#depending on the chapter it can take me 3-4 hours to flesh it out to where I'm happy to upload the final product on Ao3 & Tumblr

[itsamenickname]

So good news and bad news:

The bad news is that I don't think I'll be able to upload ch. 17 tomorrow due to me having a lot of difficultly writing out the second half of the chapter in the way that I like it (the first half is fine, but it's this second half that's just giving me so much trouble).

The good news is that while I may not be able to upload ch. 17 tomorrow, I will upload something else in honor of the Mario movie final trailer. However, due to...specific reasons, this said surprise won't be uploaded until after the mario movie trailer (don't worry, this should hopefully make a lot more sense once you see the actual surprise).

[imogenleewriter]

How? How do you do it? How do you write so much so quickly?

Lol, I don't know how to answer this. I guess I just found ways that work for me.

I'm not sure if you mean in a practical sense - i.e actual typing/finding time, or if you mean the process - i.e actually getting the ideas to make sense, typed up.

Time wise... I can't remember the last time I sat on a surface in our house that wasn't our office chair. It's the first place I come to when I wake up and the last place I am before I go to bed. In the last 5 months, I've re-watched 4 episodes of Heartstopper and a 1/3 of a movie that was still for a fic, and that's the only traditional media I've consumed, lol. So I don't watch tv or anything.

I only work part-time, and l'm lucky that my job pays quite well. It's also a job where we can have a lot of downtime, so sometimes I plan out chapters/do research/reply to comments then.

I need deadlines and accountability to focus or I give up. I write in twenty-minute blocks and then take 5-20 minute breaks (depending on how I feel). I used to do that when I was studying as well. Normally I could manage 40 minutes of studying/writing essays etc at the start but only do 20-minute intervals after.

I write a really rough first draft first and then go back and then go back and edit it at the end. It's much easier to get sentences perfect after the whole chapter is written, and it's a waste of time (for me) to try and get it perfect the first time. I don't get anywhere.

Content-wise, every chapter has a purpose... every scene has a purpose. Sometimes the purpose might just be "show how the character interacts with x". But when I know what the purpose is, it's easier to write. If I get really stuck on a chapter, I know it's because I'm not clear on what I'm trying to achieve/show. So I open a notebook and handwrite all my thoughts until it makes sense again, and I know where I want to take it. Some chapters just flow really easily, and I don't even have to give it much thought at all or write down anything. Other chapters require pages and pages of handwritten notes until I understand what I need to say/what the characters are thinking/what makes sense.

The thing that takes the longest is probably getting into the character(s) head and working out what makes sense for them. For me, there are some characters it comes very naturally for me, and others that it's quite challenging.

So yeah, if I get 'writer's block', it's usually because I've lost focus of either what the character is thinking/feeling or what the purpose of the chapter is. So I stop typing and flesh it all out until it makes sense again.

I also know that I write best during the afternoon/early evening, so I tend to do admin stuff, and social media stuff earlier in the day or later at night/early hours of the morning. But the actual, decent writing flows best, then.

[demonslayedher]

How Does Eating Humans Work?

Hello, Gotou here. We’re shamelessly borrowing from the format of a KnY Fanbook #2 comic to launch an investigation into demon metabolism and development by crossing the Sanzu River again to interview demons in the underworld. While we’ll be using canon materials as a base, the analysis and conjecture herein is personal, so we ask for your understanding. Also, please note that consuming any food in the underworld will make you unable to return, and we cannot promise your safety even though the interview subjects are dead, so please come along at your own risk.

Some of the questions we’d like to answer are, why do demons need to eat humans? How much do they need to eat to survive? Are there factors that influence how eating humans makes them stronger? If they don’t want to kill humans, what are their other options? We’ve rounded up some special guests below the cut (hidden for length and grossness), everyone from the lowly Temple Demon to the lovely Tamayo, to see what their actions in canon might tell us.

First, a review of what canon tells us, mostly as summarized in Fanbook #2: 1. With one exception named Yushirou, all demons were created by Kibutsuji Muzan, for his own purposes. They all have some amount of his blood, and can be divided into four classes depending on how powerful they are. From top to bottom, the Upper Moons, the Lower Moons, demons with special abilities, and other demons without any special characteristics. 2. Demons may be stronger depending on how much of Kibutsuji Muzan’s blood they have. Most beings’ cannot handle a large amount of his blood, and it will rupture the cells and that being will die, but there are demons who adapt well to it. 3. Typically, sunlight is the only way to kill a demon, by either bathing them in sunlight or cutting of their head with a Nichirin blade. However, there are powerful demons for whom chopping off their head does not work, and if it’s strong enough, demons can also be killed by wisteria poison.

4. Demons eat human blood and flesh. The more they eat, the stronger they become, and the faster their regenerative abilities become. Some humans have “Marechi,” a rare blood type, which is especially nutritious to demons, and eating one Marechi is the equivalent of eating several humans.

That’s an interesting thing we’d like to come back to, especially since we’re looking for quantitative information about how demons gain nutrition (though I have my doubts we'll get enough for statistical analysis). As an interesting note, Fanbook #2 also tells us that if demons try to consume the same edibles humans do, they’ll vomit it back up.

I’m told that Miss Tamayo drinks tea, though. That’ll be an interesting question for later. In my notes, it seems she’s also explained to Tanjirou back in Chapter 15 that demons will normally go berserk if they go a long time without consuming any blood or flesh. Berserk is one thing, but I wonder if they can starve to death? We’ll see if these canon clues will lead us to anything. We’ll begin now in an interview format. Hopefully this will go smoothly, but I’ve got a feeling it won’t. First up, we’ve the Temple Demon.

Temple: Who were you calling ‘lowly’ just now? Up there, above the cut?

Gotou: That was in a literal sense, not having Blood Techniques means you’re in the bottom common tier of demons.

Temple: Argh. Fine. What do you want to know?

Gotou: In Chapter 2, you were spotted with three human victims. However, it seems you left their bodies mostly intact and only ate small parts instead of consuming one full human at a time. Could you comment on this?

Temple: I’d have gotten to more later if that whelp with the strong legs didn’t interrupt me! Who’s got time to eat entire humans anyway? I went for the easy stuff first.

Gotou: I see. It appears you might had focused on key organs, like the heart and the liver. Would you say these are especially nutritionally dense?

Temple: I guess. If I’m going to eat humans, I’m going to start with what’s worth bothering to digest. Blood’s easier on the stomach, so that’s what I was busy with on the lady there.

Gotou: Then it takes effort to digest? Hmm. Let’s come back to this later. How many humans would you say you consumed, including these three?

Temple: Not a lot… I tried to get a variety so I could get stronger faster, but…

Gotou: I’ll put down a guess as ten or less. Let’s move on to someone who has a sharper memory for numbers. One of our longer-lived guests at Mt. Fujikasane for 47 years, the Hand Demon. While most of the demons on the mountain had only eaten two or three humans, you’ve eaten a whole 50 of the children who headed into the Final Selection, didn’t you?

Hand: Yes, that’s right. It was hard at first since I wasn’t very strong, and the demons usually all went crazy there eating each other, just like that one brat who got away in Chapter 7 said. If you could manage to kill any of the kids, you had the other demons to fight off to even get a piece to yourself. That was enough to get me by, and stronger, little by little. Your body learns to make your meals last, and make the most of what you can get. I usually only had a bite of one child a year, can you imagine how horrible that was? Most demons who survive usually figure out some way to develop and survive better, and once my cells found something that worked for me, I kept doing it. I got really good at snatching away prey from other demons, and soon enough I was a bigger threat than any of them. None of them could, you might say, lay a hand on me.

Gotou: That’s an interesting point about self-development. A demon named Nezuko was spent two years doing that in her sleep.

Hand: She must have had a big meal before that!

Gotou: Well, anyway. It seems that in near starving conditions, your metabolism made the most of what you had, leading to the most efficient use of whatever food was available to you.

Hand: That’s right, I got really good at it. Wasn’t always pretty, but I made it work. I got to a point where I could go two years without eating and still keep my wits about me while the other demons were going mad. But I chose to eat. I liked to keep my appetite for specific children.

Gotou: That smile is not reassuring. Some humans taste better than others, I guess?

Hand: That’s for sure. This one kid tasted awful, like rust and man sweat! I still don’t have that disgusting taste out of my mouth! But he was one of my more satisfying meals, so I ate more of him.

Gotou: Then why would you… nevermind, I don’t like that smile, no further questions. While I had hoped to keep these interviews focused on quantities of humans consumed, it does seem personal taste is worth asking about. I had tried to invite a Swamp Demon from Chapter 11, but it kept arguing with itself and it felt like I’d be wasting my time. The one definite thing I learned was that this demon is picky, with a distinct preference for 16-year-old girls. Based on the number of trinkets he kept, it seems he had consumed at least seventeen of them, including several in one town. Sheesh, that’s sort of a rough mission to send a first-timer on. I’ve got a more cooperative guest here to discuss her tastes, a Snake Demon who, according to Chapter 188, has a special taste for baby flesh.

Snake: Thank you for having me here. It’s good to be appreciated again.

Gotou: Did you only eat babies?

Snake: Goodness, no. Babies are delicious, but they aren’t very nutritious. And their skulls certainly aren’t that big, the ones I lounged around with were from the people whom I killed and stole from. But you know the nice thing about baby skulls? They’re still soft. They take a long time to digest, but I can swallow them whole.

Gotou: Like… like a snake, then. Sorry, I’m a little ill hearing that. Let’s back up, were all those skulls the remains of adults you ate, then?

Snake: Meh, I ate some of them of better-looking ones, but most of them I only killed. I could usually kill a lot more at a time than I could bother eating, my killing record was fifty women all at once.

Gotou: And you didn’t find that wasteful?

Snake: Wasteful? Not at all. I wasn’t exactly in dire straits, I lived a more luxurious life than most demons do. That meant I could afford to wait for a truly delicious meal, like how you humans might leave something in a slow-cooker to enjoy the perfect combination of doneness and tenderness, plated in the most appetizing of ways.

Gotou: I guess demons and humans are similar in that regard.

Snake: I’m so glad you can relate! Then you understand the frustration of a meal you’ve be preparing for years opening up the slow-cooker and running away right when they were just about done.

Gotou: I have never had that experience.

Snake: I’ll get you, my pretty. And your little snake, too.

Gotou: I think we might have gotten a little off-topic here. It does seem digesting humans comes with some difficulty. I’d like to invite the Drum Demon in next. Your name is Kyougai, I hear?

Kyougai: !!

Gotou: Kyogai, right?

Kyougai: You’ve heard of me! You know my name!

Gotou: I happened to, yes.

Kyougai: What have you heard???

Gotou: That you were kicked out of the Lower Moons for being unable to consume enough humans.

Kyougai: Oh. ……..yeah, that’s me.

Gotou: I thought demons go berserk if they go a long time without consuming humans. Wouldn’t that make an inability to consume them problematic?

Kyougai: It wasn’t that I couldn’t eat them! Like I said in Chapter 24, I had to in order to sustain myself, just like any other demon. But, at some point, I couldn’t eat as much as I used to. That happens to humans too, doesn’t it? When you just can’t stomach anymore?

Gotou: You mean like when you’ve overeaten? In a human’s case that feeling may go away within a few hours.

Kyougai: Sort of like that, but you know, humans reach a time when nothing is appetizing or the thought of eating makes them feel sick, right? Isn’t that the human condition?

Gotou: …uh… maybe if they have a medical condition? Or anxiety? Do demons get anxiety? Or eating disorders?

Kyougai: I… I don’t know. I just wasn’t good enough.

Gotou: I think it’s plenty good if you stopped eating humans. Though to have developed Blood Techniques and been a Lower Moon in the first place, you must had eaten a great number of them.

