well-aware of her stubbornness. “I sure do.”

As fancy glasses of white wine were generously poured, Joy made note of Sunny’s slow, unsteady movements. She worried that perhaps Sunny had already started drinking, or wasn’t getting enough sleep.

* * *

“Can you believe that, Joy?”

“No way. It’s just inhuman.”

“Completely! It’s not like green onions are suddenly more expensive to dry out!”

The conversation had started with gossip and cheese snacking when the sun was high. As the sun set, the discussion shifted to the price of instant meals, and the snack plates were all but empty. Joy had to fight the constant urge to fall asleep, as the topics were never much more interesting than that. But she let Sunny lead the talking as much as possible.

Joy was simply relieved that Sunny called her over before diving into her liquor storage. “You should start a petition to regulate the price. I’d be the first to sign it.”

Sunny’s tipsy grin matched Joy’s. Though the alcohol consumption had been slow-going, they had been doing it for several hours. “Oh that would be great press. ‘Washed up idol upset with ramen manufacturers.’”

With an exaggerated roll of the eyes, Joy pointed at a set of boxes in the corner of the living room, currently being used as a lookout tower by Sogeum. “You’re not washed up yet. Look at all of those sponsor gifts. Those weren’t here last time I came over… Wait, they weren’t, were they?”

Sunny giggled. “No, they’re, uh… new.”

Their corporate sponsors weren’t something that Joy, Sunny, or any of the other SM idols discussed often. There were usually so many vying for their attention that it was pointless trying to keep track. But Joy reasoned, somewhat drunkenly, that talking about it might be therapeutic to someone so down on their social status. “Who are they from, anyway?”

A blush deepened the red of Sunny’s already tipsy-glowing cheeks. “Uh… Nobody. Just a regular sponsor, ya know?”

Joy grinned. “Oh, come on. You can tell me. What am I gonna do? Call a press conference to tell the tabloids who’s contributing to your paycheck?”

Sunny rolled her eyes. She shot off the couch, spilling a drop or two of her wine in the process. From Joy’s naturally higher perspective, Sunny didn’t seem that much taller. “Fine,” she said, wobbling, “but you better not make fun of me.”

“I’ll make fun of you for other reasons, like how much I love you, bitch!” Joy blinked at her own shouting. She didn’t know when the alcohol had hit her, but she was beginning to think that she was a little more intoxicated than she previously thought.

Thankfully, the joviality in her voice seemed to encourage Sunny to play along. She set her wine on the coffee table and picked one of the smaller boxes off of the pile. “Disclosure first! We haven’t agreed to any deals yet. They sent me this stuff to try to convince me to shill it. I didn’t reach out to them.”

Joy waved the disclosure off like a mosquito, but Sunny still tossed the box in her direction. The weight inside of it was awkwardly distributed. Joy attempted to catch it, but it wound up ricocheting off the tips of her fingers and nearly knocking over an open, mostly full bottle of soju.

“The fuck is in this thing?”

“I’ve got some ideas but I just know who it’s from. Open it and find out.”

Joy tore into the box with no regard for the care that went into the packaging, which itself was surprisingly discreet. A smirk cracked her lips when she thought about what sorts of deliveries required such discretion. But the smirk faded right away when she got a view of the inside and realized that the packager apparently had the same idea.

Inside was a pair of plastic sheets wrapped asymmetrically around a roughly water bottle sized blob of blood red silicone. A small bit of pink cardboard advertised it as a five-speed, rotation-simulating, self-cleaning, pattern-switching, USB-charging, automatically-lubricating, remote-controlled vibrator with a speaker at the bottom for replicating a set of desired moans and a specialized charging dock.

Joy cleared her throat and stared at the horrifically fancy dildo, and its label, “Dante’s Dive,” unsure if she should toss it back to Sunny, considering it was clearly a personal item.

Sunny reached into what was left of the box, procuring a pretty little decorated card. “Dear Ms. Lee, we at Second Ring Inc were very pleased to hear your impromptu review of our products on a recent episode of ‘Welp, I Guess We’re Talking About This Now’ and wished to send you some additional items to show our appreciation. These are in no way a request for further public review,” Sunny was briefly interrupted by Joy’s disapproving snort, “but should you be interested in a partnership, we have included a phone number at which I, the chief executive officer, Lee Youngjoon, may be reached. Optionally, my username--”

Joy missed a few words as she was shocked by the extreme sound emitted by the vibrator when she pushed a button on the remote control.

“--is ‘worldsover’. As you know, Second Ring specializes in sexual wellness products, of which we’ve sent you a wide variety. They can be enjoyed by couples, or can serve as a fantastic outlet for power singles like yourself…”

Sunny trailed off. Joy was afraid she knew what was coming. “Damn, Sunny. You say so much as three words on national television and they scramble to get right up on your ass, eh?”

It was too late. Sunny was already tipping up the bottom of the soju bottle. A few drops spluttered back out of her mouth as Joy pushed it back down. “Sunny! You’ve said it yourself! You don’t want to get married!”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not still lonely!”

Joy wrapped her arms around Sunny. “You’ve got me. And a million other friends!”

“Fans don’t count.” Sunny’s voice was partially muffled by Joy’s shoulder.

“Ouch. Time for me to delete my Sone club membership. But fine. A hundred other friends. It’s not just me. It’s my members. Your members. And plenty of others. All of NCT would be--Okay, nevermind. Aespa though! They love you too.”

“But I don't want to inconvenience you." Sunny ended so matter-of-factly that Joy had to pause to process the short conversation.

"You know how… You know how you take a road trip, and there's a road block, or really bad construction, and you have to take a detour?"

"Yeah. I'm a detour."

"Come on, Sunny. What you are is the scenic route!”

There was a long silence.

“Was that the end of the metaphor?” Sunny eventually asked.

“I am very drunk.”

“You’re not that drunk.”

“Drunk enough to be shit at metaphors.”

“It’s…” Sunny extricated herself from Joy’s hug. “It’s okay. I think I know what you’re getting at, and I appreciate it. It’s just that a few words don’t really fix a brain, you know?”

Joy nodded slowly, watching as Sogeum casually stalked across the room. “Yup. But believe me. I’m here for you, at least. So if you need a friend, or some company, I’m at the top of your list.”

The cat plopped herself on the floor, right up against Sunny’s leg. Joy giggled. “Fuck off, kitty. I just said I was the top.”

It seemed the topic of conversation was ready to change. Sunny smiled, and it was enough to indicate her understanding.

“So!” Joy moved things along. “A pile of free, top of the line sex toys in your living room. What’s a young woman to do about that?”

Sunny snorted. “Well I’m not going to masturbate while I have company over, that’s for sure.” She grabbed another box from the pile and handed it over, doing her best not to disturb Sogeum’s new resting place.

The new box took mere seconds to open, this time revealing a black silicone butt plug with a red gem in the base. The casing suggested that a picture could be inserted beneath the gem, and it appeared there was one already there as an example. Joy had to flip it around to a variety of angles before she could make out that it contained a headshot of Dreamcatcher’s Jiu making finger hearts on her cheeks. She cocked her head, wondering if the image had actually been authorized.

Another box swapped between the womens’ hands. It took Joy a little longer to open than the last, but it turned out to be that way for a good reason, given that it was gently holding some fragile cargo: A red-tinted glass bottle of lube, labeled as “Juice from the Fruit of The Tree.” The lengthy product title had a snake winding through the letters.

“Well now they’re just really doubling down on this theme, aren’t they?” Sunny asked as she worked out how to open the next package, using her bottle opener as a makeshift knife.

Joy laughed and picked up yet another, now eager to see what kind of wild object it would contain. “Yeah, they really are! No lie, they’re starting to give me some ideas. Talk about sinful.”

“‘Oh I know,’” Sunny mocked the company, as SM artists often did, fingers still struggling to find their way under the first cardboard flap. “‘Let’s send Sunny a whole pile of sex junk. Bet she’s sinful enough to use it all.’ Like, come on Love-eye, or whatever your name is. What’s a single woman gonna do with all this? Hold up a pillow fort?”

“Hey, maybe he doesn’t know you’re single. Maybe there’s some stuff in here that takes two to tangle with… Fuck. Choerry’s got me using alliterations.”

Sunny barely managed to get her fingers inside the box, but her knuckles were turning white from the tightness of it. It seemed that she had left a portion of the packing tape uncut. “I said I was single on the show, though. I don’t think there will be any couples’ toys in here.”

“Oooh, I’m gonna make it a bet now.” Joy smirked. Her next sentence bypassed her verbal filter through the holes left in it by the alcohol. “If you get that thing open and there’s a strap on inside, you have to fuck me with it!”

A jerk of her arms snapped the remainder of the packing tape. Sunny chuckled. “You’re on. There’s no way it is.”

Joy had to admit that Sunny had a point, considering how small the package was. Surely it couldn’t fit a series of leather straps, or a dildo any larger than a couple of inches in any direction. The little voice in the back of her mind that told her making such an offer was stupid quieted down somewhat.

There was a moment of quiet. Sogeum rolled away from Sunny and made her way to the kitchen. Joy picked up another box, confident that she hadn’t just placed herself in an awkward situation. Sunny shook her head, amused. And then…

“J-Joy?”

Joy looked back, but wasn’t quite sure what she was looking at. It was a sort of mass of black string with some silver discs hanging off of it. Another piece of pink paper fluttered to the floor, where Joy picked it up and read aloud.

“‘The Obol.’ As Charon ferried Dante across the Styx and into the hole that is Hell, so too shall this state-of-the-art magnetic harness ferry our exclusive Dante’s Dive dildo into your… partner’s hole…”

There was more to be read, but both women seemed to get the point. The only sound in the room came from Sogeum chomping through some hard cat food in the kitchen. Slowly, their eyes raised and met. They both spoke at the same moment.

“That was a bet’s a joke bet right?”

Their drunken minds needed a moment to detangle their words into distinct sentences. Sunny’s “That was a joke, right?” and Joy’s “A bet’s a bet.”

Sunny started again first. “You know, we don’t have to.”

“I will if you want to.”

Every sentence being exchanged was followed by a palpable stillness. Joy’s heart beat loudly in her own ears, and she swore she could hear Sunny’s too.

“Do you… want to fuck me with that, Sunny?”

Sunny answered instantly. “Yup.”

There was a flurry of action, though it was slowed here and there by a tipsy stumble or two. Sunny gathered up an armful of the items on her coffee table, both sex toys and the bottle of soju, and sprinted for the bedroom. Joy rushed after her, messily attempting and failing to remove some of her clothes on the way.

Sogeum was spooked by the sudden kerfuffle and fled out of sight.

The bedroom was no less hectic. Sunny dropped everything on the bed except the soju, which she took one more swig of directly from the bottle before setting it dangerously close to the edge of her desk. She wiggled out of her shirt and bra, which attracted Joy’s attention instantly.

Joy struck at Sunny’s cleavage, wrapping her fingers as far as they could go around the legendary orbs, and her lips around one of the budding tips. Their differences in height made it awkward, but they very soon found their way to a horizontal state that eased that tension. Unfortunately, it was not on the bed, but on the floor, but they weren’t about to let something like that stop them.

What clothes they were still wearing exploded off their bodies. Joy’s shorts and shirt, Sunny’s pants and socks. All of it ended up in different sections of the room, thrown under and over furniture.

Joy was no stranger to encounters like this, and neither was Sunny. They had shared countless stories with each other… and some spit. But neither had considered their prior make out sessions to be precursors to explicitly sexual action. For her part, however, Joy considered this one differently, and Sunny’s hands searching half-blindly for Joy’s ass confirmed to her that Sunny thought the same.

Backs arched. Legs ground against one another. Open mouths met, trading the alcoholic scents that the women no longer cared to distinguish. Their minds had devoted themselves entirely to the search for physical pleasure.

A lot of exploratory prodding led Sunny’s fingers to the entrance to Joy’s pussy, failing to notice the number of pokes that ended up at Joy's exit. She took some time familiarizing herself with the drenched outer folds.

Joy, however, noticed the poking at her ass. Her mind swam with serotonin, thoughts of other people, and alcoholic fumes that seemed to rearrange the letters of her thoughts into nonsense. Or possibly into inspiration.

Inspiration relevant to the happenings at the prior year's award shows, that is.

Joy tried to pull back the moment Sunny’s fingers dipped inside her. She had opened her mouth to speak but instead groaned and arched herself further into Sunny’s grip on her sanity. "S-Sunny. B-bed."

At least that message was received loud and clear. Sunny dragged her fingers against Joy’s G-spot as she, disappointingly, pulled them out, nearly causing Joy to scream. The same fingers plunged into Joy’s mouth and quieted her as she diligently sucked her own juices from them.