Kyougai: You think I’m great?

Gotou: What?

Kyougai: No, sorry, I was getting ahead of myself. It’s true, I used to be able to eat as many as the other Lower Moons always consumed. Our stomachs were stronger, you might say. Demons got strong by eating humans, and then the more you did that the better you usually got at it, so the strong ones would eat more and more and keep getting stronger and stronger. At least, that’s how it usually worked. I’ve seen other demons below me reached that point too, where they feel the drive to eat, but then they have trouble digesting it for a long time, so they don’t wind up eating that many people.

Gotou: Then it would make sense to eat the most nutritionally dense parts first.

Kyougai: Or a Marechi.

Gotou: Yes, or a Marechi.

Kyougai: It was a great idea, wasn’t it?

Gotou: I cannot condone any consumption of humans as a good idea.

Kyougai: I knew it. I’m nothing. Go ahead, stomp all over everything I ever tried to accomplish.

Gotou: I think I’m going to move on to my next interviewee now. It looks like we’ve got… oh, would you look at this? Lower Moon One. Enmu, I believe.

Enmu: You can believe whatever you want. I’m happy to help.

Gotou: I don’t need any help, thanks. I’m curious, since you were one of the stronger demons out there, it seems you had a stronger capacity for consuming humans.

Enmu: I did, I was always careful and paced myself so the Demon Slayers wouldn’t notice me. I took my time. I liked to enjoy e-e-e-a-c-h one.

Gotou: Then you had tastes too? Like babies, or 16-year-old girls?

Enmu: I could season any human to my liking. They’re all very easy to prepare.

Gotou: I’m still trying to get quantitative data. Can you tell me at least a rough estimate of how many humans you consumed?

Enmu: I told this more precisely to that boy with the earrings back in Chapter 59, and I can tell you this too. At my best, I could had eaten over two-hundred people at once if I took my time.

Gotou: OH MY GAW----sorry, I dropped my pen. Two hundred, at once?

Enmu: Yes. If I had just. Had. A little. More. Time.

Gotou: Clearly there is a huge difference between what common demons are capable of and what the Twelve Moons are capable of.

Daki: Psh, those were all any random common people. That’s nothing to brag about.

Gotou: Excuse me, and you are?

Daki: Daki, Upper Moon Six. You want something really impressive, you talk to the Upper Moons.

Gotou: I’m sorry, I don’t see you on my list.

Daki: What! Your list is stupid. Look me in the eyes, I’m Upper Moon Six!

Gotou: Very well, then. What can you tell me about your diet, Miss Upper Moon Six?

Daki: That’s more like it. It’s true that digestion takes a while, and takes some effort. Even though we Upper Moons may have eaten hundreds of people in our lifetimes, it’s not as if we gorge ourselves. The clever ones among us save prey for later to eat when we feel ready for it.

Gotou: Food storage? How do you keep them fresh?

Daki: You leave them still alive, numbskull. Nobody wants to eat something cold, that’s gross.

Gotou: I see, so that’s why demons prefer to go after new kills instead of saving what they’ve already managed to kill. That also might explain why the demons on Mt. Fujikasane wouldn’t had eaten many humans, if they found long dead ones in edible.

Daki: You want to know the real secret to eating humans? You can eat what you find tastes good, sure. But to get stronger, you eat strong people. Like your Corp members, the ones besides chumps like you? Using all that Breath makes their muscles really lean and potent, it’s like they come offering themselves as protein bars for us.

Gotou: You make them sound like a fad diet…

Daki: The real secret is eating Pillars. Besides Marechi, they’re the strongest meals out there. Guess how many I’ve eaten?

Gotou: I don’t have the data to make an educated guess.

Daki: Then get educated! Look back at Chapter 88! I’ve eaten seven Pillars, and my brother has eaten fifteen!

Gotou: Your brother? Who is he, then, Upper Moon Five?

Daki: What? Ew. Gross. Gross! No way, ew!

Gotou: Hmm… eating Pillars, huh? Well, I can think of one Pillar who was…

Douma: Me too!

Gotou: Speak of the devil.

Douma: Actually, we Upper Moons can! And he's not Satan, that's not how this works. But I guess Muzan-sama’s curse doesn’t effect us now. Ask me anything you want!

Gotou: That Chapter 143 reference was such a rude entrance. I understand that Pillars are particularly nutritious—

Douma: Oh, please don’t misunderstand! I don’t even eat all the Pillars I’ve encountered. There was the one Flower Pillar who got away from me, but some of the boy pillars I just leave around. What’s really the key to consistent nutritional intake is women! It’s really unhealthy for a demon not to get enough women in their diet, that’s why even if you’re only looking for Marechi or Pillars, your metabolism is going to get thrown out of whack with sudden big meals. You grow a stronger metabolism with consistency, I believe!

Gotou: If I could stop you there, I had an image from Chapter 142 I preferred to focus on for this case study. I see you keep a wide collection of skulls, from victims whom I assume you ate.

Douma: Yes, they all stayed together inside me for eternity, but the room looked lonely without décor.

Gotou: It seems other demons usually go for nutritionally dense organs like hearts or livers, or easy to digest parts of the body, perhaps just blood sometimes. Eating the entire victim, bones and all, doesn’t seem to be the norm.

Douma: Bones are organs too, you know! That’s where blood is made, at its freshest. They do take more practice in learning to digest, and I had to find a way around not having to chew them, but the bone marrow is very, very good for you, so I make sure to consume it frequently. It may take more time and it causes some of my followers to panic more while they wait, though, that’s a bit of a downside. Oh, and I guess bones can make good storage for some sneaky poison. Even fingernails and hair follicles, who’d have thought?

Gotou: I don’t think hair would have much nutritional value in the first place. In all my years, I can never recall seeing a victim with their hair eaten.

Douma: Tsk, tsk! Clearly you haven’t done much metabolism research in advance. I was really impressed by how well Shinobu-chan understood how my digestion would work. Eating hair can do amazing things! Isn’t that right, Genya-kun?

Genya: ?????????

Gotou: Genya-kun!?

Genya: What am I doing here?

Gotou: I don’t think you’re supposed to be here. Isn’t there, you know, another side? The other direction?

Genya: What are you doing here? Did you die?

Gotou: I’m here doing research on demon metabolism and how they get stronger by consuming flesh.

Douma: What can you tell us about what up with having your friend feed you hair you found on the floor in Chapters 170-171, Genya-kun?

Genya: I’m not a demon!! Why the hell are you asking me?

Douma: ‘Hell’! Haha, good one!

Gotou: How do you even know about that? You were dead almost a full volume before that. And Genya’s different, he’s not a case study in how demons consuming humans works!

Douma: Are you certain?

Gotou: I hear the term get thrown around a lot that he’s ‘half-demon’, but—

Genya: I’m not a demon!!!

Gotou: --how would that even work? That would imply that one of his parents had to be a demon, and that—

Genya: What did you say about my mother!?!

Gotou: What? Nothing—

Genya: You say that to my face! You just trying saying something about my mother to my face! My mother never actually ate any flesh, you got that? She doesn’t deserve any of this!

Gotou: Genya, calm down, what—

Douma: I see we’re learning nothing about hair at all. Maybe Kokushibou-dono would provide better commentary on that?

Genya: Mom? Mo-o-o-o-m? Are you down here somewhere?

Gotou: And there he goes… wait, did you say Kokushibou? Upper Moon One? Oh no—he—he didn’t want me bothering him, he did not agree to another interview—

Douma: He-e-e-e-e-y, Kokushibou-dono! How did that work with Genya-kun eating your hair? Hair can be nutritious, right?

Kokushibou: You would gain… nothing… from consuming human hair… it’s not… flesh… you wasted your energy digesting it…

Douma: Aww, cutting it off them would had been sad, though.

Kokushibou: Demon hair… like demon weapons… is made… from our unique cells. It’s not dead… like human locks. Because that boy ate my live cells… it affected him…

Gotou: Yes, because he had a very, very unique metabolism, analyzed separately in this post. To be perfectly clear, Genya is completely human with cells that could temporarily transform, and he never consumed human flesh.

Kokushibou: He… vexes me…

Gotou: Um… while I’ve got you here, you’re one of the longest lived demons, clocking in at over three, maybe four centuries. Do you have any estimate of how many humans you’ve consumed?

Kokushibou: ……I see in… Chapter 100… that you are 23 years old?

Gotou: That is correct.

Kokushibou: Do you bother… remembering how many meals… you’ve had in a mere 23 years?

Gotou: I’m very sorry to have bothered you.

Douma: Kokushibou-dono’s ancient compared to the rest of us! But if I tried, I could probably recall. Let’s see. One, two, three, four…

Gotou: Is that? Your finger in your brain? Oh—ohhh—that is disgusting---I really don’t need to know numbers that badly, please stop. Is there maybe just some average you can give me for the Upper Moons instead? Like how many you’d eat in a month?

Douma: I wish I could, but a certain someone was an annoying outlier and didn’t like to eat so many humans. He made me worry all the time about his health.

Gotou: Really? Who might that be?

Douma: Hello-o-o-o-o-? Akaza-dono? Yoohoo! He spends all his time with his wife now and never answers when I call, it makes me so sad. Akaza-dono did eat humans, plenty of strong ones, but any time he wasn’t under orders from Muzan he liked to spend his time training instead of eating. Fanbook #1 says he did that way more than eating!

Gotou: Training? What sort of training?

Douma: Similar things to what your Corp members did, I imagine. Doing squats, throwing punches, things like that.

Gotou: Then demon muscles had similar function to human muscles, and could be strengthened through hard work? That’s surprising.

Douma: I know, right? I’ll let you in on a secret, I don’t think it was the physically repetition that did anything. I think it was his willpower getting honed and shaping his muscles.

Douma: I had to focus when I acquired new skills too, like breaking down poisons. A lot of sad, lowly demons, like that Hand Demon fellow? They focus as hard as they can in their desperation, or focus on some strong emotion or attachment or whatever, and they grow and develop because of it. Sometimes all their weak bodies can manage is an ugly mutation, but that’s proof enough of how much focus they had.

Gotou: That sheds a lot of light on Nezuko, actually.

Douma: Shed “light” on Nezuko-chan, hahaha! Sunlight! You humans are all so witty!

Gotou: Speaking of willpower, I’ve got one more interview I need to get to down here. Of all the demons I have records of, only Nezuko went her whole time as a demon without consuming any human flesh, although she did go through moments of berserk cravings for it. It’s possible that other demons were killed before they could consume anything, but typically they will consume flesh as soon as possible, which is why its common for their family and close relations to be among the first ones killed. Tomioka-san even mentioned in Chapter 1 that these close relations are especially nutritious.

Gotou: A demon about as old as Kokushibou, if not older, is a special case of her own. She was one of the only demons we know of to have escaped Kibutsuji’s curse and acted in dependently of him, including having created a demon of her own after two hundred years of trying. Most notably to our purposes, she trained herself to subsist on small amounts of blood, after having survived on corpses and wild animals for a time, according to the extensive Taisho Secrets at the end of Volume 21.

Tamayo: I explained this in more detail to Tanjirou-san in Chapter 15, but I went on to purchase blood from poor people, and extracted it in ways that wouldn’t be harmful to them. The one demon I created, Yushirou, could subsist on even less. I gained enough self-control that I could treat injured humans without feeling tempted into a berserk state.

Gotou: I was just talking to Douma about willpower making demons capable of accomplishing new physical developments. Was that how you were able to gain this state? I heard you even enjoy a cup of tea now and then.