The action transferred to the bed. Fingers immediately found their places again, and Joy bounced on her back in time with Sunny’s brutal shoves. Packaging bounced all around them. It was like a desperate, distracted game of Vegetable Shinobi for Joy, swiping at the jumping dildo. Sunny’s fingers were divine, eye-wateringly so, but Joy wanted something unholy.

Sunny muttered Joy’s name, catching her attention again. She lifted her head to meet for yet another imprecise kiss. Their legs twisted around each other. Joy could hear the desperation in Sunny’s moans, vibrating all the way down her throat, burning like the alcohol. She snaked a hand between them and found Sunny’s clit.

The moans freed themselves as Sunny bucked backward, almost out of Joy’s longer reach. Joy noted the exceptional reaction, and flipped Sunny onto her back, following immediately and putting herself in the position of power Sunny had initiated.

“You’re gonna fuck me with the strap on… right, Sunny?”

Sunny’s eyes widened, and she grabbed the toys.

“No, not yet,” Joy stalled in her most seductive voice. She slid down, nearly falling off the bed, and wrenched Sunny’s legs wide open with her elbows.

Sunny clenched her fingers around the hell-themed dildo for dear life. Joy’s name poured through her lips over and over again as Joy’s lips poured over her pussy.

Joy had to fight Sunny’s strength to keep her spread thighs from clamping around her head. She wanted to keep hearing her senior beg, loud and clear. To that end, she dug in her tongue, unable to penetrate far, but far enough to open Sunny up and feel the wetness flow into her mouth.

“Please… Joy… I’m close… Joy, please! Joy, don’t stop!”

The thought flitted through Joy’s head, that perhaps denying Sunny her orgasm would be fun, but something about the way she said it made Joy wonder if Sunny’s neediness was rooted in her loneliness, more than in her desire to get off. She shifted herself to wrap her arms under Sunny’s legs and pulled. It wasn’t possible for them to be any physically closer than they were, but she wanted to make it feel like they could be.

Sunny’s voice cracked, choked, and broke into a scream. Joy winced as her tongue was squeezed uncomfortably, but she wasn’t about to stop. The back arches, hair grasping, and pained gasps that followed were worth it.

Joy kept it up until Sunny’s body fell back down and her muscles relaxed. Only then, she removed herself to ask, “Need a break before my turn?”

A smile crept up Sunny’s mouth. Her fingers tightened around the dildo she still had in her hand. “Get… back down here.”

If there was any benefit Joy appreciated most about idol training, it was recovery speed, and Sunny still had it. Joy picked up the strap, quickly figuring out how it was supposed to fit and sliding it up Sunny’s legs. The motion doubled as her approach for another make out.

Of course, Joy was still immensely horny. Her interest in making out with Sunny was overshadowed by her desire to get fucked savagely, but she had the wherewithal to hold out, to let it happen naturally. She was always good at letting others take the lead. Whether they led from the top or from the bottom didn’t especially matter to her.

The alcohol made her more impatient than usual though. She forced herself to wait for the five-speed pounding she’d get, but she ground herself against Sunny’s leg in the meantime. Thankfully she didn’t have to wait long. Sunny threw her to the side and attached the vibrator to the unusual strap with very little trouble. Joy fingered herself as she watched.

“Fuck, yes, Sunny. This is going to be so goo--”

Sunny practically tackled Joy. Their lips collided again, strap hovering somewhere between Joy’s legs, but not close enough for her to feel it.

The moment she did, though, Joy grabbed Sunny’s ass and pulled. The lack of accuracy was made up for by the inhuman amount of lubrication present; both Joy’s and the curious synthetic compound that the dildo exuded seemingly of its own volition.

It was almost too much for Joy. The dildo was certainly longer than any she had used before, and bottoming out at full speed meant it hit her rather painfully in the cervix. She hissed, but otherwise just readjusted her legs in Sunny’s way to prevent the same thing from happening so easily again.

The strap held the dildo in place on Sunny’s body well. Despite its genuinely small frame, it seemed to prevent all wiggling. Every one of Sunny’s movements, including the less delicate, more intoxicated ones, translated to sensations that felt to Joy like a biologically attached dick, albeit with a plethora of extra features.

"You're so pretty, Joy," Sunny said. Even though she was doing all the work now, she wasn't nearly as winded as before. Knowing she’d affected Sunny made Joy grin into another kiss.

“No you,” Joy said with a smirk. She knew this would be good, but she truly underestimated how great it would be to see Sunny’s famous tits jiggling with the effort of fucking her. The sheen of sweat covering them would ensure the night wouldn’t be forgotten, even if Joy had another drink or two.

Joy’s first orgasm struck quickly and unexpectedly. Her breath stopped and a shudder spiked through her body from her core to the tips of her toes and fingers and head. The ability to think normally left her for a brief moment. She only kept the fleeting question of whether or not Sunny was able to feel Joy’s climax. Stars popped in and out of existence, obscuring Joy’s view of Sunny’s fantastic body.

It all faded relatively soon after, but it wasn’t enough for Joy. As soon as her lungs refilled, she screamed, “More! Sunny! Fuck me! Fuck me! Oh god!” She was practically numb everywhere, except for every square inch of her that the dildo rubbed, slid, and vibrated against. Her arms and legs wrapped around Sunny on their own.

Joy, eyes half closed, barely registered when Sunny slowed down to grab and open the extra package. She did, however, notice the sudden prodding feeling at her asshole.

“Sun--”

She couldn’t even finish Sunny’s name before something slipped its way into her butt. Her vision cleared up enough to see that even while she continued thrusting, Sunny had one hand tucked between them, and it was the source of the extra intrusion.

A couple more thrusts though, and Joy was lost to the pleasure again. She started to pant instead of scream or moan, or perhaps she was whimpering, or speaking fluent Polish. Joy couldn’t have said one way or the other. Another orgasm hit. And another. And another. She knew some time was passing between each one, but whether it was seconds or days between no longer mattered. Her mind was fading out of existence.

Until, that is, it wasn’t.

With seemingly no provocation, Joy suddenly remembered Cheungae. She had been meaning to talk to Sunny about him before they had gotten drunk. Her mind wandered, far, far more than it normally would during such intense sex.

Cheungae had taken her out several times since their first, less-than-professional meeting at the MAMAs with Wheein. Even though Joy knew he was struggling financially, he always insisted on paying for coffee, but would give up if he saw the bill when Joy took him to some of the much higher end restaurants.

He was always so polite, genuine, and humble. He didn’t even question when Joy told him they couldn’t be in a relationship, but instead insisted that they could be friends. Joy wondered if it was fair to him that she was treating him as a boyfriend in every way but name while she was still having a grand old time fucking everyone else in the industry. Cheungae knew about it, but wasn’t part of it.

And yet, sex with Cheungae made Joy feel good. Great, even. She could recreate the sensations in her mind for days afterward. His slim, toned figure hovering over her, his face contorted beautifully in adorable agony, his admittedly mediocre cock managing to hit her just right with every move. She couldn’t stop picturing him.

Another orgasm smashed through Joy’s illusion. The mental image of perfectly human Cheungae was instantly replaced with the very physical image of god-like Sunny. As tended to happen, Joy held her breath as the climax coursed through her. Her muscles contracted until she was holding Sunny in a deathly grip.

“F-fuck. Sunn-ny. Slow… slow down.”

It seemed that the request was desperately needed by both lovers, because rather than simply slow down, Sunny fell over. Joy’s pussy immediately craved to be filled again, but she knew she needed to clear her head. And besides that, she still had an odd full sensation. When her muscles relaxed enough for her to move of her own volition, she reached beneath herself and recoiled again at the feeling of a drenched butt plug. Her fingertips carried a puddle of mixed cum and lube back up.

“I’m sorry… Joy… I think that’s all I have left in me,” Sunny said between gasps.

Joy made note of her own throat and how dry it was. Whatever sound she was making while she borderline hallucinated, she’d be regretting it for a while. “All good. I was losing my sanity. That was unbelievable.”

Sunny giggled. It sounded painful. “The vibrator… or the surprise plug?”

Joy giggled back. “The plug was definitely a surprise. Was that the one with Jiu's face in it?”

“Mhm.”

“Cool,” Joy sat up, her head swimming in the aftermath. “But I just think it was you using the stuff that made it so good.”

Sunny seemed invigorated by the compliments. She smiled and reached under the bed, making some noise and bringing up a bottle of water. The two of them swapped it back and forth until it was empty and then collapsed into one another, idly feeling each others' bodies up the whole time.

“Does that mean you’re up for another… night like this? Or day?” Sunny asked as she fondled Joy’s tits. It sounded like she had sobered up, at least most of the way. Joy was too afraid of what she would see to look at a clock.

“You fucking know it,” Joy responded while she brushed her fingers up and down Sunny’s inner thighs. It was a reflex for her to agree, but she cringed inwardly as soon as she did, realizing how much more sober she had become herself, and how she wished she wasn’t. She was thinking about Cheungae again.

There was a barrage of light kisses all over her face, neck, and chest. Sunny looked far too happy for Joy to feel okay about retracting her statement.

“Maybe not right now though,” Joy said, just in case Sunny was already getting ideas. “We should really get to bed.”

She didn’t hear any arguments. They simply got up, and only long enough to flip up the duvet, flinging all of the remaining sex toys off, and jumped underneath.

It took a minute for Joy to realize she needed to remove the surprise butt plug. It was easy enough, and she ended up tossing it to the floor without looking at it.

Joy wrapped herself around Sunny. She was usually the big spoon, not that it bothered her. Sunny’s bare back felt comfortably hot against her chest and stomach. Cheungae liked being the big spoon too. He’d swap with her all the time…

“Hey, Sunny?”

“Mmm?” Sunny was on the verge of sleep, it seemed.

Joy lowered her voice, barely above a whisper. “Have you ever thought about… Settling down, I guess? Just being with one person?”

She didn’t expect Sunny to have an immense store of wisdom, but she hoped for more than what she got: a snore.

“Good night to you too, Sunny.”

[angelisverba]

but i wanna play daddy

in which y/n doesn’t listen to her daddy, and mafialeader!harry doesn’t fucking play.

word count: 3k

warnings: mentions of drugs and violence. +angst.

yes, inspired by the snl episode (but nowhere nearly as gangster as that). got another one based on the jason skit coming soon ;)

“Harryyy,” she whined.

Y/n sat on the couch, legs crossed and foot bouncing as she watched Harry with a pout on her face.

It was a Wednesday. The busiest day of the week. Work from Monday was still getting finished, and more work started to end by Friday.

Y/n knew better than to mess with Harry on a Wednesday.

But, watching him with one of his burner phones pressed in between his shoulder and ear, one hand cuffing up his white shirt sleeve and gun hostler unbuttoned and jostling on his broad shoulders. Not to mention, his green pin-stripped trousers that looked as if they would burst at the seams with every stride he took. Y/n just couldn’t help herself. Pinching at his thighs with grabby hands from her spot on the couch, to where he stood on the opposite side of the coke-glass coffee table.

She’s being bold. She knows this, knows better than to mess with the fucking king pin of London.

Harry was no nice guy.He’s known for gunshots to the head when his orders aren’t followed. Broken noses if you look at him the wrong way. And god help anyone who tried to betray him.

Currently, his eyebrows were furrowed and he had that cold glint in his eyes, lips pressed hard against each other to form a hard line. Voice menacing, almost like that one time y/n walked in on his pushing a guy up against the wall by his throat, asking where the fuck is my money?

She’d been so frightened that time. She remembers standing the the doorway, whatever question she wanted to ask had died in her throat; reduced to a mousy squeak. Harry had seen her, dropped the man like a doll and his face instantly an entirely different demeanor. He’d murmured to someone else in the room to take care of this fucker and that night he made love to her all night long. Sweaty, desperate ruts, begging her to forgive him, that he wasn’t a bad guy (not with her at least) that he loved her, kissing all on her throat.

He only ever when putty in her hands. If she asked, he’d put a bullet through the head of the Queen of England.

When Harry first felt nails grazing above his kneecap, he swatted off her hands like he would a fly, turning his head sideways as his fingers quickly folded back the cuffs of his shirt.

His eyes had said he wasn’t in the mood to play.

And he wasn’t.

Harry was in the middle of receiving the news of delayed shipment, letting the flustered employee explain themselves when he felt, again, the scratches of his girl’s fingers, this time mid thigh. Not knowing that Harry was a finger pinch away from cursing out the stupid imbecile on the other side of the phone, y/n looped her fingers on Harry’s waistband, and tried to pull it down.

Faster than she could register, Harry hung up the phone, threw it in the tabletop, and grabbed her wrists to push her back flush against the couch.