Tamayo: Yes, I’ve taken a liking to it. I’d offer you some if not for this, you know, being hell. It’s nothing like the hell I went through when first resisting consuming humans, though. My demon body refused to take anything but fresh human flesh at first, but in the hardest moments, I always remembered a kind demon hunter who said he believed in me and my desire to defeat Kibutsuji Muzan. I believe Nezuko may have summoned her strength to resist the call of her demon cells in a similar way; she knew she had her brother there to rely on. Once she mastered something as remarkable as resisting the need for human flesh, it gave her the freedom to prioritize other developments.

Gotou: You spent centuries researching demon cells, especially how demons may break down and metabolize poisons.

Tamayo: I had not studied the metabolism of poisons until working with Shinobu-san. The medicine we concocted for Kibutsuji was only possible thanks to her work, and I couldn’t had worked with many of those wisteria-based substances on my own. I feel I was only there to fill in the gaps of her brilliant understanding.

Gotou: You’re very humble. I would pass along my thanks and compliments to Shinobu-sama too, but I’m pretty sure she’s not down here. On that note, did Genya-kun go back home?

Tamayo: He did after a nice reunion with his mother just now, it was very sweet. Shizu-san and I get along well, after all, we both carry similar guilt.

Gotou: Wait, was his mother a demon? That means Wind-sama’s mother was too? Wait?? What??

Tamayo: The worst hell I went through, or that any demon has gone through, is to realize what you’ve eaten after the hunger-driven madness clears. Being similar to your own cells, they’re easy on a volatile new anatomy to break down and digest. That’s why many demons may have driven themselves to forget everything all over again, or to twist their personalities to justify the horror, saying that because they ate the hearts of their loved ones and because demon flesh can live forever, then they never truly killed them. The truth always remained untwisted for me, and to this day, it torments me more than anything in this underworld can try.

Gotou: …

Tamayo: You should wake up now, Gotou. You’ve been through a lot; the nightmares must be taxing on your health. Please remember to eat well.

[mandoinevarro]

NO APPOINTMENT, NO MEETING

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker: Chapter 4

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Words: 9.4k

Rating: E

Warnings: so ok descriptions of blood (it’s only one sentence and I don’t think it’s too bad but just in case), remembering trauma/triggering memories, angst. now for the fun part: SMUT, one (1) thigh spank, a sprinkle of dirty talk, a dash of praise kink, spitting, oral (f receiving), vaginal sex, maybe cockwarming but for like two minutes

a/n: happy 2021!!! only one chapter left after this one so enjoy. for the hornies who only want fun and sexy times: scroll to the bottom and work your way up, smut is like 3/4 in.

……………

In the blue morning light, Nevarro is almost beautiful.

The deserted lava fields spread in flat terrain as far as the eye can see, bumps and dips where magma cooled creating waves like a black ocean. Among the tide, obsidian turtle shells shimmer like dark mirrors, where Din Djarin studies his face. It startled him when he crawled from the tent to take the pram inside; when he glanced at the ground and the ground glanced back. His face cloudy and warped by irregular volcanic rock, he barely recognized it. It’s not rare for his features to blur in his memory sometimes, especially when he’s out working for days at a time unable to catch a glimpse of himself. Vanity is not one of his many shortcomings—hiding your face for decades is a mighty vaccine against it.

But today something’s different. The reflection peering up at him belongs to a stranger. Relaxed eyebrows, a hooked nose (has the curved always been so pronounced?), lips that faintly curl up. Content brown eyes. His mirrored counterpart is a sentient being below him, plump with blood and oxygen. Alive.

He looks happy.

However, morning weighs heavily on Din, he can see it in the bags below his eyes. It stings like a hangover, like the only hangover he ever had, back when he was an eighteen-year-old idiot and used the credits of his first bounty to get a flask of spotchka from some seedy bar. He remembers sitting in his crammed quarters at the old Covert, chugging the bottle on his own, methodically forcing himself to swallow against the burn. Waiting. Waiting for the alchemy to kick in, for the magic toxins that flushed drunks’ faces, lubricant that oiled their scowls into easy smiles. Waiting to feel what everyone else felt, just for a moment.

Lifting his head, Din peers ahead. Shadows of the city’s buildings creep above the horizon like a bad omen. The opposite of a promised land. Hunchbacked buildings stain the blue-gray sky, abruptly interrupt the intricate lava patterns, Nevarro the planet versus Nevarro the city. Din’s stomach crumples. One, maybe two hours by foot. One, maybe two hours, and last night will fade into a distant memory, a collection of ghost sensations.

But not yet. Right now, last night is still real. You are still real.

Crawling back into the tent, he licks his lips for the millionth time today. He can still taste you: that thick, salty-bitter taste, so much better than he could’ve imagined. He hopes it stays on his lips for a long time; or, at least, that he can replace it soon.

Inside, you’re curled up with his cape, a blooming bruise above your shoulder peeking out, the baby’s pram hovering next to you. He sits down, careful not to awake either of you, and runs a finger down your shoulder, feels the skin prickle. He buries his nose on the back of your hair and inhales: rain and earth as usual, but his soap too, a part of him that clings to you. Lips on the crook of your neck, Din smells himself on you, wonders if you’ll want to wash his scent away, or if you’ll want it to stay on you. You stir, your soft exhales gain a rasp. Din smiles. You do snore, after all.

He’ll have to wake you soon. He knows. He knows. You need to talk about last night. You need to have the frank conversation that you’ve both been postponing for way too long, back when you floated in dead space, no deadlines, no rush at all to make decisions. But things have changed, and he knows what he wants now, and he knows it can’t wait. Yet every time his fingers brush your shoulder to nudge you awake, he pulls them back. He’s never seen you so peaceful, not moving except for your expanding and contracting chest, the light fluttering of your lashes. All the fight in your body gone, those tall bridges around you down and inviting. So different from when he met you.

If there’s one thing Din’s good at, it’s sniffing out trouble. He had to be, if he wanted to make it in the Fighting Corps. In the Bounty Hunter’s Guild. He can sweep a room with a mental black light, spot the people who flare up white and bright, the ones he needs to stay away from—or approach, depending on the situation. And that day at the cantina, the first time he laid eyes on you? You glowed with it. Talking big game in Karga’s booth, laughing with your pretty smile and shuffling cards, you beamed with trouble, bright as radiation and just as dangerous. What needed to happen was clear as day. The Mandalorian needed to turn on his heels immediately, strut out of that bounty hunter hive without a second look, and never, ever, ask about you.

He’d been there before.

Mandalorians, despite common belief, are not made of beskar. Not on the inside, at least. They’re all warm blooded organics, burdened with flesh and internal organs and skeletons; pain and pleasure receptors. Older Mandalorians cautioned younger ones when they came of age and finished their training, when they were ready to become providers. Tall stern warriors, his superiors, warned that there would be temptation, situations that would make him doubt the Way. “Even the briefest taste,” Din’s former Alor said with that cavernous voice he had, “can be the point of no return.” And he was right.

Outside the Covert, there was so much…stimuli. Voices and colors and movement, a twenty-four-hour beehive, the galaxy buzzed and vibrated to no end. It was equally wonderous and grotesque, like a circus. The strenuous noises that rattled his ribcage, the strong smells, the different food, his senses had never felt more exhausted. The faces…stars, the faces. How muscles stretched in a big smile, the glint of teeth, the deep creases between eyebrows that signaled anger. Always moving, always changing, Din hadn’t seen so many uncovered heads since he was a child. His first few weeks outside he’d stare at people for hours until they scurried away or tried to fight him. Tried.

Then, when the initial shock wore out, he noticed other details. The way children’s eyes filled with admiration when they’d look at their parents, how that dimpled girl in Alderaan would blush and stutter whenever he bought something from her stall. And Din would wonder, despite all warnings, what it’d feel like to be one of them. To share so much of himself with the outside world. With time, curiosity morphed into obsession, obsession into desperation, and soon enough he found himself with Rand and the others, running rampant in an already chaotic galaxy.

One war, two decades, and a thousand regrets later, the curiosity died down. The helmet helped him tune out the outside world, made it easier to retreat into his memories. The galaxy seemed duller by the day, emptier. Lonelier, though he didn’t dwell on it.

That is, until he met you.

Until his resolve circled the drain and he asked Karga who you were and where to find you, walked into your store without an idea of what he’d say. Behind the counter, eyes shining and that silky voice asking what you could do for him, you reset the galaxy for him. Every time he visited you felt like his first day outside all over again.

But last night—that was stronger, set in stone. It felt like commitment. Something was born last night, something burgeoned in his chest and took root. Din can feel the fullness in his body, like he grew an extra limb, similar to the swell that tangled in his insides when he went back for the kid. He doesn’t have a name for it yet, but it reminds him of the day he swore the Creed. The fresh sense of purpose, the carved-out path in front of him, knowing what needs to be done:

When the siege is over, he’ll take you with him.

“Are you watching me sleep?” you mumble, cotton mouthed. “Kinda creepy.”

Din chuckles, then remembers. Stars, his heart stops beating for a second. Dread and natural reflexes throw his palm whip fast over your closed eyes. Maker. What the hell was he thinking, sitting next to you without the helmet. Maker, one second too late and you could’ve opened your eyes and—

“Didn’t see anything. Promise,” you say with a smile and pull his cape over your face. “Cover up.”

He pats around for the helmet (where the hell did he drop it last night?), finds it abandoned by your feet. When he fits it around his head, the familiar padding hugging his skull, he swears it feels heavier than it did yesterday.

“You decent?”

“Yeah.”

You lower the pseudo blanket, sleepy eyes and easy smile. As if you purposefully want to make it harder for him to strike up a conversation. But do I really need to— Yes. Yes, he does. He has to know where you stand and ask the big question: If you’d be willing to leave with him once the siege is lifted. Stars, his hands are sweating. But he can’t imagine you’d say no. Not after last night.

“Listen…”

As if on cue, whimpers and sniffles float from the closed pram. Great timing, kid. The baby’s ears droop like wilting leaves when Din places him on the ground, and the little bundle waddles with his eyes cast down until he reaches your ankle.

“What is it, kiddo?” you ask softly, your voice gentler than Din’s ever heard, sitting up as you hug his cloak tighter around your shoulders.

“I think…” Din begins, watching the baby sniffle and hug your bandaged calf. “I think he’s apologizing.”

A pair of eight-ball eyes blink at you, shiny with unshed tears, and Din feels an ache deep in his chest. This sweet little kid, all he’s been put through…

“Oh, don’t worry,” you coo, as one of your hands wriggles out the cloak and cradles the baby’s cheek. Your thumb brushes away a fat tear. “I’m tougher than your dad.” You wink at Din: Just kidding. But it’s true. Living in this planet for so long, all on your own. “Tough” is a survival skill for you, not a choice.

Also…dad. He should probably correct you. Din is not the kid’s real father, even though he’s caught himself thinking about the baby as his son once or twice, when he’s not too aware of his inner monologue. But he can’t bring himself to tell you the truth. Actually, he belongs to a race of wizards that I’ve been quested to deliver him to. Can’t adopt him if I’ll eventually give him up. Not when the kid’s shedding quiet tears into your leg and you’re doing your best to soothe him. Nevarro’s not child friendly, and Din can’t imagine you’ve got much practice with baby stuff, but he can tell you’re doing your best. And that’s enough to spread warmth through his chest.

What a troop you must make: Mandalorian bounty hunter, black market dealer, magic green baby. You could set up a three-person circus and retire. Yet the image tugs at a memory tucked away in his mind, something familiar but blurred.

His rumination’s cut short when Din notices the kid’s pudgy hands extending strategically on either side of your right leg, his eyelids beginning to flicker. Shit, shit, shit.

“She forgives you,” he tells the kid hastily as he scoops him and lays him on the open pram. He doesn’t need to be the little womprat’s real father to tell he was about to whip out his favorite party trick: healing witch powers. So far it doesn’t look like it permanently harms him, but it does weaken him, and Din can’t take chances. Plus, he skipped the part about the baby having supernatural powers when he told you his story, and there’s not a hell of a lot of ways one can explain fresh wounds disappearing.