“Daddy’s not in the mood to play right now, sweet pea. You better watch it,” he had her hands pinned above her head, his lips pulled back as he spoke, threatening; like a dog on his haunches.

She leaned up, and licked a fat stripe up the side of Harry’s face and said, “but I wanna play, daddy.”

Her eyes were half hooded, pupils glazed over with lust and lips parted with anticipation.Her mind was a boggled, swampy mess full of harry, harry, harry. She needed him, wanted him, yearned for him to do as he pleased with her.

“I said I’m not in the mood to play, didn’t I?” He said, tone intimidating and even.

She hummed absentmindedly, her back arching and hips wriggling, hoping to get anything from the man above her. Anything to sate her ache.

“Use your words, y/n. Answer me.”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Tsk-tsk. Know what happens when you disobey me?” Harry dips his head down, nose skimming the column of her throat, and placing a wet kiss on her collarbone. He nearly went further, the low neckline of the pretty slip dress enticing him.

But he remembered he had a fucking job to do and men to reprimand. Lessons to teach. One of them being patience to the girl underneath him, to spank her until she learned enough was enough.

“Yes, daddy,” she said, her voice a breathy whisper.

She felt as if she were a coiled spring, one release away from the action.

Then, “Be ready when I get back home, little brat. Got it?” And he leans in to her as if he’s gonna kiss her, but laughs at her meanly, and kinda throws his hands off his own before getting back up, readjusting his pants and clasping the gun holster across his chest. Harry picked up the burner phone from the table, and scooped up his suit jacket from the back of the couch, holding it by a hooked pointer finger over his shoulder and walked away.

Y/n pushed herself up onto her elbows with a dejected frown on her face, eyes watering and her heart breaking just a little. She’d just wanted some attention.

He’s gone for so long throughout the day, and he looks so good before he leaves.

The night before he’d fucked her. A slow, long, lazy sex session where they’d been impossibly to each other. The type of fuck that left her wanting for more, and he did give her more. He gave her much more. Made her come on his tongue, his fingers, and his cock.

And call her greedy, but she woke up that morning with her clit throbbing; wanting a continuation of what happened the night before. Her mind still in that post-orgasmic state, not yet deciphering that it was a different day, but rather focusing on needing to cum again.

She didn’t think that warranted for a punishment.

She watched him walk away, burner phone pressed against his ear and a guard meeting with him at the door, another coming in to stand at the closed emerald doors, throwing a fleeting glance at y/n before taking a protective stance at his post.

Sighing, she got up and went up the dark stairs with the end of her dress in one of her hands, the golden rail biting cold at her soft palm. Her mind is an endless whirlwind of anxiety and want. She wanted Harry to kiss her. Hold her. Tell her she was pretty and good. Not for harry to spank her. Not to tease her. Not to tell her she was a brat or a bad girl. She didn’t mean to make him mad. No, in fact, she hoped he would’ve smiled at her sweetly and dropped the phone to devote all his attention to her. Kiss all on her. Cuddle with her. Because it’s what she wanted.

Now look at her. She’s the bad girl with a punishment pending when she gets home.

With a pout on her lips, she tucked herself under the velvet covers of her and Harry’s shared bed, feeling awfully small in a very large space.

.

.

She didn’t wake again until she heard the loud slam of the emerald doors closing, and the tapping of Harry’s shoes on the stairs.

Her stomach grumbled, and she needed to pee.

In muddy efforts to avoid Harry, she scrambled out of bed, her legs kicking like dogs when they ran really fast in cartoons, and hurried to the restroom. She shut the door behind her, and locked it; reached down to the hem of her dress, and threw it over her head. Y/n did her business on the toilet, washed her hands and splashed her face so it wouldn’t look like she was sleeping. The water was really cold, and it made her whine when it touched her skin, a few droplets dripping onto her exposed breasts.

It felt as if she was running on premeditated orders, her actions practiced and mechanical.

She doesn’t remember unlocking and opening the door, but, suddenly, she’s standing in the doorway and Harry is sitting on the edge of their bed, elbows resting on his knees, his chin on one of his palms, and he’s watching her with the uttermost intensity.

He perks up when she stills, lifting his head and upper-body to the space on his lap is clear, and his eyebrow raises expectantly. His silent command makes y/n’s shoulder’s slump. Any chance at explaining herself, she feels, is far gone. Harry’s expression is one of business; he’s going to teach her a lesson.

When she doesn’t move, he says, “Don’t make me go over there and get you, baby.”

She shuddered, and slumped some more as she took her first steps towards him, head hung down like a puppy’s. Her skin rose with goosebumps, and heated under his gaze. When she got close enough, Harry reached out, and placed his hands on either sides of her hips, yanking her so she laid with her nipples brushing his calves, and her clit ribbing against his thighs. He groaned when she pressed back against the palm that rubbed on her ass cheek.

“Now, y/n” he squeezes her harshly, and lets go to rub over it, “tell me why I’m doing this.”

“Because... because I didn’t listen this morning,” she mewls, withering underneath his touch. She feels the inside of her walls growing warmer, slicker, and before she knows it she’s dripping down onto Harry’s pants. Her nails dig into Harry’s shins, bracing herself and also trying to ground herself because he hadn’t even started yet.

“That’s right, princess. I told you to behave yourself because, daddy had things to do, but you didn’t listen.” Harry leans forward to catch a glimpse of her face, his hands still kneading at her skin. He smirks when he sees that her eyes are screwed shut, and her mouth parts open when he dips his finger to collect her moisture. “Baby, you’re makin’ a mess of my trousers.”

Harry’s accent always intensifies when it drops to this sexy drawl he only ever uses in certain situations with y/n. This only riles her up more, and she shuts her thighs to stop him from teasing her even further.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, mouthing at the cloth covering his leg.

A sharp thwack fills the room when Harry’s hands meets y/n’s skin, his rings adding an extra bite to the sting of his palm, making her lurch forward with the hit. “Sorry, who? Who are you talking to, y/n?” He tuts his tongue, massaging over the pink hand print on y/n ass, his dick bloating at the sight of his mark. She shifts, the mound of her pussy pressing down into the head of his cock, and Harry has to clench his jaw to hold back a moan.

“Daddy,” y/n mewls, “I’m sorry, daddy. Didn’t mean to be a bad girl, daddy. Just wanted some attention. Please, please, daddy, I’m sorry,” She cries.

Usually, Harry wouldn’t think anything of it. Y/n can be a real brat sometimes and she’ll fake crying if it means she’ll get what she wants because she knows she has a mafia king’s heart at the palm of her fucking hand.

But this is different. Y/n had opened her mouth and her shoulders started shaking, her words cut off with sobs that rake through her entire body. She’s breathing in choppy blubbers, one syllable escaping before it’s cut off with tears.

And, he’s not going to lie, he’s scared. Scared, because he’s really not sure what he’s done, and whether or not her game has increased tenfold, or if she’s really upset or why she’s upset.

Nonetheless, he stops what he’s doing, and lifts her up, one hand at her bicep, and the other at her thigh, opening it so she’s straddling him. The sight of her face breaks his heart. She’s red, teary, and her eyes are swollen. And she yelps when the side of her butt with Harry’s palm print touches his thigh, whining when Harry’s hand comes in between her butt and his thigh.

“Baby girl, hey, hey, look at me,” Harry places his other palm on the side of her face, ad she leans into his touch, sniffling and gulping in breaths of air. “breath, puppy. Breath. It’s okay. ‘Not mad at you.”

“I’m sorry, d-didn’t wanna-” She starts, her chest flushed red and heaving. Harry shushes her, placing his thumb on her lips and rubbing across them. He wants to kiss her. So bad. But he thinks he should calm her down first.

“I said it’s okay,” His voice is gentle now, nearly cooing at her. A strand of hair falls to tickle his nose, and he tries to shake it off. Y/n’s trembling fingers comes it back for him, and he presses a quick kiss to her forearm before continuing, “thank you, baby. Not tell me what’s got you so upset. Want you to use, your words, okay? Breathe for me, y/n.”

She has a hard time keeping his stare, and she glances down at his chest instead, memorizing the buttons on his white button up. “I... I just...” is all she can get out before she’s crying again, her tears falling down onto her breasts like the cold water had.

Harry brings her to chest, slipping out the hand from underneath her bum to press her firmly against his burning chest. He’s hurting, he really is. Hates seeing his precious y/n cry. He would do anything to take her pain away. “Don’t cry anymore, pet. ‘S nothing to cry for.”

She’s inconsolable. Her mind going in circles to the point where she doesn’t know what she’s crying for. Something to do about Harry neglecting her. Calling her a bad girl.

And god her thoughts are so,

“Small, daddy. Feel so small. Please don’t yell at me.” Harry tenses all over again. A cold sheet of dread draping over his back like a thousand knifes cutting him open. It hits him then, that this morning,

she wasn’t being a brat.

She was still in subspace.

He guesses it was the fact that he’d gone so hard on her the night before. And he left so quick. Didn’t even kiss her goodbye, no. In fact, he laughed at her like a tool, and left her. Called her a brat.

All while she was in this delicate state.

He feels like shit then. A real dickhead. He’d went, instead, to worry about stupid drugs and money that he had plenty of. He could never, ever get enough of y/n, yet he had acted like he did.

His heart clenches, his chest tightens, and his throat ties itself in a knot. This only makes him feel more like an asshole because instead of telling y/n that everything is okay, he’s the one crying. Get your fucking shit together.

“Princess,” he whispered, a name he only used when she felt small, “Come back to me. Come back too daddy,” he pleaded, hiding his face in her hair.

“Are you still mad at me, daddy? Please don’t be angry, daddy,” She whines, nosing into his neck. Her voice is high-pitched and light, like a child’s.

“Daddy’s angry at himself. Not at you. Come back, yeah? Miss you, y/n.” He presses tiny kisses to the side of her face, making her giggle and scrunch her pink nose. She shivers a little, and Harry remembers she’s naked. He twists backwards and pats around the bed blindly for his suit jacket, placing it in y/n’s shoulders once he finds it.

“M’right here, Harry.” Y/n says. Her voice is hoarse, back to normal. Her eyes are droopy, and she wraps her hands around Harry’s neck.

He jumps to return her embrace, hiking her thigh over his hip to get her close, but she feels his erection through his pants.

“Harry you’re-”

“Don’t worry about it. Just wanna lay here with you for a minute. Need to do what I didn’t get to this morning,” he said.

They lay together in the edge of their silky sheets, nearly asleep when y/n’s stomach grumbled loudly, and she giggles when Harry rubs a hand over it.

“Let’s get you something to eat, baby. Deserve only the best.”

He sits up, pulling her up with him so she’s on his lap. Y/n smiles at him, chin digging into her neck bashfully.

“Now, don’t you go all blushy on me, baby. Know its true. Deserve the best, and I’m gonna give it to you.” He grins at her, his green eyes gleaming at her, “Gimme a kiss?”

“Who would’ve thought, Mr. Styles, feared by all of London, asking me for a kiss,” She teased, leaning in to her lips brushed against his with every syllable she spoke.

“I love you, y/n. You have my heart, know that right?” And he pushes his lips against hers, tonguing at her mouth innocently.

Y/n kisses him back, and she tell him she loves him, too.

[echo-bleu]

Hi, hello, hey! I'd like to request #48, I'm in the mood for angst 💙 Never worry about length, I love & adore everything you write 💙💙💙

Em. I know that by “never worry about length” you meant “it can be super short”. I swear I meant to write something short. I...didn’t.

#48 “You make me want things I can’t have.”

It’s currently 22k and still growing. There will be 5 or 6 chapters, and the prompt doesn’t even come into it until late chapter 4...

It is ANGSTY. It’s a canon divergence where Magnus erases his memories of Alec in 3x19 Read at your own risk and maybe prepare tissues. But I promise a happy ending.

This was betaed by the amazing JeanBoulet. Huge thanks also to the folks at the Fandom Playhouse discord server for all the encouragement and squealing! Especially you Em: I love you and this is a slightly early Christmas present!

[Specific warnings: suicidal thoughts (mentioned), terminal illness/poisoning, internalized ableism]

Summary:

Over the ten months that follow Alec's deal with Asmodeus, Alec struggles to adapt to a world without Magnus in it, Magnus falls in love all over again and everyone just tries to make it through another day.

or

Alec is dying from venom poisoning and Magnus doesn't even remember him.

Read on AO3.

take me back to the start (1)

He’s in Pandemonium, staring across the room at an apparition with a bow in his hand.

He’s in his loft and standing over a pentagram, an electric jolt going through his body as he links hands with someone.

He’s kneeling in his living room, pulling energy from the hand in his, stumbling back against a lean and muscular body, exhausted.

He’s holding up his glass and toasting with a tall man, whispering words, flirting.

He’s watching the man train, shirtless, swallowing back his desire and trying to find the words to say how much he wants him.

He’s standing in a corridor, hurt and heartbroken, the man turning his back on him.

He’s storming into a wedding, and the man is striding toward him—

Wait.

Back up.

*

Back to the start.

*

There’s something bittersweet about being back at Pandemonium after all this time. They’re not here to chase a demon this time, or to offer a priceless jewel in exchange for a summoning. They were trying to get Clary’s memories back then, too, Alec remembers. He was against that plan from the beginning, but it led him to Magnus.

He thought himself in love with Jace, back then.

It’s a strange and painful turn of events that leads them back here. He’s not in love with Jace anymore. Clary isn’t the only one missing her memories. Izzy isn’t wearing that necklace today, though it’s been around her neck every day since—

Alec stops his recollection right there, before it turns into something else. He struggles inside, leaning heavily on his crutches. The music assaults his ears as soon as he’s past the door and he winces. He stays back as Jace and Izzy lose themselves into the crowd. He shouldn’t even be here. He doesn’t know why he decided to come, beside to punish himself.

He adjusts his grip on the crutches and looks around the large, dimly lit room, his height allowing him to scan the crowd easily. He can still see Jace and Izzy making progress toward the mezzanine on the other side of the room. The raised space is less crowded, reserved by the bouncers as a VIP section. Alec can distinguish the couches where a mix of Downworlders are lounging, Seelies blending in with vampires and werewolves.

And a single warlock.

Magnus looks different. He’s let his hair grow a little, and it’s not styled up but to the side, streaked with green and purple — or maybe that’s just the light playing tricks on Alec’s eyes. His outfit is flamboyant, gold brocade on a deep red velvet, the high collar opened on his chest to reveal multiple necklaces. Alec swallows hard.

Alec wonders, even now, if Magnus toned himself down for him when they were together, or if he simply didn’t feel the need to be noticed by other people as much when he was with Alec.

Jace and Izzy reach the stairs and briefly argue with the bouncer at the bottom. After a minute, Magnus makes a gesture and they’re allowed in. Alec can’t hear them, not over the deafening music. He forces himself to take his eyes off Magnus and slowly, painstakingly makes his way around the room, circumventing the crowd to avoid getting toppled over. His balance isn’t good enough anymore to risk the dance floor, and he’s in enough pain as it is without taking a fall.

Izzy and Jace are arguing with Magnus, clearly agitated, when Alec makes it to the mezzanine. The bouncer lets him through without protesting. Alec doesn’t look up until he’s made it up the stairs, and when he does, he can hear bits of shouted conversation amid the music.

“—for a bunch of Shadowhunters to come to my club—”

“Magnus, I know you’re angry, but this is about—”

“I don’t know why I’d even listen to Lightwoods of all people—”

“Magnus! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

That’s Jace. Alec wants to intervene, but he can’t bring himself to yell from across the room. He’s not sure he can speak at all.

“I know Alec broke your heart, but—” Izzy starts.

Alec braces himself. Magnus’ eyes land on him, but there’s no recognition in them, only a frown. The truth feels like a knife twisting in Alec’s gut. He was still holding on to hope but his mother was right, there’s no denying it now. Then Magnus looks at Jace and Izzy, his gaze turning angry, and back at Alec. There’s a vague curiosity on his face, a slight tilt of his head Alec knows well — but not anymore, because it’s not meant to be this way—

“Who’s Alec?” Magnus asks.

The knife twists again. Alec stumbles, hissing in pain. It feels like an actual, physical wound. His throat knots up, and he turns away from Magnus. He needs to get out of here.

He ignores the stabbing pain in his hip as he stumbles down the stairs, a mess of crutches and barely controlled steps, and it’s a miracle he doesn’t end up face down at the bottom. He runs out the backdoor as fast as he can, into a back alley smelling of piss and forgotten garbage. The contents of his stomach make it to the floor, behind a trash can.

He leans against the wall, barely avoiding stepping into a puddle of his own vomit, and stays there until breathing doesn’t feel like swallowing needles anymore. He doesn’t know how long it’s been when Jace and Izzy find him. He can’t get Magnus’ face out of his head. The way his eyes slid over Alec like he wasn’t even there. Who’s Alec?

“Alec,” Jace calls him. He must have felt Alec’s distress through the parabatai bond. Though Alec isn’t sure what Jace feels from him anymore, these days. Between the agony of leaving Magnus and his injury, Alec has tried his best to close his side of the bond.

And the last few days, he’s pretty sure Jace has tried to do the same for him. He looks rough, like he hasn’t slept in days — none of them has. Not since Clary left.

“Did he agree?” he asks.

Izzy scrunches up her face in pain. “Yeah, but—”

“He doesn’t remember us,” Alec states.

“Alec—”

“He erased his memories of me, and by extension, you. I hoped he’d remember Clary, since he knew her from before.”

“He does, that’s why he agreed to help,” Jace says. There’s hope and sorrow mixing on his face, warring with each other like he doesn’t know how to feel either. “But how could he—”

“I broke his heart,” Alec murmurs. “He has the power to erase me, so he did. At least he’s not hurting.”

“You knew?” Izzy asks, shocked.

“Yes. Mom went to see him, before the battle. She figured out what I’d done and she tried to tell him. He treated her like she was still a Circle member and he shut the door in her face. She told me once I woke up.”

“Oh, Alec,” Izzy squeezes his arm. Alec leans into her touch, even though he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want comfort. He wants...he wants the sweet relief of oblivion, too. But he’s not going to get that. Not yet.

And he wouldn’t want to forget Magnus for the world.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Jace asks.

Alec looks away, fighting back tears. It’s answer enough. He didn’t want to believe it, not really. He knew. He knew when Magnus didn’t come after the battle of Alicante. Catarina confirmed it, with a gentleness that surprised even Alec.

But everyone is gentle with him these days, like they’re walking on eggs. He’s become fragile. No, broken.

Broken beyond repair.

*

Magnus sighs. Having Shadowhunters in his loft makes his skin crawl. At least when he told them to bring a fifth they chose someone decent, Clary’s vampire friend Simon. It might make it harder to do the ritual, but Magnus won’t have to clean up after a fourth thoughtless Shadowhunter.

The two he’s already interacted with — Jace and Isabelle — are brash and annoying, clearly used to the spotlight. Simon seems to be dating Isabelle, though Magnus can hardly see what he sees in her beside her looks. She was downright rude the other day.

The third Shadowhunter is more interesting. He’s tall and handsome, honestly one of the most beautiful men Magnus has ever seen, though he looks sad and drawn. There’s something familiar about him that Magnus can’t place. Unlike his sister, he doesn’t particularly look like either of his parents, so it’s not that. Maybe something from one of the other Lightwoods or Truebloods Magnus has known over the years.

He’s avoiding Magnus’ gaze with a consistency that would be admirable if it wasn’t uncomfortable. Is he really so sure of his superiority that he won’t even look a Downworlder in the eyes?

No, it’s not that. Magnus is almost sure there’s something else, something he should know. Something...something to do with the box in his nightstand, the one with a carved bow and arrows on the lid.

He knows what the box is. He knows it contains memories he chose to remove from his mind, memories that must have been painful – Magnus knows himself. If the memories had been dangerous, he’d have put them somewhere safer. This is something else. This is personal. And something in his subconscious is telling him that these Shadowhunters have something to do with it.

It’s only one more reason not to trust them, as far as Magnus is concerned. If they hurt him badly enough that he had to remove his memories...that means heartbreak. Did they do something to his lover, somehow? Did they kill the one Magnus loved?

The tall Shadowhunter – Alec – talks quietly with his siblings in a corner of the room. He’s walking with difficulty, leaning on metal crutches that make a soft tap on the floor each time he takes a step. Magnus tracks him through the room that way, watching him through the corner of his eyes. Each move looks painful, and there’s something emanating from him, like an unknown sickness. Some sort of battle injury, Magnus guesses. From fighting demons in New York, or from the now infamous Battle of Alicante four months ago? He knows there were many casualties, and there must have been wounded Shadowhunters too.

“Magnus,” Isabelle calls him quietly. Magnus snaps back to the task at hand. They’re not here for a social call.

“What?” he snaps at her.

“I know you don’t remember us, but you know you’re missing memories, right?”

“Yes,” Magnus sighs. “I’m not interested in knowing more about them, especially not from you. I removed them for a reason.”

“Alright, alright,” Isabelle relents. “So, do you think you can help Clary?”

“If the Angels took away her runes and her memories, it’s not going to be the same as simply unlocking a mental block or retrieving memories,” Magnus says. “This won’t be easy, and I’m not sure it can be done.”

He sees the others, except Alec, gather around him to listen. “Once, you helped her get back her memories,” Jace said. “It didn’t work—” he glances at Alec across the room, “—but it could have.”

Magnus’ memory of that day is present, but incomplete, full of holes he knows are due to a memory spell. He doesn’t remember why it didn’t work. He hopes it won’t matter today.

“Those memories were ones I took myself,” he says. “I fed them to a memory demon. Biscuit’s current situation is a tad more complicated.”

“Then what are you going to do?” Isabelle asks.

“You said she has pure angel blood, didn’t you? And so do you,” Magnus points at Jace. “The same blood, in fact.”

“That’s right.”

“We’re going to use that. We’re going to ask for her memories back directly from the source. We’re going to summon an angel.”

“Is it safe?” Alec asks, approaching them, and Magnus realizes that this is the first time he’s spoken aloud in his presence.

“No,” Magnus answers.

“Alec, if there’s even a chance—” Jace pleads. “We have to.”

Alec closes his eyes, looking pained. “Jace—”

“No, Alec. It’s not fair. She didn’t chose this.”

Alec opens his eyes again, his whole body stiffening. Isabelle’s eyes widen as she looks between him and Jace, and even Jace seems to freeze in shock at his own words. The whole room appears to hold its breath, waiting to see Alec snap.

“You’re right,” Alec says after a moment, his shoulders slumping. He looks like he’s holding the weight of the world on his shoulders. Magnus feels a strange instinct to help him, to offer a body to lean on – but he doesn’t move. “She didn’t. We’ll do it.”

He’s clearly the leader of their group, because after that, there’s no protest, no question, not even from Simon. In fact, Simon looks at Alec with a mixture of admiration and sadness in his eyes, and his gaze is hard when he turns back toward Magnus.

Magnus doesn’t know what he’s done to provoke this kind of hostility. From cocky Shadowhunters like Jace and Isabelle, he expects it, though he’s starting to suspect that their carelessness is only a facade. From Simon, with whom he’s only had friendly, even fatherly interactions? Not so much.

Alec seems to be the only one not angry with him in some way. Instead, he steals looks at Magnus when he thinks Magnus is not looking, and his gaze in those moments is too intense, filled with emotions Magnus can’t even begin to comprehend.

Isabelle makes Alec sit down on the couch while Magnus prepares the ingredients needed for the ritual. Alec refuses at first, looking around him like he doesn’t want to touch anything in the loft, but he relents after half an hour, clearly in a lot of pain. He stays with his back ramrod straight, refusing to relax. He touches the leather of the couch almost reverently, and Isabelle just tilts her head sadly.

Magnus is being far too curious about them. He has no reason to be. They’re just Shadowhunters paying for his services, that’s all. He needs to focus on helping Clary.

The ritual involves painting the ceiling as well as the floor, so he concentrates all his magic on the intricate drawings. “Is this some kind of angelic pentagram?” Simon asks curiously.

“Not exactly,” Magnus answers. “There are similar elements, but this is an angelic Seal.” He doesn’t add that it’s the archangel seal he inherited from his father. An entrance to Heaven, right here at his doorstep, even for a Fallen angel. “It still needs five people to activate it.”

“Summoning an angel,” Simon says. “It’s gotta be dangerous, right? I mean, not for them, but for us?” he gestures to Magnus and himself, excluding the Shadowhunters.

“It could be painful, if the angel doesn’t like our demon blood. Are you ready to do that for Clary?”

“I’d go to Hell for her,” Simon says, tilting his head. “And further.”

Magnus nods. “Angels are unpredictable, but this one will be bound by the Seal. He shouldn’t be able to do true harm.”

“So we just ask him to give back Clary’s memories?” Isabelle asks.

“I’m just handling the Seal,” Magnus says. “It will take all my energy. Jace will ask the question. I suggest you think about what you want to ask.”

Jace nods from where he’s standing in parade rest by Alec. “I already know,” he says.

“Then gather up,” Magnus says. “I’m ready.”