“So,” you say after the baby’s settled in his pod. “What are we going to do,” you start, and Din’s throat knots with dread and excitement, “about the jammer.”

Oh. Stars, straight to business

“You said you have one.”

“I said I might have one,” you answer, grabbing for your discarded skirts. You fumble with them under the cloak, one hand clasped tight around it. It’s funny—after everything you’ve shared, you won’t undress in front of him during the day. “I mean, jammers aren’t picky like motors, they’re more one-size-fits-all.”

“But we still have to rewire it,” Din completes, wiping dry drool from the kid’s cheek with his thumb.

“Right.” Holding the cloak with your chin while you clasp your tunic, you seem to slowly draw your way out of a maze. That restless abacus in your head adding and subtracting. Your brows relax, and Din knows you’ve figured it out. “But I’ve got my equipment in my workshop, and we’d save time not having to remove it from a ship. And, no offense, but the Crest’s jammer was an antique. Way more complicated than newer models.” You finish dressing and hand him the cloak. “Only problem is the potential trooper stakeout outside the store.”

“I’ll take care of troopers.” Din takes the cloak and hesitates. It’s day nine, that time bomb still ticks in his head. Could it be that easy? Could you really do all this in one day? “What if we don’t finish on time?”

“Then,” you say, “we’ll figure something out.”

We, Din thinks, and smiles. Somehow, that’s all the reassurance he needs.

≈

Nevarro couldn’t look more deserted if tumbleweed rolled in the streets. The city’s a populated ghost town, no man’s land that’s filled with men. Well, men is a strong word. How did Viszla put it that time? We live hidden like sand rats. Yes, rats seems more fitting. Packs of them, scurrying around the former Covert, stealing Mandalorian armor to be bartered for scraps. Karga didn’t have to spell it out when he told him about people finding the Covert. Mando is familiar with the ways of the Outer Rim: Anything unclaimed is up for the taking, and beskar’s too tempting to resist. Knowing doesn’t make his blood boil any less, though. If Din focuses, he can almost hear their squeaking echoing from the sewers, the scavengers of this gray rock serving themselves to the abandoned armor of his people.

Movement to the left. The Mandalorian draws his blaster and bars you with his forearm, to see…a tunic. A short tunic. Tiny red lights. A Jawa. He exhales and sheathes the blaster. Stars. With the vembrance turned off, he has to rely on bare eyesight to scan for danger.

The Jawa drags a sleigh behind him. On it lies a dead or unconscious trooper (it makes no difference to these creatures), its gloved fingers drawing traffic lines on the mud and ash of unpaved streets. Red stars below the cowl focus on you for half a second, the bounty hunter’s hand approaches his blaster, and…

…and the Jawa waves at you, says “hello” in its squeaky language. You wave back, smiling, and the lump of shadow continues on its way. A neighborly gesture that in this context is plain bizarre.

“Old friend of yours?” Mando asks, walking again.

“Associate,” you correct, running a finger along the kid’s left ear until it twitches and he giggles. “Jawas scavenge parts straight from the wreckage, eliminate the middle man. And they don’t report to the New Republic.”

You mean steal from the wreckage, Din almost says, but bites it back. He supposes he can’t judge you for trading with Jawas. Prospects on the Outer Rim are bleaker than ever, and everyone’s got to eat. Especially during a siege.

Maker, sometimes he can’t believe he convinced himself to leave you here. Marooned in the type of place Core World citizens only talk about with shaking heads and disapproving voices. The type of place that makes people feel better about their lives, because hey, it could be worse, at least I don’t live in Nevarro. Granted, Din didn’t know then there’d be a siege. After the fight, after he bid goodbye to Cara and Karga, he hovered on the atmosphere for longer than was safe, gazing down at your store’s roof from the Razor Crest’s cockpit. His head a seesaw, weighing his options and unable to make a decision. You were still so close. He could fly back down to the surface, knock on your door, and take you away with him like he did with the kid.

Would you say yes? Reject him?

But most importantly: what about his quest? What kind of life would you lead travelling with him, a fugitive of the Empire and the New Republic? Life for Din has been defined by survival. Every day he’s had to get up and fight; fight to an inch of his life, fight with concussions, frostbite, shattered ribs. Knife wounds, blaster wounds. Personal wounds. He didn’t want that for you. You’re young, clever, resourceful. After that day, maybe you’d decide Nevarro was too dangerous. Maybe you’d pay your passage on a cruiser and start over in the Core Worlds, make your luck own there. Find a good man, if that’s what you wanted.

So he started the thrusters—the same ones he bought from you so long ago—and jumped into hyperspace with a semi clear conscience. This was best for everyone. You probably wouldn’t have accepted his offer, anyway. For five months he lived with his decision. And then he learnt about the siege.

In the sky, a string of river pearls forms a pattern like a necklace. Imperial cruisers, tie fighters, every ship that Guideon commands, solemnly presiding over Nevarro, itching to shoot down runaways. They’re too far up in the atmosphere to make out anyone in the surface, but Mando grabs your arm and coaxes you behind him all the same, his grip on the pram tighter. The memory of that imp’s blaster on your forehead is still too fresh. The dried blood on your legs.

Din glances back at you briefly. You catch his eye and smile—not grin, not smirk—but smile, a pretty, kind smile that would put to shame any of the imaginary Naboo girls you were so worked up about two nights ago. He should know, he’s been to Naboo, and none of the women there had your kaleidoscopic face, those hints of life that send his pulse on a sprint. The Mandalorian wonders what else you could be hiding under that sharp tongue, behind those clever eyes.

“Mando,” you call and point at a blackened mass to your right. “Nursery’s this way.”

All buildings in Nevarro emerge from volcanic rock, pushing away from clumps of hardened magma. They’re half-manmade, half-volcano hybrids—it’s a useful layout that gives their structure grip against constant earthquakes. It also, however, makes the buildings look like tumors growing on the navel of an ill planet. Your store’s the only one that’s never looked malignant, more like a sprouting flower than a parasite.

And now, the cantina too. Burned to a crisp, blacker than night, the former Church of Nevarro seems to have been swallowed by its unwilling host: the volcanic rock it was built upon. It’d be near impossible to know there’s a cantina inside, if not for the wide window peering inside. And it’s far from impossible for you or Mando, who know by heart where all the doors stand. He pushes one open for you, and together you walk inside.

“Thumb on the bottom, middle and ring fingers on the top, index to the side,” instructs Cara from behind the cantina’s crisp black counter. “The other side.”

Greef Karga sits on a stool opposite her, fumbling with a deck of cards. “Got it. Then what?”

“Then…” The veteran moves aside a flask of ardees and places a matching deck on the bar. “Pressure with your index, release the thumb.” She acts out her instructions and creates an arched ribbon spread on the surface. The Mandalorian can’t remember the last time he walked into the cantina and didn’t see the hypnotic patterns on cards, didn’t hear the wing-flapping noise of their shuffle. Although if he thinks about it, it makes sense that sabacc is the local sport around here. Dumb luck is the only god in the Outer Rim, where inhabitants gaze perpetually at their uncertain future and never look back. Tomorrow they’ll get a better hand, yesterday’s lost credits are forgotten. Everyone here seems to shed their past like snake skin.

“Nice spread, Dune,” you call. Greef and Cara follow your voice, realize they have visitors. “You should job hunt at Canto Bight.”

“Oh yeah?” replies the ex-shock trooper with an impish grin, both elbows on the counter and a rag over her shoulder, all bartender swagger. “What do you know about Canto Bight, hot stuff? Heard you’ve never been off this rock.” She spies a sly glance at Mando, enough to confirm that she’s annoying him on purpose, openly flirting with you. He squares his stance, rolls the helmet to pin her down with the visor, but (he really should know this by now) it does little to intimidate her.

“No trash talk before nightfall, ladies,” quips Karga, walking towards the pram. “And certainly not in front of babies. Hello, little one!” Said little one coos and lifts his skinny arms to be lifted by the Guild Leader, who sits back down delighted at having the baby’s favor, the little rascal on his lap. “He likes me!” Greef Karga smiles wide, flashing those white glinting teeth that’ve always reminded Din of a wolf’s. He’s not happy to leave the kid here, but he can’t take him if there’s a stakeout in your store. Beggars can’t be choosers and so on. But Cara’s here, and Din knows he can trust her with the baby. Though not with you, evidently.

“Tell you what, Mando,” Cara continues, apparently not done peacocking around you. “We arm wrestle, just like last time. Winner gets a flask of spotchka and the opportunity to take the lady to Canto Bight after you lift the siege.”

“Help us lift the siege and I’ll consider winning that flask.”

Dune lets out an long whistle, giving you a complicit look. “Big words.”

Your eyes rake along the Mandalorian’s armor slowly, boots to helmet, a dark tint in your eyes. Din flushes, the oppressive heat of his clothes suddenly thicker.

You shrug and answer, “Big man.” Your fingertips dance idly around the nape of your neck, which makes Mando think about last night, about his tongue on your neck and the purple bruises he sucked, the salty taste of flesh, the heady one between your legs. The memory steers blood into…into awkward places. Which, knowing you, was your intention. Maker, he needs to talk to you about teasing him in public.

“Help you how?” asks Greef, lifting the baby into the counter, whose six little claws hold on to two of his gloved fingers.

“Look after the kid, we won’t be more than a few hours.”

“Sure thing!” booms Karga, at the same time as Cara says, “Fuck no.”

You fold your arms at the veteran. “You scared of an infant, Dune? It’s only one of him, and…” you squint at the cantina’s black shell, like something’s out of place in its burned remains, “…two of you. Where’s—” you start, before glancing at Mando and swallowing the second half.

“Duma?” supplies Karga, tapping the corners of the deck on the counter. “Don’t know, probably boiling beskar to make broth. Rumor has it she’s running out of supplies, fast. Did you ever take her up on that deal?”

Your eyes shoot vibroblades at him, your mouth a flat line.

“What deal?” Mando asks.

“Nothing,” you reply, still glaring warnings at Karga, who sighs, shakes his head, and tickles the baby’s tummy. The kid giggles and kicks half the deck off the counter. “Nothing important. We should get going.”

Outside, you guide the Mandalorian through a maze of back alleys, the ugly underbelly of a planet that’s already the galaxy’s own underbelly. Mando glues a palm to his blaster’s grip, lifting it only as muscle memory to turn on the vembrance and activate the setting to scan footprints, frustrated when he remembers his own piece of equipment would immediately snitch on him. Yet you glade past dark corners that beg for their own knife-brandishing mugger with the grace of someone frolicking in D’Qar’s moorlands, postcard-calm.

Once in your store’s backdoor, the Mandalorian ventures a glance at the front street. Empty. Like the rest of the city, it’s like curfew was declared, not an imp in sight. Certainly not a stakeout in process. Behind him, you push the door open, the busted security panel no more than a prop to discourage robbers.

“What?” you ask when he doesn’t walk inside.

“There’s nobody here,” he answers, studying the connecting alleys like a web of arteries, waiting for a trooper squadron to materialize and ambush you.

“It’s quiet too quiet?” you tease with a lopsided grin. “Lay off the thrillers, Mando. Come on.”

You step inside, he hesitates. “Could be a trap.”

Hands on the doorframe, leaning forward, your face almost touches the helmet. “Then you’ll shoot them and we’ll be back to square one. Not much of a choice here, Mando.” Those pretty eyes, your shining, wet lips. It’s a siren’s call he knows he shouldn’t answer.

The Mandalorian follows you inside.

It takes him a moment to recognize his surroundings.

Your store hibernates in the dark, stale air floating around its vault. Your store, which used to buzz with drills and neon lights and life around the clock, looms like a beast’s hollow belly, crypt-still. Lights off and furniture wrapped in sheets, it looks abandoned, the way all those family houses in deserted villages were hastily vacated during the war. He wonders how long you’ve been out of business because of the siege. Because of him.

You walk across the reception in tomb silence. In the reception signs hang next to the front desk—store policies that gave Mando more than one headache—dark and colorless, like they turned in their badges and no longer preside over this place. Only “NO IMPS” twitches, one or two agonizing flashes of neon green, before it shuts down like its colleagues. Six rules in total, although in Din’s opinion there’s a seventh that foregoes the need of a sign: “NO QUESTIONS”.

That’s a rule that everyone in Nevarro—bounty hunter or not—subscribes to. It’s the rule you followed when the Mandalorian walked into your store, still crafting some half-assed excuse about thrusters when he came face to face (helmet to face?) with you. You never asked about New Republic guidelines or what he wanted them for. Not even for his name. No questions when he came back two weeks later. No questions as weeks passed and then months, as tension thickened between you until his internal barometer cracked.

No questions when his thinning resolve broke one night. That night. He pushed you onto your workbench, you undid each other’s belts, pawed at each other’s sides. No questions when he slid into your wet heat, when he had to stop for a second to avoid a heart attack. No questions when he finished inside you, blood roaring in his ears, your sighs clouding his visor, your hand gently pushing him back.

And then, his question: “Where are you going?”

“Upstairs,” you answered, pulling your trousers back around your hips.

It dropped on his head like freezing water. Upstairs. Upstairs to your apartment, to rest. Alone. Meaning your encounter was a one-night stand, a shortcut to let off some steam. Stars, you were basically swinging the front door wide open for him, putting away a couple of wrenches and switching off the lights to signal the night was over. The Mandalorian didn’t need questions to know he’d overstayed his visit.

But…what if he’d spent the night anyway? Maybe the next morning he would’ve been upfront with you, confess he’d wanted you for so long and that he wanted it to evolve past one furtive encounter, that he wanted it to be real. No, he probably wouldn’t have. As a bounty hunter—as Mandalorian—there are things he simply can’t have. Things that are better off unspoken, better off—

“Tucked away,” you say behind him, making the Mandalorian jump.

“What?”

“The planner.” You walk behind the front desk. “I was saying I don’t remember leaving it here. I thought it was tucked away in some box.”

Oh.

It is strange. A light sheen of dust covers the counter, yet the planner is glossy clean, a painted depiction of the Manarai Mountains on its cover. A souvenir from Coruscant. He wonders who brought you that. It tugs at something sweet but sad in his chest, the fact that you have to rely on others’ cheap souvenirs to explore the galaxy. That’ll change as soon as this mess with the siege is settled.

You flip through the planner, empty for the most part but for a few scribbles on the first pages. It’s dated 5 ABY, four years ago. The Mandalorian knows from experience that your appointment rule works mostly to turn away unsavory clients. Or to get on his nerves.

“Look at that,” you murmur as if reading his mind, your finger pointing at nothing on a page. “You don’t have an appointment, Mando.”

“We don’t have time for this,” he answers, though he knows he’ll make time for it anyway. It used to drive him up the wall whenever you refused to see him using that stupid excuse. But, as with everything with you, it was more complicated than that. It took longer than he’s willing to admit to understand that it was a game. That you liked him riled up, after the push and pull, the hot and cold, the challenge. You had a taste for difficulty. Although it didn’t take as long to figure out that he liked it too. “Just let me in.”

“I don’t know,” you drawl, glancing at the dull signs on the wall. “Rules are rules.”

The Mandalorian has played this game with you enough to know what you want. He thinks of all those memories in this building. You, pinned between his armor and the doorframe; him, sitting on that battered couch upstairs with your hands on his knees. Even those calm nights, when you’d only sit and talk and make him laugh, and sometimes he’d get a laugh from you too, if he didn’t try too hard. All the sweating and the panting and the talking that these walls have witnessed. Maybe there’s time for one last memory before you both leave this planet for good. Not maybe—there’s definitely time. If this were an ambush, you’d be dodging blaster shots by now.

“So bend the rules,” he says slowly, gripping his edge of the counter and dropping his voice to the low register that gives you goosebumps. “For me.”

Your eyes twinkle like copper at the fact that he’s playing along. “And what do I get in return?”

This time, he doesn’t hesitate. “Whatever you want.” Perhaps he’s known for a while, in the back of his head where he could ignore it, but last night the idea rushed to his front lobe. He’ll give you anything you want.

“I want…” you begin, mischief shining in your eyes, before a shadow clouds them. Slowly, your face goes soft, a special kind of longing in your pupils. You swallow, your voice becomes throaty, and the words sound truer than anything Din’s ever heard: “I want you. I just want you.”

He almost trips on his feet when he rounds the counter, his head already swimming. The hunter crowds you with his body, backs you up against the counter until you’re caged and looking up at him, hooded eyes and parted lips. Hot stuff. Cara’s shallow pet name. When he heard it he thought it was inappropriate. But now. As your mouth nestles on his clothed neck and breathes hot, damp air through the fabric—a mild sensation for most people, he guesses, but almost a mating call for him—he realizes it’s not untrue. The name fits you like a glove, hot stuff. It’s just…incomplete. If he’s learnt anything these nine days is that there’s so much more to you, enough sailor knots of emotion and personality inside you to loop around the galaxy if unraveled.

“Touch me,” you breathe, rubbing up against him, searching friction. “Please, please, touch me. There’s nobody here, we—we have time.”

Gloved palms on your waist, down to your hips, lower to your ass, Din tries to fondle you as best he can. He pins you between the counter and his hips, your leg curls around his back and holds him closer. His erection starts to bulge against your belly, your breaths start quickening, your hearts start pumping faster. The tell-tale signs that indicate you’re both ready to go hit all their usual beats. But something’s missing. There’s a step you’re skipping, something…something he’s not doing right.

Tentatively, you press a small kiss on his covered neck, and he can only feel its frustrating whisper, a promise of more.

A lightbulb flicks on.

Mando holds your hips and spins you around, the desk’s edge on your waist. “Bend over,” he grouses next to your ear, his voice sand-coarse. “Don’t turn around.”

Gloves off first. One palm cradles the back of your neck, feels you shiver. His left hand runs down your back and around to your tummy, savoring all those warm, secret places on you, the way your body opens up to him on instinct. The power trip when he cups your heat through your skirts and you moan into the counter. You nestle your hips on his lap, and he stiffens on command, a tug between his legs that he knows is far too insistent for foreplay. Stars, it’s like he’s conditioned to get hard in this store.

“Don’t—” he chokes out “—not so fast. Or I—I won’t—”

“What?” you pant. Din hears the grin laced in your voice and knows it’s bad news for him. He drops to his knees and both hands walk up your bandaged calves, squeeze the tops of your thighs. “You…you don’t…” He throws your skirts over your back. You inhale sharply at the cold air—or at his hands pulling the soft flesh of your backside. When he removes the helmet, your pitch sounds broken up, more desperate. “You d-don’t want…”

It’s a small victory when he parts his lips against your clothed core and it’s you, for once, who chokes on words. Small victory, but he’ll take it, especially after the way his cock twitches in his pants when he smells you. He kisses you again, just a peck over your clit, and your legs shake. Fucking…stars. If this is how you feel when you tease him…well, he gets it. You mewl and push back on his face, but he hardly thinks you want it that easy.

“Stop moving,” he tells you sternly, with a voice he’d use on quarries.

A shiver runs down your spine. “But—” You break into a whine when his open palm slaps the side of your thigh. It’s probably the surprise rather than the sting that makes you inhale sharply, and a combination of both that dampens the cotton between your legs.

“Stop moving,” he repeats, mouth pressed against your core so you can feel the vibration; that, he learnt from you. “Or you don’t get my mouth.”

Above him, you let out a displeased little grunt, too throaty to mean much. But you open your legs wider and brace yourself on the front desk, grant him full access to you. His index hooks on your underwear, moves it aside, and he buries his lips deep into the softest part of you. Din barely hears you gasp. He circles both arms around your thighs and pulls you closer, until his tongue is buried between your folds and you just have to take it. Fuck, it’s just…decadent. The taste, the smell, how soaked you are already, your little purrs and whimpers when he sucks on your lips. They’re not things he ever thought he’d get to feel. He doesn’t deserve any of it.

“Mmm, stars, Mando,” you sob, sneakily rutting your hips like you just can’t help it. He allows it, but only because he’s so rock fucking hard he’s practically doing the same thing. His cock trapped down one pant leg, he squeezes his thighs to try and soothe the ache. “Move—move up a b-bit.”

“No,” he grunts, and licks a slow line from the spot right below your clit to the back of your slit. It wasn’t so long ago that it was your mouth on him, you teasing him mercilessly inside this very store, him moaning and grunting and losing his mind. That’s how he wants you: sloppy, desperate, begging.

“Maker, don’t t-tease,” you moan, but it only encourages him. His tongue slides deep inside you where you’re hotter than sin, enjoying how your walls swell and tighten around it. You’re so fucking wet, he could push into you right now and relieve the pressure building between his legs. But not yet.

“Beg me,” Din groans, mouthing at the inside of your thighs and sucking tiny bruises there. You moan above him, deep in your throat, and he wonders which one of you is more turned on right now. “Put—fuck—put that smart mouth to use. Beg me.”

For a moment all he can hear is your labored breathing, the wheels turning in your pretty head, laying out a plan to make him give in faster. Then, soft and sweet, you hum, “Mando.”

One word. Probably the word Din hears the most, so generic and impersonal that everyone from friends to strangers to enemies call him that. That word coming from your lips makes his heart sprint, his cock pulse and scream at him to hurry up. Stars, but if it was his name—his real name—on your lips, soft and purring like you pronounced his nickname, he knows he wouldn’t be able to hold back a second longer.

“You always make me feel so good,” you continue, arching your back a little to test the waters. “You’re so—so good with your mouth, stars. Want you to kiss me again—kiss me everywhere. Taste me like yesterday—” Your breath catches when he sucks on your inner lips again, closer to where you want him. Maker, if you keep talking like that… “Used to th-think about it all the time, how—mmm—how your—your tongue would feel. Never, ngh, never thought you’d use it th-there, though.” Din laps at your cunt, drinks from it. Fuck, he can’t remember the last time he got this hard. An airy laugh before you continue. “You can be so d-dirty sometimes. I’d let you do—do anything to me.”

Really, Din doesn’t know what pushes him to do it. He doesn’t know what makes him pull back and spread you open with his fingers, stare at your glistening, deliciously swollen folds, and spit at their very top. You moan raggedly above him, a complete mess of sobs and whimpers, as Din simply stares. He watches the trail of spit run down your slit, the lower it goes the more precum he feels sticking to his trousers. Half-drunk on your words and your slick, Din thinks: What did you do to me? Maker, you have him wrapped around your finger.

Saliva trails down until it teardrops on your clit, clings to it, and he doesn’t need another sign. His lips latch on to your bundle of nerves and suck. You sob and whine and cry, rocking your hips hard against his mouth, and he continues sucking through his teeth. Your knees give out, but he holds them before you can hit the ground, holds you in place as he feels you give him everything, your pussy clenching around nothing. Slick trails down his chin, all the way to his neck, and—shit. He’s going to burst in his pants just from feeling you cum in his mouth.

It takes every last ounce of self-control he has left to detach his lips from your cunt and stumble to his feet. You’re still shaking, still panting, but he can’t hold it back a minute longer. Fuck, not even a second longer, he needs to have you right now.

It’s a struggle to get a hold of his fly, fingers trembling and teeth grinding. When he finally pulls the zipper down, the sound snaps your head up.