They all stand around the circle he painted on the ground, each going inside one of the smaller circles linked by a network of white lines. Alec leaves his crutches on the floor outside of the Seal area and limps over to his spot with a grunt, standing with his full weight on his good leg.

“Link hands,” Magnus orders.

Isabelle and Jace exchange a look Magnus can’t interpret. They’re on each side of Alec, with Simon beside Isabelle and Magnus completing the circle between him and Jace. He reaches out and clasps his hands with the two men.

The pull on Magnus’ power, as soon as the circle is closed, is immense. If he hadn’t recently received an enormous boost, thanks to his father’s death and Edom’s destruction, he wouldn’t have been able to handle it. He focuses his energy on keeping the Seal stable, between the floor and the ceiling, a column of light with them on the outside.

The form of the angel starts to shimmer inside the light, wings folded back against his back. He doesn’t become fully solid, instead remaining ethereal, almost see-through.

“Who dares to summon an angel?”

His mouth doesn’t move, but the voice rings in all their heads.

Magnus grits his teeth against the pain blooming in his chest, tightening his hold on Simon and Jace’s hands. It was always going to be painful. The angels hate nothing more than demon blood, even – especially – when the blood is from a fallen angel. It hurts like hell, but Magnus has been to hell, and he’s come back. He can do this. Simon is wincing, but not as badly, his own demon blood more diluted.

What Magnus doesn’t expect is for Alec to cry out and crumple, barely holding onto his siblings’ hands. He’s angel-blooded. He shouldn’t be in pain. Or is it just his injury acting up under the pressure of the Seal?

He looks barely conscious, his mouth half-opened in a cry of pain. Magnus swallows against his own throbbing chest and signals to Jace to get a move on.

“Raziel’s soldier, and Ithuriel’s child,” he answers. “I am of angel blood.”

The angel turns toward him. “Jonathan Herondale. Yes, we know of you. What do you want from the Angels?”

“My lover, Clarissa Fairchild. She’s one of your children, too. You took her powers and her memories.”

“She played with powers beyond her understanding,” the angel says. “She was punished.”

“I’m asking the angels for forgiveness,” Jace says. “Forgive her, and she and I will be your soldiers on Earth, for as long as you desire.”

Magnus grimaces and hopes Jace knows what he’s doing. He hasn’t had much dealings with the angels before, but this is a not promise that can be taken lightly.

The pain is getting harder to bear, and Magnus wishes Jace would hurry up. Simon is looking a little frayed around the edges, his face screwed up in pain.

Alec looks like he’s hanging on by a thread.

“It is not in my power to decide,” the angel says. “But the Angels are fair. We do not deal punishment unjustly. Her sentence is not forever.”

“She’ll be forgiven?” Jace asks, his surprise showing through his facade. “She’ll get her memories and her runes back?”

“Eventually.”

“But when?”

The angel opens his mouth, but before he can answer, Alec lets out a cry of pain and his hands slip out of his siblings as he falls to the floor. The circle breaks, and the pillar of light disappears, taking the angel with it. “No!” Jace cries out, but he doesn’t reach for the angel. He reaches for Alec instead.

He falls to his knees beside his brother. “Alec!”

“I’m fine,” Alec grunts, through he’s clearly anything but. He’s curled up on himself, his face white with agony, even now that the angel is gone and the pressure on Magnus’ chest has left. “I’m sorry, Jace.”

“It’s okay, brother,” Jace murmurs. “Why did he react like this?” he asks louder, looking up at Magnus.

Magnus shakes his head. “I don’t know. It should only have done that if he had demon blood.”

Jace and Isabelle share a look, and Simon’s breath hitches. Magnus looks between them, but none of them is forthcoming with whatever knowledge they have that Magnus doesn’t share.

Alec sits up with Jace’s help, his hand going to his right hip as he groans in pain. “Help me up,” he asks his brother. Jace seems ready to protest, but he must see something in Alec’s face, because he gets Alec’s arm around his shoulders instead. Isabelle goes to retrieve the crutches and gives them back to Alec, who takes them with trembling hands.

Magnus’ heart tightens, seeing him in such obvious pain. He doesn’t know why—

Or maybe he does. The signs are all there, and it’s time he stopped pretending not to see them.

These Shadowhunters didn’t hurt his lover or his friends. These Shadowhunters were his friends, somehow. And Alec…

Alec is the one who must have broken his heart. That’s the only explanation for what Magnus feels right now. It’s like body memory, almost, a level of compassion and love that cannot possibly come from the few interactions they’ve had that he remembers.

Magnus steels himself against the part of his brain that wants to get the memory box from his nightstand right now and open it. He removed those memories for a reason. Because living with them must have hurt too much.

He’s not going to go back on that and expose himself to that kind of suffering just because he’s curious.

“What does it mean for Clary?” Simon asks.

“I don’t know,” Jace says. “He said she’d be forgiven eventually, but—”

“Angels don’t see the passage of time like you do,” Magnus cuts in. “It could be years. Decades.”

“Is there anything we can do?” Isabelle asks. Alec remains quiet, head down, still leaning against Jace.

“Nothing I can think of,” Magnus answers. He stands up straighter. “Which means you’re no longer in need of my services. Please refrain from coming back here unless there’s a true emergency.”

He doesn’t want the reminder that he decided to erase the last — what, three years? — of his life.

Isabelle looks visibly shaken by that, and she swallows. Alec doesn’t look up at all. He turns away like he doesn’t want Magnus to see his face, and Magnus wonders what he’s trying to hide. Jace throws him a murderous look, and Simon shakes his head in sadness.

“We’ll get out of your hair, then,” Isabelle says quietly. “We won’t bother you again.”

Good riddance, Magnus thinks.

It rings wrong even in his head.

*

“How are you doing?”

Izzy leans against the door frame of Alec’s office. She looks tired, overworked. She’s taken on so much in the last few months.

It’s been two weeks since Alec collapsed at Magnus’. He can still feel the pain burning through his veins, eating away at his body, each day bringing him closer to the edge.

“I’m fine,” Alec says, putting down his pen. He shifts in his seat painfully, his hip seizing. He’s been sitting still for too long.

“I wish you would stop saying that,” Izzy sighs.

“I wish you would stop asking me,” Alec shrugs.

They’ve been beating around the bush, trying to ignore the elephant in the room. It’s too big to tackle during work days. They go through the motions like it all still matters, the Clave, the Downworld Cabinet, the patrols. Alec can see Jace and Izzy struggle with it, but he can’t do anything for them.

Clary’s gone back to art school, all knowledge of the Shadow World erased from her mind. Alec has made sure that she’s safe and settled, and all that’s left is watching Jace tear himself apart as he grieves. The hope that the angel brought them isn’t enough. Not when it’s so vague.

Not when everything else is falling apart, too.

It’s been just over four months since it started, since the day Alec made a deal with Asmodeus. It feels like an eternity ago, and yet also like it was yesterday. Magnus’ desperation as Alec broke up with him is seared in his mind forever, and it accompanies Alec’s every waking thought.

Magnus doesn’t remember.

It’s a comfort, these days. Losing Magnus will remain the hardest thing Alec has ever done, but he’s thankful for it, however much it hurts. Because it means that Magnus has his magic again, that he can be happy.

Because it means that Magnus doesn’t have to live through the aftermath.

It’s been four months, too, since the Battle of Alicante. Magnus missed it all. He wasn’t there when they all thought they were going to die there, trapped by the demon hordes, caught in between two forces of evil. He wasn’t there to hold Alec’s hand when he woke up in the hospital to a broken body and demon venom coursing through his veins.

He wasn’t there, when they figured out that it was a death sentence.

Catarina slowed the spread of the venom, but nothing she or the Silent Brothers tried could get it out of his system.

“You’re hurting,” Izzy says, walking in fully and closing the door behind her. “I can see it. I know you don’t like the painkillers, but you need them.”

Painfree runes have long stopped working on Alec’s abused body. The mundane pills were Catarina’s idea. She was there in the aftermath of the battle, when Magnus wasn’t, she ran triage with the Silent Brothers and saved countless Shadowhunters. She did her best to piece Alec’s shattered hip back together and she was the one who figured out what was wrong with him.

“They’re not much use anymore,” Alec admits. The pills are some of the strongest on the market, but his Nephilim body metabolizes everything faster than a mundane, and they barely take the edge off.

No, it’s better that Magnus isn’t here. That he didn’t have to sit by Alec’s bedside after the battle, praying at every new treatment, every test, that something would change. That he doesn’t have to watch the venom slowly win over Alec’s body, leaving him weak and trembling. That he won’t have to wait with them for the day it will reach his heart, and it will all be over.

Maybe a year, Catarina told him. If you stop working and rest most of the time.

Alec has done neither. He can’t. He’ll go out of his mind if he tries to rest anymore than he already does. Work takes his mind off things.

He’s still the Head of the Institute, if only because there is barely enough left of the Clave to hold Alicante together, and appointing new Heads has been the least of their problems.

“There has to be something else we can do,” Izzy says. “To relieve the pain, at least.”

“You know there isn’t,” Alec sighs.

She’s not doing well. None of them are. They’re barely holding themselves together.

They lost their father, the day of the battle. Robert Lightwood didn’t make it out of the destroyed city. They’ve lost Clary and Magnus, and now they’re losing Alec too, as his deterioration accelerates with each passing day.

Their whole family is falling apart.

“Let’s go out tonight,” Izzy says, faking lightness. “We can meet Simon and Maia at the Hunter’s Moon. It will be nice.”

Alec wants to say yes, to give her that, a moment of normalcy amid the chaos. But he’s exhausted and in pain, the ache in his hip never letting up. He’s tired of people watching what they say around him. Looking at him like he’s going to disappear any minute.

He shakes his head. “I think I’ll just go to bed early tonight. I could use the rest.”

Izzy nods wordlessly, disappointed but understanding. “I love you, big brother,” she says.

She says it a lot, these days.

“I love you too,” Alec replies, like every other time. There’s nothing else to say. No it’s gonna be okay, Izzy because it’s not, and they both know it.

Someone knock on the door. “Yes?” Alec calls.

Underhill pokes his head in. “Sir, your mother is here.”

“Let her in,” Alec nods. Maryse has been hovering, and he can’t blame her. Looking at Izzy, he can’t deny her the little bit of hope in her eyes. “Let’s make it a family thing,” he says. “Go get Jace and Max.” He can hold off his exhaustion for a few more hours, for them.

Izzy slips out with a smile on her face and Underhill comes back with Maryse in tow.

“Hey, Mom,” Alec smiles weakly, pushing himself up to greet her.

Maryse strides to his side and hugs him tightly. “Alec,” she breathes, love and pain warring in her voice. “How do you feel today?”

“Not great,” Alec murmurs.

He finds himself honest with her, these days, more than he is with his siblings. She’s been his strongest support, despite their once strained relationship, and Alec is too spent to be angry with her as he once was. All of that doesn’t matter, anymore.

Maryse doesn’t break down, at least not in his presence. But Alec is too much like her for his own good, and he can see her pain in every gesture, in the way her hugs last a little longer, the way she tightens her hand on his arm, the way her voice hitches every time she says goodbye after spending time with him.

She hands him his crutches and supports him as he gets situated. Walking is getting harder every day, as the venom lights his nerve endings on fire with every step on his already unstable hip. Maryse just squeezes his shoulder as he hobbles around his desk and hovers until he’s safely sitting on the couch.

“Tell me,” she says quietly, kicking off her shoes and curling up beside him.

They’ve become tactile in a way they never were before. Neither of them likes being touched much, but as it turns out, terminal illness has a way of making you reevaluate your priorities. Alec lets his family hug him as much as they want to now, even on the days it makes his skin crawl.

He sighs, leaning his shoulder against his mother’s. “The new Inquisitor is a homophobic dick. And he wants me removed. He says I can’t do my job anymore.”

“Jia won’t let him do it,” Maryse says.

“I don’t know. He’s not wrong.”

Maryse takes his hand in hers. “Alec, even now, you’re a much better Head than I ever was. You’re holding up admirably in the worst of circumstances.”

“I’m tired,” Alec murmurs. “I don’t know how long I can do this.”

She squeezes his hand, and he sees her swallow back her emotions. “If you feel like you should step down to rest, I’m sure Jens can handle the fort for a while. Until Izzy’s ready.”

Not until you come back. She’s the only one of all of them who faces the inevitable and doesn’t try to pretend that Alec is going to get better. If nothing else, she’s never been one to shy away from the hard truths.

“Maybe soon,” Alec says. He doesn’t want to, but he’s quickly getting to the point where he won’t be able to work anymore. “I miss him,” he adds, his voice breaking. “I can’t stop.”