“Are you—Mando, are you going to—”

“Yes,” he grunts, digging into his waistband for his cock, lining it up against your cunt. Stars, he’s so pent up, it hurts to touch it. “Is it—is it o-okay, can—can, I—”

“Oh, fuck, yes,” you mewl, pushing your hips so tightly against his groin the head of his cock catches against your entrance. Fuck. “Please, please, please, put it inside, let me feel your big, thick, co—”

One hard shove, deep enough that he feels himself poke your cervix, and he’s cumming—hard. His spine doubles over and he grunts and moans into your hair, giving you short, stunted thrusts as he fills you to the brim. You were already so swollen before, now you feel unbearably tight, squeezing his cock so harshly his eyes roll back on his skull. And his balls keep pulling up and giving you more of his load, his teeth grinding so hard they might crack. One last thrust, nice and deep so his cum stays inside you, and his palm presses down on your eyes. Din uses that hand as leverage to turn you around and tilt your head like you showed him, just enough so he can reach your lips. And he kisses you.

Your bodies spasm and throb against each other, you clench around him involuntarily and he flinches, too sensitive to handle the aftershocks of your orgasm. Still, he could stay like this for days. Gently sucking on your tongue, running his along the roof of your mouth, feeling how your lips curve against his in a smile. Then, an alarming thought. Maybe this is the only way to do it that feels right now—sex, he means. With the helmet off, his lips on yours, his nose on your hair. Bare hands drawing circles on your hips. Every sense devoted to you. Even the briefest taste can be a point of no return.

You peck his lips and flutter sweet, short kisses around his jaw, working your way up to his ear, where you whisper, “We’re running out of time.”

The jammer. Those words are quickly becoming the bane of his existence. “I know,” he whispers back, but presses one last, long kiss to your lips that feels inexplicably sad, like a kiss goodbye. Din shakes the thought off his head. He’s too pessimistic sometimes.

You both hiss when he pulls out, slowly so he won’t hurt you.

“Keep ‘em closed,” he tells you before removing his hand from your eyes. For all he knows you could open them right there, and there’d be nothing he could do about it. Somehow, however, he’s certain you won’t. His trust is rewarded when he pulls the hand back, and your eyes are screwed shut beneath it.

It takes an awkward choreography to straighten yourselves. You try to pull your own underwear back on, but in your position it’s near impossible. So Din kneels behind you once more, fishes his helmet from the floor, tucks himself back into his trousers, and lifts your panties until they hug your hips. You push your own skirts down before Din’s upright, which results in the long fabric covering him like your furniture. You share a quick laugh before standing straight and facing each other.

“You can open them.”

Now, he tells himself, watching your sated smile and blinking eyes. The words are on the tip of his tongue: When this is over, would you like to come with me—

“If there’s a jammer here,” you say, before he can get a word out, “it’s in the workshop.”

You walk around him and open a door behind the reception desk to reveal the staircase that leads to your apartment. Din’s still telling himself that he’ll just ask you later, when you climb one step—and stop. You turn around like you can sense he’s about to ask, for the second time in this store, where you’re going.

“Gotta get some stuff from upstairs, but I’ll be down in a second.” Your voice wobbles, your foot hesitates on the step. You’re nervous. “But if you find the jammer before I come back, don’t…don’t leave.”

“Of course not.” Maker, of course he wouldn’t leave without you. Do you really think he would?

The workshop is darker than the reception. A single window, currently boarded up, so he has to use the helmet’s light. The cone of white light creates a sinister effect, like creatures lurk everywhere it doesn’t touch. Rubber tubes hang from the ceiling like lianas, circuit boards glimmer green like leaves, and yellow sensors blink from several components. Your own little ecosystem watches him dig into boxes of clutter to search for a jammer. Stars, he’s never known how you manage to find anything here. It’s probably best if he waits outside; he wouldn’t be able to find his own ship in here without you.

He’s turning to the door when the helmet’s light catches on a dark glint, like it reflected on a mirror. It stops him on his tracks. Din’s not sure what prompts his feet to carry him toward your worktable, where the mystery item lays center-front. He sees himself reflected on the dark T-visor. It’s a helmet. It’s a blue Mandalorian helmet.

At first he’s confused. Surprised to see a Mandalorian helmet here—and is it even a Madalorian helmet? Yes, yes it is. His brain lags behind his eyes, goes through different scenarios, each less likely than the last.

Is there another Mandalorian here? Did the Alor bring this? Is the Alor a client?

And then, truth.

It falls abruptly on his back like atmospheric pressure, gravity that crushes. A hot rush of blood enveloping his head, poisoning his thoughts, a ringing in his ears so sharp he thinks he might pass out. A million thoughts in less than a second—convoluted, scrambled, furious. Then an image, so clear that the Maker himself might’ve played it for him like a holo: Thieves, scammers, criminals scurrying through the tunnels of the Covert, the empty halls where his people built a refuge, where they could feel safe. The pile of beskar armor unguarded—the high price that brave Mandalorians paid to help Din, help the child—served in a silver platter for these scavengers, these fucking honorless lowlifes.

His gloved fingers grip your worktable so hard his knuckles might crack—or the table. But the Mandalorian can’t feel the pain on his joints, not when his bloodstream’s turned to acid, when it feels like somebody jammed live wires into his head.

This fucking place. This planet with its fucking people, their fucking cynicism, this fucking landfill for hazardous waste, this piece of shit skughole—

Above, the Mandalorian hears footsteps. Your footsteps. You.

He looks down at the helmet, the empty T-visor limp and black, dead. You did this. Thinking of you clears the red cloud from his mind, trades it for a gray one. A headache creeps behind his eyes, his shoulders go slack. He feels hollowed out. Like a spoon reached inside his chest and scooped away everything essential, left him a carcass. Like something died here today.

You did this.

And then the helmet is not a helmet, but a severed head. A head with a pool of blood around it, guts sprayed all over, and there’s the corrupt smell of blaster residue coming from his neighbor’s house, the taste of copper after biting his tongue running, the durasteel giants shooting red death, the deafening explosions, his parents’ screams, his school going up in a cloud of smoke, his father holding him, whispering one last sentence that he can’t hear through the sounds of war and carnage, his mother’s cheeks stained with tears and dirt and blood, their blurring faces, the darkness, the fear.

Holding the helmet, Din feels tears sting in the corners of his eyes, then hot on his cheeks. Nobody understands, why can’t anybody understand? The warrior that owned this helmet is lost forever, condemned to live like a phantom, empty without the Creed, without the Way. It’s worse than death. It’s the curse that most of the Covert was forced to carry, to walk this galaxy like living dead, violently stripped of everything that mattered. And the relic of their sacrifice sits in your workshop next to the rest of your junk, ready to be sold off to the highest bidder, somebody who’ll want to hang it in their wall like game they hunted, and how could you do this to him, how could you, how could you do this—

“Find anything yet?”

When the Mandalorian turns, his helmet’s white light locks you in place like quarry. Like guilty quarry.

You squint and raise a palm to shut out the bright beam. “Stars, Mando,” you laugh. “Are you trying to blind me? Turn that off.”

Your words are muffled by the rushing blood that wraps around his ears, loud as a waterfall, but he can understand them. The Mandalorian grips the helmet tighter between his hands and keeps the light on so you can see what he found, what he knows about you. The ugly, festered truth about you.

Once your eyes adjust to the bright light and they’re able to stay open for more than three seconds, you give him a quizzical look. The visor gives you nothing, so you drop your gaze to the hard evidence between his hands.

And you have the nerve to look even more surprised. Furrowed eyebrows and everything to add to the performance.

“Where did you get that?” you ask.

A thousand responses climb into his head in a savage, foul clutter, like army ants. I should ask you the same, where do you think?, how much are they giving you?, was it worth it?, what’s wrong with you?, what’s wrong with this fucking planet? He opens his mouth, but they swarm in his throat all at once and tie a knot around his windpipe. More tears on his cheeks, another attempt at words—nothing.

Finally, quietly: “How could you do this to me?”

The crease between your brows digs deeper, and there’s genuine worry in your eyes. Of course you’re worried, he just caught you red fucking handed. “Mando, I really don’t understand—”

“Me neither,” he hisses through his teeth, “because this is a Mandalorian helmet, and you’re no Mandalorian.” The first insect out, the rest follow like a waterfall, crawling out his mouth. “How long did you wait after I left to steal this from the Covert? An hour? Five minutes?”

Trapped under the light, where you can no longer hide in shadows, you look stricken. The harsh light shines on circles under your eyes, creases where you frown. Bleak features he never noticed before.

Your voice is low and icy when you say, “I never stole anything from the Covert.”

“Scavenge, loot, I don’t care what you people like to call it.” How could you, after everything, how could you.

“Listen to me,” you say steadily, but your eyes are hot coals and your jaw is set, your own anger rising. Good. Masks off. He wants to see who’s been hiding under his noses these nine days. All those fucking months. “I didn’t take a thing from the Covert. I have no idea where that helmet came from.”

The Mandalorian is barely listening. He’s heard more than enough lies for two lifetimes, he sure as fuck doesn’t need yours. Instead, he focuses on the one thought that manages to float in the red sea of anger and despair. He holds on to it like an anchor, clutches it until his palms bleed, but truth hurts.

“Duma.” He doesn’t ask this time around—he tells you. He knows and there’s nothing you can do about it—nothing he can do about it. Greef Karga’s words shine painful light on fog. Boiling beskar…did you take her up on that deal? “You’re selling it to her.”

“Stars, of course not.” The stoniness of your features melts for an instant, hurt revealed underneath those layers. You look devastated, tired. Maker, you’re good. Those hours of sabacc are sure paying off. “Why won’t you believe me?”

“How can I believe you?” he snarls, his head suffocating in dark quicksand—grief, anger, betrayal all clogging his nostrils, making his head throb. How could you how could you how could you. “When I know what type of people sprout from this planet, I make a living hunting them. I know you—” his voice breaks, but the words keep flowing and he hardly hears them “—I know the kind of company you keep, I know you have no principles, I know you can’t commit to shit—”

“Commit?” you snap, face hardening cold and twisted like the magma outside, but he knows too well what lies beneath the surface. Lava, hot and bubbling, your anger as raw as his. Rawer. “You wanna talk about commitment? I waited for you for five months!” The light from the helmet no longer makes you squint, but it turns your eyes red and watery. “You left. You left me here to starve through a fucking siege that you caused—”

“I came back for you!”

That gives you pause. Then you shake your head. “No, you came back because that piece of shit official asked—”

“He asked to meet me in Belderone.” Belderone, same sector as Nevarro, not even ten minutes away in hyperspace. “Told me Nevarro wasn’t safe because there was a siege, so I insisted we meet here.” The memory drains him. How worried he was about you, the type of worried that stirs bile in the stomach. How guilty he felt. “To see you again. Make sure you were okay.” The Mandalorian looks down at the helmet in his hands, a strange mirror staring up at him. Harsher than the one from this morning. His ears ring, his mouth tastes sour, his rising headache plateaus into an unbearable, incessant throb. A ghost limb aches somewhere in his body, all over it. He wants to leave your store, your planet.

How could you?

Mando doesn’t raise his head to look at you when he walks out the workshop. You don’t stop him when he reaches the main door. You don’t stop him when he walks out to the street.

The sky is jaundice-yellow when he steps outside. Gone are this morning’s blue hues, suffocated by the sickly coughing of a million volcanos, by their fumaroles and their sparks. For all the Mandalorian cares, this planet can burn.

On his way to the cantina to pick up the kid, he stares at the marker that identifies the entrance to the city: that crooked, arthritis-ridden arch. Beyond it, he spots the outline of a ship. A sleek civilian shuttle, probably a rental. The official isn’t stupid enough to fly a Republic starship past siege lines, so if the tiny shuttle fooled Guideon’s platoon in the atmosphere, well, it’ll have to do it again. Tomorrow, they’ll just have to tempt fate and avoid tempting the batallion of Imperial cruisers. Or fly out in the Crest and hope they can jump into hyperspace before imps pulverize them. All he wants is to put as many lightyears between him and this planet.

Din’s head pounds when he walks inside the cantina. The only thought hammering against his skull: How could you.

…………

Edit: Chapter 5…’tis the end

Taglist: @rosetophighlander @hellomothermoon @newyorksins @leo-moon @benedrylcumbersnatch @corrupt-fvcker @seratoninforyouseratoninforme @multifandomlife22 @justanotherblonde23 @abysshaven @equalstrashflavoredtrash @16boyfriends-and-me @ihaveashield @dinispunk @bananaagurl @mstgsmy @absurdthirst @cowboy-kylo @roxypeanut @heyitmelexie @readsalot73 @krazykatkay456 @elusive-danger-noodle @lola-wolf @nikkiparthena @lifeisapitch15 @teaofpeach @auty-ren @anewrule @hyp-oh-critical​ @pascaliprincess​ @geannad​ @coaaster​ @frietiemeloen​ @yourbucky084​ @brynnstudies​ @elfwoodfae​

im pretty sure i forgot someone so please message me if i did!

[angelswing236]

3, 4, 15, and 16!

3. Do you read your own fics?

Yes! Sometimes when I'm writing a multi-chaptered fic, I will go back and read either the whole thing or previous chapters to help me kickstart the muse and get back on track. And sometimes, I'll just go back and read a fic for the fun of it. Sometimes I think about how I could have done something different and sometimes I just chuckle again at the bits that made me laugh when I wrote them or cry at the bits that made me cry when I wrote them. And occasionally, I read a bit that I think 'ooh, that's pretty good, that bit.' :D

4. Do you write every day? If so do you have daily goals?

That depends on what I'm writing. When I first started posting fics on AO3, I was posting a chapter a day and quickly ran out of chapters. For both An Itch Under The Skin and In Vino Veritas, I was writing chapters and posting them the same day after the first 10 or so chapters. But I realised that's not the best way to write because it doesn't give you time to properly think things through and finesse the plot. Now, I tend to post weekly chapters, which is a similar process but gives me longer to write and reflect on the scenes I'm writing.

However, I recently did a month-long prompt challenge, so I was writing every day. I had the prompt list towards the end of September and started writing each short story, but found myself constantly re-reading, editing and refining. I also set myself a rule that each of those 31 stories must be exactly 100, 200, 300, 400 or 500 words long. But that's the only time I have a specific goal for writing. If I'm writing a multi-chapter fic, I do set myself a rough goal of no less than 5,000 words a chapter, but it's not set in stone.

If I'm not posting a multi-chapter fic, I won't necessarily write regularly. I may work on a WIP if the mood takes me, but sometimes I just get the urge to write something or inspiration will hit and I have to write it as soon as I can. My one-shots are often conceived, written and posted within hours: see Mad About The Boy, Ladies' Choice, Seek And Ye Shall Find, Beltane, The Trial of Thomas Barrow, Artistic Liberties, Caught In The Crossfire, They Shall Not Grow Old, O Christmas Tree and What's His Is Hers, What's Hers Is His.

15. Angst or fluff?

I probably write more angst than fluff, and I enjoy bringing a bit of drama, so probably angst. But I do love a bit of fluff, especially with a dash of humour.

16. What is your favourite character (or characters) to write for?

Most of my fics have Mary Crawley and Tom Branson in the starring roles, and I usually go with a Mary POV. She was never my favourite character in the show - I always found her a bit of a madam - but I like getting in her head and making her more human than she sometimes seemed on the screen. Tom was one of my favourites in canon, and I like fleshing him out more than we got on screen.

But since I first started writing a modern version of Thomas in In Vino Veritas, I've found that I love writing him, whether modern era or canon era. He's a layered and complicated character, but there are reasons for that and he can be vicious and sad and funny and so many other things all at once. He's always a complete treat to write.

[wefoundloveunderthelight]

Mystery Of Pixie Hollow by GleefullyCaptainSwan Chapter 8/11

Read on AO3: | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Or on FF

Stacy's Tortured Crew: @teamhook @kmomof4 @stahlop @lfh1226-linda @ilovemesomekillianjones @itsfabianadocarmo @mariakov81 @qualitycoffeethings @zaharadessert @jrob64 @jonesfandomfanatic @natascha-ronin @tiganasummertree @xarandomdreamx @therooksshiningknight @batana54 @superchocovian @onceratheart18 @ultraluckycatnd @snowbellewells @karlyfr13s @the-darkdragonfly @xsajx @deckerstarblanche @jonesfandomfanatic @winterbaby89

Chapter 8: Little Lost Soul

Emma woke as luminescence glow streamed across her face, pinching her eyes shut to keep the offending light out. Beside her, Killian stirred. She turned her head and opened her eyes, watching the man sleeping restlessly beside her. It was not in her plans to sleep with Killian Jones, but last night when they returned home from seeing the dead child, somehow she knew the night was not going to end any other way.

He had been emotionally destroyed seeing the blonde girl laying on the slab, the pain of believing it could be his Alice almost draining him. He had clung to her in the dark, holding her as if he depended on her in order to breathe. She had not planned it, but she needed it. She needed him. A fact that terrified her.

She had felt so alone in her quest to find her son. She knew that Will missed Henry, that he believed that something terrible had happened to him, she didn’t doubt for a minute that Will would move heaven and earth to return her child to her. But he didn’t understand her desperation, the sheer determination driving her to find her son. Killian did. She wasn’t alone in her madness, they shared that too.

Last night was the first time since Henry had gone missing that Emma felt as if she wasn’t truly alone. Her eyes drifted down the man’s body, taking in the various scars on his arms, she wondered what kind of life he had experienced after his daughter went missing, after his wife had died. She knew he had spent time in prison before returning to build a life with Milah, a life that was cut short by someone else’s carelessness.

“See something you like?” Her eyes lifted to meet his and she was met with a genuine smile.

“Good morning, I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Love, I believe you’re the reason I slept as well as I did.” His fingers traced the skin on her arm, causing goosebumps to appear on her flesh. It was all too intimate, too close, too real for her to comprehend.

“Well, I’m glad you were able to rest, we have a drive ahead of us today.” She exhaled before rolling over, away from his touch, away from the stare of eyes too blue for their own good. “How long do you think it will take us to get to North Hampton?”

He yawned, rubbing his hands over his eyes as he sat up. “Two hours if traffic cooperates.” Laughing he added, “As long as we take the truck and not that pile of junk of yours.”

“We’ve had this discussion, mine is safer.”

“It would be faster if we could take my bike.”

“You want to pedal to North Hampton?” She laughed loudly.

“Motorcycle, love.” He said with a wink that made her feel like a schoolgirl staring at a dangerous boy who caused her heart to pound and her legs to turn to jelly.

“Hell no. I’m not riding on anything with you that only has two wheels.”

He reached out and brushed the blonde hair from her shoulder, a gesture that immediately made her cheeks warm. “Last night you said you said you trusted me, did you not?”

“Don’t use my words against me.” She teased.

He leaned forward, brushing his nose against her neck as his lips lightly pressed against her collar bone. “I quite remember you enjoyed having something powerful between your legs?”

Emma gulped and closed her eyes, the sensation of what his mouth was doing to her neck causing her to suck in a breath before her eyes sprung open. She adjusted herself, standing from the bed and pulling the sheets with her. “Fine, we can take the bike if it means it will get us there faster.” She rushed to the bathroom, closing the door behind her as she leaned against it. It was a one-time thing with Killian, she couldn’t let this continue any further. She wasn’t the type to sleep with men she had just met. This wasn’t her, regardless of how she was feeling last night.

She was vulnerable, missing Henry, that’s all it could be. It felt good to be wanted, to not feel alone, but continuing the charade would only lead to heartache and distraction. She needed to find Henry, and that is what she intended to do.

She pulled on her pants and one of Killian’s t-shirts he had loaned her, trying not to inhale the intoxicating scent of the man she had shared a bed with last night.

Get your head on right, Emma.

Teasing her fingers through her hair, she stared into her own eyes in the reflection of the mirror in front of her. “You will find Henry.” She said defiantly.

Stepping out of the restroom, she found Killian standing in the kitchen. He was in a pair of sweatpants and nothing else and Emma forced herself to look away as she stared at the toned muscles in his back. “That smells delicious.” She announced as he noticed her.

“Thought it best we eat before we leave.”

“Good plan.” She said with a nod of her head, unsure of what to do with herself. It was so domestic, the two of them standing in the kitchen, him making pancakes on the stove, her setting out plates on the table. A quiet comfort that could easily fall into anxious concern for her.

He tapped the counter as he waited to flip the pancake in front of him and Emma felt a blush creep across her cheeks as she remembered what they had done on that counter the night before. She hoped he had at least cleaned it before he began cooking on it. He sat the pancake on the plate and walked toward her, setting the stack on the table, and sitting across from her.

“So, I was thinking we follow the same plan as last time. Go in, pretend we have children running around somewhere, look for Tink, get the kids, and get out of there.”

“Someone’s optimistic today.”

He laughed. “Perhaps…” His thoughts seemed to trail off. “I have a good feeling that we’re close.”

“I hope you’re right.”

~*~

Killian could feel the anxious emotions from the woman the moment she woke up, distant and withdrawn. He knew that the previous evening had been something that happened in the moment, something temporary but he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out for the woman. A simple touch, a brush of her hair. She recoiled each time, running as fast as she could to another part of the boat, he could tell that she had been hurt in the past. He wondered how much of an impact Henry’s father had on her emotions when it came to men.

However drawn he felt to the woman, he needed to focus his thoughts on Alice. He was determined to get his daughter back today. He just had to hope that Tink would assist them once he got there.

He pulled his leather jacket onto his arms and tossed his old jacket toward Emma. “You’ll want to wear this. It can get chilly on the bike this time of year.”

She tugged the jacket onto her arms, and he couldn’t hide the smile at the way she looked, outfitted in his leather jacket. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Does it look stupid?” She inquired, spinning around in a circle in the jacket, staring down at herself.

“Not at all.” He didn’t want to tell her how much he would prefer they were having a repeat performance of last evening’s festivities with her in nothing more than that leather jacket. Best keep that to himself, he thought. “Shall we?”

She followed him along the pier into the warehouse at the edge of the dock. He tugged on the tarp covering his bike, yanking it clear. “You ride that rusted out old truck when you have something that looks like this hidden under garbage?” Emma exclaimed as she ran her hands over the motorcycle.

“I haven’t ridden it in years. It’s from a time in my life I’m not particularly proud of.” He remarked with a frown. He remembered all the deeds he had performed for Gold while using this mode of transportation, easy in, easy out. Quick getaway when needed.

“Guess I could say the same about the bug, though I guess I refuse to get rid of her to prove to myself that I can be better than I was.” She responded softly and he met her eyes, wanting to know so much more about the woman but knowing now was not the time to intrude in her past.

He climbed onto the bike, backing it out of its spot before turning the key as it revved to life. He handed her a helmet and smirked. “You’ll need to hold on, wouldn’t want to lose you halfway there.” She narrowed her eyes, but he didn’t miss her nervous glance at the bike. “I’m kidding Swan, it’s safe.”

She put the helmet over her head and climbed on the back of the bike, tentatively putting her hands at his hips. He pulled out of the spot, the smirk growing on his face at the squeal from behind him as her hands wrapped tightly around his waist and she leaned into him.