Alec can’t get Magnus’ face out of his head. The way Magnus looked at him like he was nothing to him. Alec is nothing to him, now. Magnus doesn’t remember any of their time together.

It hurts more than Alec would have thought possible. He’d thought he’d already reached rock bottom, that nothing could possibly hurt worse than breaking up with Magnus. Than waking up in that hospital bed, having lost everything. But that look haunts him.

Maryse just hugs him without a word.

“Alec!” Max exclaims, rushing into the office with his usual energy. Izzy and Jace are on his heels. He jumps on the couch on Alec’s other side, missing Alec’s quick wince when it jostles his leg.

Max is old enough to understand what’s happening, and not quite old enough to know what to do with his emotions. He alternates between acting like everything is fine and randomly bursting into tears, with no in-between. Today seems to be the former, because he starts rambling about his training without a care in the world.

Alec looks up at Jace and they share an entire conversation in an eyebrow raise. Alec keeps his side of the parabatai bond firmly closed, but he knows that his pain leaks through anyway. He can feel Jace’s despair, the way he’s barely hanging on by a thread.

They say the worst pain a Shadowhunter can endure is the loss of his parabatai. Alec remembers the words. It’s one of the things they learn, in the initial parabatai testing. They’re asked if it’s worth it, risking that.

When they gave a resounding yes, their fourteen-year-old brains had no space to comprehend the pain of today.

Jace and Izzy watch Alec like he’s about to disappear, and he knows, he can see, that they can’t yet imagine what will happen after.

They don’t talk about it during the day. It’s too heavy, to much to bear for all of them.

At night, Alec finds himself more often than not sandwiched between Jace and Izzy in his bed. They come claiming they have nightmares or can’t sleep, never quite saying that they just want to feel close to someone else, close to Alec. They say the words, quietly, the words that won’t come out during the day. It was worth it.

And sometimes, where thou diest, I will die. On those days, Alec hugs Jace tight as he tries to convince himself that he doesn’t mean it, that he will go on.

“—and Kara keeps saying I need to work on my defense, but she’s not a teacher!” Max is saying when Alec tunes back into his surroundings. He’s absently drumming his fingers on his good leg, his other hand still in Maryse’s.

“You should listen to her, Max,” Izzy says. “She’s one of the best fighters of her generation. She’s a fairly new transfer,” she explains to Maryse.

“She’s not even a grown-up!” Max protests. “Besides, Aline said she needs to stop overthinking every fight. So she’s not that good.”

“I don’t think you were supposed to hear that,” Alec says, fairly sure that Aline was not referring Kara’s training but rather the frequent phone calls with her deeply transphobic father that send her crying to either of their offices. “You should spend more time training and less time eavesdropping.”

Max pouts and they all laugh, the lightness of the moment freeing them from the stifling sorrow that’s settled between the adults in the room.

Maryse makes the effort to keep the conversation going after that, though she never releases Alec’s hand. It feels good, to have a normal moment with his family. Jace still has shadows in his eyes, but he settles in a chair and even smiles. Izzy’s cheerfulness sounds a bit fake, but she tries. Alec struggles to keep the pain from showing, but he watches them and feels a deep swarm of love for all of them.

After they’re all gone, Alec painfully stumbles back to his desk and pulls up a piece of paper and a pen.

Dear Magnus, he writes. He pauses, and wishes that even Magnus’ name didn’t make him want to cry. Every minute I spent with you was worth the pain it causes me today.

He writes on, until his hand shakes too much to continue. He doesn’t cross out anything, or bother censuring himself. He puts down his pen, finally, and folds the paper carefully.

He unlocks the bottom drawer of his desk with a rune and opens it. He goes to slip the letter he’s just written inside, but he can’t help but stare at the small box there. He doesn’t open it. He knows its contents by heart. He can almost feel it under his finger, the raised edges of the Lightwood crest in smooth silver, the ring he was going to give Magnus. It will go to Izzy, now. There’s a letter for her, underneath the box.

There are other letters, too. One addressed to the next Head of the Institute, instructions on how to keep the Downworld Cabinet going. Alec’s will, freshly updated. Every Shadowhunter is required to draft a will before their first mission in the field, and rewrite it every year. They know better than any other mortal that they can die at any time.

There’s a letter for Jace. One for Maryse. One for Max, who will have to finish growing up without a father and down one brother.

The rest are for Magnus. During the endless days he spent laid up in the hospital, Alec took to writing him letters. In them, he recounted the strongest beats of their relationship, the sweet moments, the hard truths. Everything Alec can remember, since he now has to remember for them both.

He doesn’t think Magnus will ever read them, but he’s not doing this for Magnus. He’s doing this for himself. One last indulgence, since he’s no longer good for anything else.

A drop falls on the top letter, turning the paper darker. Alec jumps and realizes it’s sweat falling down from his hairline. He puts down today’s letter, carefully tucking it in to make a tidy stack, and closes the drawer, his hands trembling a little. His fever is spiking again. In a few hours, he’ll be delirious and out of his mind.

Jace says he cries out for Magnus, in the worst moments. Alec has stopped letting anyone else into his Soundless-rune proofed room. It’s getting worse. It used to happen every few days, but recently, he hardly ever goes a night without losing himself to the venom in his body.

He’s slipping away.

He doesn’t want to die, if only for the pain he knows it will cause his family. But more and more, on days like today, he thinks it might be a relief.

[beyondtheciouds]

.27.

Tom, of course was right.

Grace was planning some awful thing.

Hours later-- fast forward to late evening tea, Grace now sat in the well lit informal recieving room of Fairchild Manor. She sipped her lukewarm tea; white rabbit fingers grasping the cup, pinky stuck up in the air like her nose. Her slate gray eyes were currently surveying the room. Nothing was getting past her.

The room was large and spacey; the walls were painted a centenial spring green with knotty pine wood paneling a third of the way up. Knick-knacks of various porcelain fantasy inspired animals adorned stone shelves in their little top hats and parasols; an odd aray of antiqued teal velvet couches and rusty colored chairs paired with orange end tables sat in the middle of the room. A ragged, colorless looking patchwork rug and bleached white pillows surrounded the old stone mantle and fireplace. Vibrant plants; yellow and violet wildflowers hung low from the ceiling. Numerous painted paper pairs of peonies and straggling ivy leaves were strung around multiple first editions on the old fashioned white washed mantle. A smoldering log in the fireplace burned the lingering cold chill away.

Jesse lingered in the hall outside the door; his emerald eyes cast down. Lucie could feel the hairs stand up on the back of her neck; the skin torn between goosebumps and the warmth of the room. If you happened to ask her about it, she'd tell you she swore Jesse was standing beside her. But it wasn't him.

A doppelganger of the ghost-boy leaned an icy hand on her shoulder; his smile as dark as his black hair.

Jesse leaned against the doorway; shadows against the silhouettes of those living. He swore he wouldn't make himself visible to Matthew again.

Portraits painted of famous past Fairchilds litered the far wall as if they were trophies; valuable faces of a lineage stolen from the Fae. Pretty eyed heirs too perfect to be real. Lucie knew Matthew's grandfather had been protecting the Fairchild legacy by hanging these paintings. For generations the Fairchilds had been covering up all imperfections hidden in the family genepool.

Lucie also couldn't help but notice Matthew's portrait was absent from the recent additions. There was a space next to Charles where his smiling romaneske face should have been.

Lucie, truthfully felt sorry for him. His mother must have deamed him a screw-up.

The afternoon sun's rays washed an eerie shade of gold over the room as the light of midday filtered in through the sheer curtains. The color lit a halo around Lucie's face and reminded her of the wedding she would soon be planning.

Of course everyone would expect them to marry once Tessa was found and Belial dealt with.

Alone with her thoughts, overcrowded by her burdens, she felt the despair crawl back into her heart. Her shoulders were too full; one burden handed to her after another. Lucie blinked; she desperately desired the knowledge and encouragement of her father and brother. The burdens weighed too heavy on the dreamer; crushing her self resolve into self pity. I never wanted this. I never wanted this!

Grace was the master of spinning lies so how could she be outsmarted enough for Lucie to manipulate her? How would Lucie know how to play the game? Did she already?

Lucie was nervous about the task looming over her head. Conning was a dark cloud that could burst at any moment. The pendulum was swinging, she knew. What would she do? Time was running out and she had to act fast. She thought of sending back a letter to Thomas, requesting everyone's presence. Maybe if she had her friends around, she could think clearer and cleverer about her task.

She tapped her long fingers on her knees thinking about her plan and the letter she would write. What warning she would give.

Lucie also thought about her mother and about what Jesse said. A new deal. A new deal. What deal could possibly be good enough to sway Grace?

The ingredients she had gathered for Jesse's spell were in the trunk at the foot of her bed back in London. She'd have to write a separate letter to Cordelia with important instructions.

All in all, Lucie wasn't entirely sure she was ready to con Grace or Belial as she blew the loose curl out of her face.

A bubble bursting in her belly caused her to glance down, stunned. She inhaled sharply and gasped as she stared wide-eyed. This was the first time she saw the shape of a foot rippling across the loose fabric of her dress as the baby shifted position. Her chest was heavy with a sigh as Lucie's blue eyes softly glanced towards the windows. What am I going to do?

Matthew was a statue. He stood by the glass like a forgotten shadow; a remnant of his former self. Those green eyes were still closed; one swollen shut.

Lucie's heart broke as she watched his reflection. He had to know none of what they shared was real.

Now, he moved slightly; adjusting his footing. He stuffed the bruised and calloused hands in the pockets of his abnormally crinkled navy trousers. His sunshine hair was stuck up and dark with grease. The strands were oddly ruffled as if he had spent the last few hours in bed, tossing and turning.

The top three buttons of his blue collared shirt were carelessly unbuttoned, exposing newly bruised skin on his chest.

Lucie frowned. It was obvious he was not taking the news of her pregnancy very well. Her heart ached for him; for some magic spell to make all of this go away.

It occurred to Lucie that she was also helpless, so she decided that she couldn't help him, her mother, Jesse and herself all at the same time.

Finding her mother took priority.

The three were waiting for Charles and Charlotte to return to finish the arrangements.

Upon the arrival of Charles and Grace, Charlotte had asked to speak privately to her elder son. Cleary Charlotte had not been been pleased by the arrival.

"You were supposed to be in London, helping Will." Charlotte had hissed at her son as he dropped Grace's luggage.

Charles had shrugged, used to facing his mother's unpleasant side.

Charlotte was clearly displeased at being interrupted, Lucie decided.

Charlotte had been in her office writing an important letter to the Clave when Matthew waltzed in and announced Charles was home.

Charlotte had been speaking to Charles in the small room adjacent to the recieving room now for at least twenty minutes.

The tension in the air of the recieving room was palpable; a steady pulse of heartbeats that felt like secrets between the three young adults.

Grace crossed her legs at the ankles as her body poised itself in the velvet chair like a queen on a throne. Her smile was cruel as she turned her bored attention on Lucie. "Surprised?"

The question took Lucie aback and she blinked, perplexed. "About what?"

Grace's lips pulled back from her teeth, her eyes pledging to get under Lucie's skin. "Your upcoming bundle of joy, of course."

Lucie sucked in a breath as Matthew suddenly turned, opening his eye. He cleared his throat, his single gaze heavy and forboding like he'd been listening the entire time. When he spoke, his voice was dry; bluntly emotionless as if he had rehearsed the words several times in his head. "Of course we were surprised, but the child is a blessing and I will marry Lucie."

Out of duty or love? was the question on Matthew's mind.

Lucie's skin crawled at the monotone of his voice and the implications underlying. She felt squeamish as he described what Lucie assumed neither really wanted.

She never wanted this and she had a full feeling neither had he.

"Yes," Lucie echoed just as monotone. Her voice cracked before a wave of dizziness washed over her like a tidal wave. "I think I should go lie down."

That got Matthew's attention. "Feeling ill, my dear?"

He'd been watching her, she realized.

Lucie stood up, the nausea subdued by gravity. Her mousey brown eyebrows knitted together at Matthew and for a split second he looked relieved that she seemed alright.

Lucie knew she needed to get Grace alone before it was too late and Matthew was in the way. The question now became How? How could she get Grace alone?

Grace was still smiling like a cat that just caught a mouse. "Matthew," she drawled, her eyes cold cement. Her smile said his secret was on the tip of her tongue. "Why don't you sound so enthusiastic about your new life?"

Lucie opened her mouth to speak; to interupt, but no words came out as Matthew froze, his eye serious and steady on Lucie. Grace chirped a bird-like laugh as the door opened and Charles entered with Charlotte right behind him. The Fairchild's eyes were slits. Unfortunately both mother and son displayed the same disappointment and disapproving looks on their faces.

Matthew turned back to the windows and Lucie was relieved he did not to have to answer Grace.

[lovelybunny08]

A Blissful Moment (Revised)

♡ Pairing- Jimin and you

♡ Genre- Smut and One-Shot

♡Description- You finally convince your friend to go out to a club; on the last weekend your in Korea.

♡ This is my first story in a long time. For personal reasons I am scared of writing but thanks to some people I decided to try it. Please leave comments on what you honestly think. ♡

♡ Word Count- 3,644

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

You monotonously check your Instagram one last time before putting your phone back in your clutch. You’re currently in the backseat of an uber with your best friend as you head to one of the hottest clubs in Gangnam. You had spent the last few days begging for her to go until she finally caved. You knew you had her when you argued that this was your last weekend in Korea, and that there was no better way to end the vacation than with several overpriced drinks, average to cringe-worthy dancing, and some extremely attractive strangers. Some of the mystique from the night fades, however, when you and she get out of the car and join the line that runs nearly a block away from the club entrance. This was your one of your last nights in Korean, though, and nothing was going to drag your mood.

“I can’t believe I finally convinced you to go to a club” you announce as you beam at your friend.

“You’re lucky I love you, because there’s no other way I would stand in these heels for this long if I didn’t cause honestly my feet are going to be fuc—” her words are cut off when you abruptly squeeze her into a hug.

“C’mon don’t think so much let’s just have fun” you muffle in response as you shove your cheek against hers and tighten your hold on her shoulders. If you only knew then how utterly dumb your words would sound after the events that would follow.  

After shuffling forward for almost an hour, you finally reach the velvet ropes. You and your friend eagerly flash your passports to the bouncer and pay the hefty entrance fee. As he removes the ropes to allow your passage, you can already feel the bass from the music thrumming through the floor. As you emerge from the long black hallway into the main part of the club, your draw nearly hits the floor from what you see. This place was utterly massive with several bars lining every wall space, a dance floor larger than any you’d ever been on, and a balcony above stretching around the whole joint. You easily identify the balcony as the VIP lounge when you spot the security at the stair entrances on either side of the club. That didn’t stop your eyes from peering through the glass railing to catch anything interesting. Without a soul in sight you figure they must all hang away from the railings for privacy. You shrug and grab your equally amazed friend’s hand and drag her to the nearest bar. You lean across the bar to order (shout is more accurate) two vodka’s in RedBull with two shots of green tea shots. Waiting for your order, you and your friend lean with your backs against the bar, taking in the scenery once more. The DJ is losing his mind on stage at the opposite end of the club as his audience screams every time he twists the track.

“This club is the definition of high-end insanity!” your friend shouts into your ear. You quickly yell back,

“Yea, I know! I read somewhere online that it’s supposed to be one of the best clubs in Gangnam!”

“I can see why! This night club looks like it’s straight out of a movie!” She answers, and you nod your head in agreement. You feel her turn to face the bar before her arm is outstretched, handing you your drink as she begins to chug hers.

“Come on and drink up so we can dance!” She smiles when she comes up for air. With new enthusiasm, you both down your drinks in record time before dragging each other deep into the mass of hot, sweaty bodies. You begin to roll your hips in the tight space as your ears catch onto the familiar tune. You’re surprised to hear reggaeton pulsing through the speakers

Several tracks and quite a few drinks later, you and your friend are still dancing the night away as the alcohol in your veins takes away any inhibitions. A thin sheen of sweat covers you skin, making you shine with a worn out, dewy look matched with a large dopey grin as you scream as the next song begins to play. You begin dancing once more when a tall, burly man in a dark suit approaches from behind your friend. You recognize him as one of the security personnel and begin to wonder what you or your friend could have done wrong when he interrupts your thoughts.

“Excuse me, ladies, but there are a few VIPs who request they meet with you,” he explains.

With a sigh of relief, you playfully roll your eyes at your friend. Of course, she had caught the eye of some rich or famous man. Your friend was naturally stunning. Her slim frame was accentuated perfectly in her black shorts and white halter top tonight. To top it off, her long, sleek black hair draped down her back, effortlessly catching the eyes of several men throughout the night; now including some high-end suitors as well. Meanwhile, your eyes travel down your figure in a simple, green sleeveless dress that stopped mid-thigh. You look back up to meet your friends pleading eyes. You chuckle as you lightly shove her shoulder,

“Go on” you laugh. Her brow furrows slightly in concern.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

“Heavens, yes! I’ll be perfectly fine dancing here with strangers as we have been all night. Now go and meet whoever, but you have to tell me all the juicy details later!” You exclaim with a wink.

“But—” your friend tries to respond but is cut off by the security guard.

“Actually, they requested both of you.” He corrects.

You stand there dumbfounded, trying to process that there were high-end men up there who for some reason not only wanted your friend but also you. Before you could ponder up various explanations, you feel your friend’s grasp around your wrist as she chirps,

“Great! Lead the way!”

You both follow the security guard closely as to not get lost in the crowd. When you arrive at the bottom of one of the staircases to the balcony, you meet four other guards who quickly step aside for the guard you are following. As you climb the stairs, your eyes glance across the club to the other staircase to see how many guards there were. Damn, who was so important that there were nearly 10 guards blocking the entrances to the VIP lounge? You all eventually arrive at the balcony entrance, blocked by a swing glass half-door. When the guard swings the door open, you and your friend step onto the fine red carpet and continue to follow the guard to the back of the lounge. You stare at your feet as you all amble over because the nervousness in your stomach begins to eat away at you. What did they want? Why you and your friend? Why were there so many guards? Before you walk face-first into the back of the guard, your friend grabs your shoulder. You spare her a thankful glance before turning to take in what, or rather who, sit before you. There is a low-set square table, only a couple feet above the ground, supporting a wide variety of drinks. Surrounding the table on three sides, is a jet-black leather couch, providing a striking contrast against the red carpet. While this screams prestige, you are so distracted by your audience that your brain no longer registers—well, anything else. Not the music. Not at how the guard is no longer there. Not even at your friend whose grip tightens on your shoulder. You suck in a breath as you finally admit to yourself that you’re not dreaming. There before you, sitting casually with their arms draped across the back of the couch, are Jeon Jungkook and Park Jimin.

You vaguely take in a few other guys and girls sitting on other parts of the couch, but you could care less. To ease yourself in, you scan Jungkook first. He is the embodiment of sin in tight black dress attire and designer leather boots. Your mouth waters at the way the muscles in his thighs pull tightly on his pants. After adjusting to Jungkook, you breathe in sharp breath and comb over every inch of the man that is Park Jimin. His pristine white dress shirt hugs his arms and stretches across his chest and abdomen before it dips underneath the band of his black skinny jeans finished with black leather boots as well. At this point, you are biting on your tongue so hard that you aren’t entirely sure if you would be able to talk due to swelling. Content with staying silent, you continue to stare, well honestly gawk, and the way Jimin’s smooth skin peeks out at the top of his shirt where the buttons were—

“You both are pretty impressive on the floor, dancing well enough to capture the attention of these two pros” says one of the other guys on the couch as he nods his head in Jimin and Jungkook’s direction. Your friend throws a soft smile and a “thanks” before turning to squarely face you. She leans in and whispers in your ear,

“Aren’t those two guys from that group you like?” All you can do is nod your head in affirmation; your eyes not breaking from Jimin’s form once as his scan you from head to toe.

“Hey, why don’t you both come take a break beside us?” Jungkook smirks as he pats the couch between the two of them. You freeze and of course your brain decides to leave you in your most dire moment. To save you from staring blankly, your friend nudges you forward enough to stumble next to where Jimin is seated. You throw a glare at your friend as she snugly takes her place next to Jungkook. She did this on purpose. She knew your bias was Jimin, and although her intentions were pure your thoughts at the moment were anything but.

“Where are you both from?’ Jungkook breaks the silence first.

“ Oh, well I’m from the states, but my family is Hispanic.” Wow, maybe your brain returned enough for you to answer a question.

“Ah,” Jimin’s breath is hot on your ear as he leans in. “and where is your family from?”

You manage to force out a coherent string of words about your ethnicity, but the husky yet sweet smell of Jimin’s cologne left you incapable of focusing.

“That explains why you looked so sexy dancing then…” You suck in a breath as he places his hands on your thighs while admitting this. Wow. Okay. Park Jimin. His hands. His hands on you. This is happening, right now. Okay, This. Is. Happening. Now. You don’t respond to him because this has to be a dream. Nonetheless, it’s a dream you don’t want to end. Jimin inches closer to you and whispers in a low even tone,

“You don’t have to seem so shy. You know who I am. You know exactly who I am don’t you?” Jimin’s hands wander further up your thighs, the coldness of them making you shiver slightly. “I recognize your tattoo. You’re an ARMY.”

Your eyes fly down to your wrist where you had a tattoo of the cover of the Love Yourself album inked onto you as a permanent reminder. You had been a little concerned that he would view fans as off limits, but the whole time Jimin continues to run his hands up and down your thighs, getting closer and closer to where you want to feel him most

“I—” You cleared your throat to prevent squeaking. “I—won’t tell anyone I saw you and Jungkook here, I swear.” Your promise radiates in your eyes as you lock gazes with him. His eyes pull into a smile.

“I trust you…and you haven’t even glanced at your phone the whole time you’ve been here.” Both pairs of eyes stare at the object of conversation. You remember you had placed your phone on the table when you were sitting down. As if on cue (and the universe working against you), your phone buzzes with a notification. That part is fine. It’s just a random email. However, it is behind the notification that turns your face scarlet. Staring back at you and Jimin, lit up in all of its LED glory, is your lockscreen of Park Jimin’s abs. Oh, yes. The universe does indeed want you to hide away forever. Your face falls into your hands, and you don’t even try to explain it. Although, you can’t resist the curiosity of seeing his reaction, so you spread your fingers to peak through them… and you’re met with the darkest gaze you’ve ever seen grace his angelic features.

“Aha, I see what type of ARMY you are…” he grips your chin to make you look directly into his eyes. “You’ll do what I say, won’t you dear?” Surprisingly, your motor functions haven’t short-circuited, and you manage to nod your head. “Good. Now be a good girl and sit on my thighs, legs open, facing me” he demands.

He doesn’t need to ask twice as you’re quick to follow orders. As soon as you’ve placed yourself over his lap, you feel his hands cup your jaw as you’re drawn forward into him. The kiss is hard and deep, contrasting with the soft, pillowy feel of his lips. You let out a small groan and an instinctual roll of your hips before you abruptly still on top of him. He is hard, very hard. This lets you know two things: 1) Holy hell you got THE Park Jimin hard? Your ego has never been more inflated, and 2) his size was well above what you have dreamed and that speaks volumes. Feeling more courageous after this discovery, you experimentally roll your hips harder across his erection. When you pull a deep growl from his throat, you know it’s over. He drags you in by your hips and begins kissing you even harder, tongue encircling yours and fighting for dominance. Small moans from both sides only spur you both on further until you’re positive your dripping. As you continue to encourage his wandering hands, he bites on your bottom lip and drags it through his teeth, pulling away to flash a devilish grin.

“You want me little bunny?” Fuck. You’re already soaked and now the nickname? Hell, if agreeing to him makes him put his mouth on you again then you’ve forgotten how to say no. You bite your lip as your hands trace up his chest, your eyes following your motion until they lock with his.

“Yes,” you half moan, half whisper to him. You feel one his hands sprawl across your upper back and suddenly you’re falling forward, chests pressed tightly against each other.

“Then un-zip my pants and ride me,” he deadpans.

“W-What? B-But—people are going to see us Jimin!”

“Shh darling, they won’t. It’s too dark, they’ll just assume you’re giving me a lap dance of sorts.”

Although in your mind you know his logic is flawed, the pull in your lower abdomen is writing his new philosophy across your decisions for the next half hour. You want to say you’re smarter—at least be able to say that you give yourself a few moments to consider.

Nope.

Nada.

Not at all.

You don’t even hesitate. You slide backwards slightly on his thighs, creating just enough space to unzip his pants and pull out his swelling erection. Stifling a moan at the sight, you ready yourself by reaching to move your panties to the side when Jimin’s grip closes around your wrist.

“Take them off and give them to me.”

You look at his expression to see if it’s a joke, but his eyes are void of humor and filled with lust. You quickly, and without shame you must add, stand up to slide off the lavender lace panties and curl the soaked material into Jimin’s outstretched palm. He immediately pockets them and drags you by your hips to resume where you both were headed previously. His fingers dig harshly into your hips as he guides your wet center down onto his dick. You both let out quiet moans at the indescribable sensation.

His size stretches you out so well, leaving a pleasurable sting as he bottoms out. You both sit there completely still giving each other time to adjust to the feeling and you the sheer size of him. Seeing your face relax, he mutters, “move” and begins to pull at your hips. You’re dying for relief, so you set a fast pace sliding up and down his length. You bite your lip in order to hold back the salacious noises you want to be screaming right now, but there are too many eyes that might suspect more than a lap dance if you do. To make up for this deficit, you pick up the pace and roll your hips even more, small beads of sweat beginning to form on your hairline and roll down your neck. Your thighs burn from the vigorous motion, and he catches the way you begin to falter. Without missing a beat, his hands dig into your flesh and guide you up only to slam you back down onto him. The pace combined with the sudden force is bringing you closer to your release.

“Please, Jimin I-I’m so close,” you whisper heavily.

“Good. Now, relax my little bunny and cum on my dick. Let go—”

“Agh! Jimin!”

You can’t help but cry out his name when those sweet words fall breathily from his lips and push you over the edge. In response to your outburst, you feel a heavy hand land on your ass, and you let out a small yelp. Your eyes flick to Jimin’s which tell you that the slap is a silent warning to stay quiet. As you continue to ride your high, Jimin gives a few hard thrusts and releases inside of you. You roll your hips lazily a few more times to help him before the oversensitivity becomes too much. You weakly slide yourself off of him and turn to collapse down next to him on the couch, your legs still dangling across his thighs. As he tucks himself back into his pants, your eyes lazily scan your surroundings. To your surprise, everyone is still preoccupied with their own business, not a single eye cast in you and Jimin’s direction. The wetness in between your thighs is growing sticky and uncomfortable, so you decide to go clean yourself before it dries completely.

“I think I’m going to head to the restroom and clean myself.”

“Yea, the bathroom is on the left down that hallway in the back.”

           You flash him a nod in confirmation and rise to your feet, pulling your dress down as you do so. Jimin sends you a wink as you walk away and leans towards the table to fix himself a drink. Once you finish cleaning yourself, you stare dead at your reflection in the mirror. This is the first time tonight your mind is catching up with your actions. You can’t believe it. You just fucked Park Jimin. THE Park Jimin. In public no less! You’re equally stunned and amazed with yourself as you head out of the bathroom and back down the hallway. Once you return to the opening of the lounge, your friend is leaning on the wall waiting for you.

“Hey, y/n. I’m glad I gave you time to uh, finish up, but I’m really really exhausted, and these heels are digging into my soul now.”

“Alright, alright. Let’s go say goodbye and then we can go back to the hotel.”

           As you stroll back to the couch, Jimin and Jungkook rise to their feet to give their farewells. You and Jungkook exchange a laugh as you say that you’re happy to meet him. Then your friend leans in close to wish her best to Jungkook, and you roll your eyes and turn to Jimin. When you spin towards him, his face is mere inches from yours again. He leans in even closer as he slides something into your palm.

“I thought you might want to keep my number for the next time you’re in Korea, by the way thank you for the present.”

With a wink and small peck on the cheek, he sends you off. You and your friend quickly descend back to the floor of the club and make a beeline for the exit, eager to get to the hotel and flop into bed. After climbing into the back of a taxi, your mind wanders off about the fluffly sheets you would soon get to pass out on. Your friend, however, has different intentions for the ride back.

“So, uh- that was one hell of a lap dance you were giving Mr. Park, huh?”

Your head whips to her side of the car as you witness the most brilliant know-it-all grin she could muster plastered across her face.

“W-wha- h-how, b-but I-we were so care—”

“Please, y/n, Jungkook and I were on the other side of the couch, not the universe.” You stare dumbly in complete disbelief and utter embarrassment. “Hey, hey it’s okay. You had a good night, and an even greater time in Korean now, right?”

Your face slowly morphs into a large grin. “Yeah, and I can’t wait to come back for more…memories?”

“Also what present was he talking about” your friend asked.

That when you realize that son of a bitch had your panties still. You turned to your friend

“Maybe he meant the lap dance” you told her with a smile.

You both fall apart into giggles at your weak attempt to disguise your favorite part about Korea. With a few more laughs and excessive eye rolls, the taxi continues to drive into the night, closing the most ~memorable~ vacation you’ve ever had.

[excxt]

they can’t hear us - part one.

“I’ve got piss on my hands, give me a second.”

 The joke was that they handled the clients’ entire digestive process, from taking the food out of brown paper take-out bags and arranging it on the table to wiping down the toilets they used later that night. They ran down the lists written on lined yellow paper pads, names and orders, special instructions bolded and underlined.

 “ONIONS ON THE SIDE, SEVEN GRAIN INSTEAD OF ASIAGO FOCACCIA”

“ONE SMOOTHIE SHOULD HAVE KALE INSTEAD OF SPINACH”

“GET ENOUGH BBQ SAUCE TO BATHE A BABY ELEPHANT IN”

“GOD HELP YOU IF THE BALSAMIC VINAIGRETTE ISN’T LIGHT”

“EXTRA WELL DONE. IF IT’S NOT EXTRA WELL DONE YOU WILL BE GOING BACK”

 Names were scribbled in Sharpie across the tops of Thai food containers. Receipts were highlighted and stacked in the middle of the table. For ten minutes after the food was laid out, they answered their cell phones with foreboding, expecting to hear, “Someone’s food was wrong. You need to take it back.” Then there was the shameful walk into the lounge where band members and producers were draped across leather couches, poking at salads and stir fry, and the session assistant all but took you by the wrist and dragged you out into the hall with the disgraced bag of food.

 “There’s tomato on this. He tried to just take it off, but you know how the juice gets on the bread and ruins everything. You’ll have to take it back.”

 Then he glared at you while you nodded for half a minute, watching for a spark of understanding in your eye to tell him that you now knew what the “no” in “no tomato” meant.

 “If he can’t wait two seconds, he’s gonna have piss in his coffee.” Ariel stuffed his phone back in his pocket. His full moon dodger blue eyes lifted toward the high ceiling and then closed while he regained composure. He blinked and turned to put his hands under the sink faucet.

 “Can you finish this? Coffee machine in the front kitchen is broken.”

 Hannah nodded. “Sure.”

 A storm cloud of dark curly hair bounced on Ariel’s head as he bounded out the door and along side the wall of the building, wildly shaking drops of water from his fingers. Hannah watched him go and turned back to the mirror. Her face peeked back at her through cloudy streaks of Windex. Choppy dark hair was cropped close to her head and she raised her delicate eyebrows just to see the arch they pulled. She blinked and spritzed the reflection with a burst of icy blue chemical, briskly wiping the glass clear. Then she bent over the toilet, examining the porcelain bowl for missed specks of dirty yellow or clean streaks left from inadequate wipe-down of disinfectant. “No streaks,” Oliver had told her on her first run-through, “even clean streaks. Not one hint that this toilet has ever been used by another human.”

 She huffed out a sigh at a smattering of apple juice amber flecks near the hinge of the toilet seat. A tiny black hair curled against the splatter, stuck in the dried drops. THWAP went the wet disinfectant wipe as it slapped down and curled over the smooth edge of the bowl. Hannah stared at it for a moment, letting the stain break up under its antibacterial weight, imagining little germ fighters marching out of the porous fibers to lift the curled hair up and carry it away. She gathered the wipe and swabbed the bowl, then quickly ran a paper towel over it to prevent streaking. She stood back and ducked and tilted her head this way and that to scrutinize the sparkling white surface from every angle that light happened to hit it, then hurled the crumpled paper towel mess into a garbage bag and let her arms drop.

 “I don’t care,” she said out loud. It echoed off the faux marble floor.

 She tied the trash bag and kicked up the door stop, then grabbed the brass knob at the very last moment before the slam. She knew Paul was mixing in C, right on the other side of the wall. She liked Paul. He picked off accidental tomatoes and didn’t complain about the juice.

 The dumpster sat against the fence in the parking lot and made a horrible screech when the side door slid open. The air was dense and biting and smelled of dead sodden leaves. Trees on the other side of the fence whipped bare branches against the power lines, shaking the length of the thick black rope like a frightened snake. Hannah tossed her bag and didn’t bother dragging the door closed. Ryan came scrambling across the parking lot with bags full of take-out containers, soiled napkins, and small plastic cups leaking bright red sauces from under their lids. He held the trash at arms length, which was quite a distance considering his lanky limbs, and came up next to Hannah, beaming.

 “So G doesn’t look too bad now,” he announced cheerfully. “Just some dishes.” He lifted the bags up and over and let them fall with a thud. “Anyone leave yet?”

 “Don’t think so.” They started walking towards the front office. Oliver was standing on the step outside the door with a cigarette at the corner of his mouth. The neighborhood behind the office rolled down a slight hill so they could see the sky’s heavy gray clouds turning violet over rooftops.

 “B just got here.” Oliver’s voice was tense like a thread held taut between strong fingers. His lips thinned as they pulled smoke from the end of the cigarette. He released it in a lingering stream above their heads.

 “Just now?” Ryan’s face danced with disbelief. “It’s seven.”

 “You are now on a schedule opposite the entire fucking rest of the world.” Oliver dropped a burning stub to the ground, flattened it under his shoe, and bent to pick it up and drop it in the bucket next to the door marked “Butts.” A gaining wind gathered beneath the low clouds and rushed down on them, whipping Oliver’s yellow hair in front of his face. The office door squealed in protest as someone pushed it out against the current.

 “If I wanted to deal with rappers, I would have gone to L.A.” Ariel stopped on the step and towered over them. His hair flounced about in the wind. A muffled thump of beating bass pumped from somewhere inside the walls Oliver leaned back against.

 “He’s nice enough,” Ryan offered. It was Ryan’s first night shift.

 “See how you feel about ‘nice’ in nine hours,” said Hannah.

 “All right.” Oliver swiped a distracted finger across the screen of his phone then slid it in his pocket. “All right. Get out of here. Go do something.”

 They broke off, Oliver disappearing through the office door and the other three heading back up the side of the building. The walls were a dark blue puckered plaster trimmed with black gutters. At its tallest points, with the southern sky breaking up between dusky clouds above it, it reminded Hannah of a fairy tale castle. Then the wall cut in to their right and left again, and they could see the glittering chandelier and the gentle tumble of velvet drapes in dim light through the vast window. They fought through another gust of wind to a door marked “F” as the wall jutted out again to meet them, and Ariel punched in four digits on the pad, its square little numbers glowing an eerie green. The bolt sucked itself in like a kid taking a quick breath before diving underwater, and they pushed through into a long hallway. They turned almost immediately to the right and through another door, up a staircase of darkly polished wood, another sharp corner, and the space opened up into a room, once meant as an artist lounge but now piled with packs of bottled water and rolls of paper towels. An old pinball machine stood in one corner, a layer of dust coating its glass surface and pale purple paint chipping off its legs. A sofa ran the length of the wall under the window and a low table, scratched and scuffed by feet resting on it, sat in front of it. A few chairs surrounded the table’s other three sides.

 If you looked out the window above the sofa you could see over the parking lot fence and across rooftops of houses and restaurants, all the way down the street to where the neighborhood turned to hills and, if you caught it right, the setting sun turned the grassy mounds to peaches and tangerines. Hannah liked to claim the seat directly across from the window and prop her feet up on the table. If someone was mixing loudly enough downstairs, she could feel the rhythmic strum of guitars in the cushion of the seat. People fell asleep almost daily in the nook of that room, but Hannah never did. She couldn’t sleep somewhere that cost so much money.

 “No one was in A today,” Ryan suggested, as though trying to cheer the place up. “So it’s clean.”

 “They should let us in there.” Ariel stretched his long legs over the cushions of the sofa and reclined with his fingers laced behind his head. “Just with a guitar or something. That’s what it should be like.”

 “Would they?” Ryan sat forward in his chair.

 “Ha. Interns recording? Then who would feed the animals and clean the cages?”

 They heard the door at the bottom of the stairs open and someone’s ascending footsteps. Ariel quietly sat up and Hannah lowered her feet to the floor. They glanced at each other. Della’s blonde head appeared.

 “E’s gone. If ya’ll can grab some water. Oliver said they were running low.”

 As they ran along the building and waited for Ryan to punch in the code next to the door, Hannah felt the first few sharp pellets of rain begin to pepper her bare neck and trickle down to soak into her shirt. As she filed into the room behind the others and turned to pull the door closed, she heard a sound like a bag of sugar tearing in half and spilling on to a tile floor; a burst as the sky ripped open and a hiss as the rain showered down in solid sheets. The blue of the buildings went blurry through the water. Someone was running across the parking lot with a jacket pulled up over his head. Hannah tugged at the massive soundproof door and turned into the warmth.