Mostly when he thought of this bike, he remembered the times that he and Milah would run off, hiding out from her husband as they made love on the beach underneath the stars. After the car accident, when Milah lost her ability to walk, he put the bike under tarps, never wanting to ride it again without her at his back. When he lost her, he swore never to look at it again, the reminder of how they stole love away for a time. A reminder that all bad deeds come back to you in the end. Everything has a price.

His price was losing Milah and then Alice.

He closed his thoughts off, trying to focus only on the road in front of him and the arms wrapped around his waist, the warmth at his back. He was going to save Alice, fix everything. He had to.

The sign on his right alerted him to his exit and he pulled off toward the directions they had gotten for the carnival. Pulling into the dirt parking area, he turned off the bike and waited for Emma to dismount. “Shall we make the rounds, love?” He held out his hand and she slid her fingers between his, something he reminded himself not to get used to.

“What are we looking for exactly?” She asked softly beside him.

“Tink. The girl promised to assist us, we just need to find her.”

They spent the day distracted, eating some sort of fried carnival food, that was unnecessarily delicious, walking every inch of the park, even partaking in a few of the rides. It was important for them to not stand out. At the top of the Ferris wheel, Emma pointed out the location of a few of the players they had come to know. “There’s Felix.” Emma found him at the entrance to the staffing trailers. “I think that one is Devin, I heard Felix shout to him the night Henry went missing.”

He gestured to the man running the Ferris Wheel, “That one’s Rufio.” He avoided eye contact with the man as they slipped past him on their way back to the sky. “He tossed me in the trailer the night you found me locked in. Nasty bugger.” Emma frowned and Killian took her hand again. “We’ll find them, love. Don’t give up hope yet.”

“I’m not I just…” Her eyes slanted as she peered into the distance. “There she is.” Killian turned to focus on where she was pointing, just as a woman with short hair walked from the fun house toward the bathrooms. “It’s Tink.”

They waited anxiously for the Ferris Wheel to finish spinning, eager to get off the ride and head toward the direction of the woman they were seeking. Killian had Emma wait behind the building as he lurked around the corner of the entrance. As soon as the woman exited the bathroom he followed her. When she turned the corner, out of sight of the major players, he grabbed her and pulled her behind the building, his hand over her mouth.

“Don’t scream.” He growled into her ear. “I’m going to remove my hand, but I swear to God if you scream…” He spun her around to face him and her eyes went wide.

“What do you want?”

Emma appeared at his side, bouncing nervously on her feet.

“You know what we want!” Emma announced to the woman with a snarl in her tone.

“Leave me alone.”

“Who was the little girl? The one who died? What did you do to her?” He asked angrily as the woman stared at feet, avoiding his eyes.

~*~

The little girl wouldn’t stop coughing in the other room. At times, Tink was sure her eyes were rolling back into her head. She was imagining it, she had to be, seeing the whites of her eyes. It was the drugs. Dammit, she knew she should stop taking them, but she couldn’t face what her life had become without them.

“Tink please, she needs a doctor. She’s burning up.”

“Alice, please, go back to your bed. Take care of the others.”

“She needs help, somethings wrong with her. Please, this is my fault, you can’t let her die.” The little girl pleaded and Tink thought back to a time when she was the girl’s age, scared and alone, with Peter promising to never let her go hungry again.

She cursed meeting him, the idiot who called himself Pan. She had been living on the streets after running from her foster mother after the beating she had received for hiding food in her room at night. The home she was sent to was filled with many children who bullied her and stole her food during the day. The only way she knew to survive was to take matters into her own hands. But after the beatings, she knew she needed to run. So, she took to the streets, surviving on scraps until Peter found her.

She had thought he would be her savior, only to find that she had run into the arms of a man who was much worse than what she had escaped.

Tink wasn’t the only child Pan took, suddenly she found herself in a room full of scared children, and a man whose sanity slowly decayed.

“You brought me a broken one.” Tink flinched when she realized Pan had entered the small basement, his face hidden in dark recess of the room. Children scattered to the corners of the room, huddled together as they hid from the man whose shadow was the only thing they ever saw.

“She’s sick, somethings wrong with her. She keeps asking for her medicine.”

“Get rid of her.”

Tink froze, her eyes wide. “We can take her to a hospital.”

“I won’t let you ruin everything by getting yourself seen. Bring her to me. I’ll take care of it.” He growled as he pounded his feet up the stairs and slammed the door behind him.

Tink walked to the girl, lifting her into her arms. “We’re going to get you help, little one.” She said softly as the girl cried for her mother, begging for medicine to feel better. She handed the little girl to Pan as he lifted her into the car.

“She’s no use to us anymore. She’s too weak to feed me.”

“But you’re taking her to get help right?”

The man leered at her. “Nothing can help her now.” Climbing into the car, Tink cried, clawing at the window at the back door, trying to get the girl out of the car.

“No don’t. Someone can help her, don’t do this.” The car peeled away with a squeal and Tink sunk to the ground, tears pouring from her eyes. Another little lost soul, gone.

~*~

“You can’t be here. If Peter sees you, he’ll…he’s not a good man.” Emma watched the woman twitch in Killian’s grasp.

“I can’t believe this loser calls himself Peter Pan, he’s the good guy in the story. It was that Hook guy that was the villain. Everybody knows the story.”

Killian laughed incredulously beside her. “Seriously? He stole children, that was the entire story. He went into children’s homes and took them from their families. Then he fed that man’s hand to a crocodile. How is he the bloody hero? If you ask me, Pan was always the villain, and that poor Captain Hook was a victim.”

Emma opened her mouth to argue before realizing they were standing in the middle of a carnival, holding a woman hostage, and arguing about a children’s story. A fairytale.

“Stop talking.” The woman yelled between them. “You need to go. I’m trying to protect the children; I can’t do that if you get me caught.”

“A girl died.” Killian growled. “How exactly are you protecting them?”

The woman choked softly before regaining her composure. “I tried to help her. I did. You have to believe me. She was sick but Pan…Pan he took her away.”

“We can help you protect the children, but you need to tell us where they are.” Emma pleaded.

“Not now, not here. Later.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“I promise, just not tonight. He’s already angry about losing one of them. I can’t help you tonight.”

“You can’t take another child tonight.” Killian warned. “Or you won’t just have Pan to be afraid of.”

“You can’t ask me to…”

“I’m not asking. No child goes missing tonight. Do what you have to do to make sure the child gets away.”

The woman looked between them and nodded. “I promise, I’ll be in touch.”

Killian and Emma looked at each other. “How the bloody hell are you going to get in touch with us?”

“I have my ways.” She winked, running back down the side of the building until she disappeared from their sight.

~*~

Tink paced in her room, waiting for Pan to arrive. He was angry about the child who got away, the failure of Alice to bring in one little boy.

Tink knew she needed to shoulder the blame, protect the girl from punishment. She had pushed the boy through a small opening in the bottom of the attraction, enough to let him escape out the back to the safety of his parents. She had done it while Alice was trying to gather the courage to convince the boy to come with her.

“Explain to me one more time how a tiny little boy was able to lift a grate in the middle of a dark fun house.” Tink jumped in place as Pan entered the room.

“I don’t know, somehow it moved, he slipped in his place and before either of us could grab him he was gone. I figured it was better to exit the building than hang around and make a scene, so we came back here.”

“This mistake cannot go unpunished.” He sneered and Tink lowered her eyes. “Bring me the girl.”

She inhaled sharply. “If anything, you should blame Felix. He was in charge of building the fun house at this stop.”

“Was he now?”

“Just saying, Alice and I would not know that the grate was so easily moved, and the boy would not have been able to slip through it if Felix had built the flooring with more stability.”

“Go check on the children.” He dismissed her and Tink let out the breath she was holding as she ran out the door.

Scurrying down the stairs she was met by a fidgeting Alice, from the look on her face, Tink was not going to find peace in the basement. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Henry. He has a fever.” She said with worry all over her face.

“When did that start?”

“Last night, I didn’t want to say anything after…” The girl closed her eyes and Tink knew that the girl was aware that the fate of the child she had brought in was not a happy one.

“Take me to him.” Tink followed the girl to the small mattress in the dark corner.

“Henry, Tink’s here.”

“Don’t take me, I’m fine. I swear I’m fine.” The boy cried weakly.

“I’m not taking you anywhere.” She reached down and felt his head. He was burning up. She pulled Alice toward her. “Keep him away from the other children, I’ll bring you water and soup. We need to keep him hydrated, but don’t let anyone else see him. If Pan were to…”

“If Pan were to what?” The booming voice caused Tink to freeze. The blonde girl’s eyes grew wide.

“Nothing. Henry’s just tired, I didn’t want you to be bothered with it.” The woman stood and started to head to the stairs, but Pan grabbed her by the arm.

“What’s wrong with the boy?” He growled.

“Nothing’s wrong, he’ll be fine.”

She closed her eyes as he reached over, touching the boy’s forehead, and standing to stare at her. Instead of speaking he yanked her toward the stairs, dragging her up them until they were beyond the door. The moment the door closed she felt his hand across her face. “Don’t ever lie to me again.”

“I’m sure it’s just from being moved so much, it’s just a fever. With water and soup…”

“His soul is waning…we need to drain what we can before he’s gone. I’ll take care of him once the children have gone to bed.”

“Tonight?” she asked in shock. “But he might be better by morning.” She regretted the statement the moment it left her mouth, he had her by the throat against the wall, fire in his eyes.

“Are you questioning me?” She shook her head quickly, meeting his eyes and holding his gaze. “Good. Go to bed.” He released his hold on her and she rushed away from him. “Seems I’m the only one with the stomach to deal with things anymore.”

She took once last look at the door to the basement, dropping her head sadly and rushing to her room, locking the door behind her.

[kitkat1003]

Who Are You Really?

Chapter 4: Rush Hour

Summary:

Huh.  Guess Spirit doesn’t have too much time to introspect.  That’s okay, though.  Introspection doesn’t lead to anything good, and Spirit much prefers action over thought when they start to think too far back.

They dig into their pocket, pulling out the proper token.

Ft. Almond, who belongs to @strange-lace

Spirit Masterpost

Spirit is nervous.

Macaque’s token is buzzing.  

They don’t know if they should be.  They’re nervous for clients, of course, and they’re polite to everyone they meet, but Macaque is...different.  They’ve known him longer, longer than most of their clients.

They’ve done so many favors for him, he can’t hurt them.  They know that.  They know they know that.

They still tremble a little as they reach into their pocket.

Are the favors not enough?  They have to be.  Spirit has been operating on them for as long as they can remember, likely longer than that.  Favors are dependable, favors make sense, they can tally them down and be assured, and know, and can quantify, and

And yet.

Macaque is like Red, but different.  Close, but not a friend.  Something else.  And Spirit shouldn’t be afraid.  They’ve done him favors, they’re safe.  They’ve done everything he asked, even when it wasn’t good.  Because they aren’t stupid, and they know what is and isn’t right.  They haven’t been right for a long time maybe ever, but they just want to be safe, and this is how they will be.

They know that.  This is how it has to be.

Because if it isn’t, then Spirit would have, and wouldn’t have, and

Spirit doesn’t like to think on the would haves, because they turn into should haves.  They should have this, they should have that—none of that is helpful.  Wanting more from the past doesn’t change the present.

Besides, they should have what they deserve, and

Spirit grabs the token and goes to where they are needed.

They’re not quite sure where they are, at first, but the cliffside they appear at is just a few miles from the town.  They can see the weather tower from where they are.  It’s the tallest building in the city, after all.

Macaque’s seeming lack of appearance would be worrying, but Spirit feels the itch that always happens in their eye, the big one, when Macaque is hiding in the dark.

“You test that a lot,” they say.  “I haven’t missed you yet.”

They turn around just as Macaque steps out of their shadow.  It’s kind of interesting, watching the flat object liquify into what seems like smoke, pulling from the rockface upon which Spirit’s shadow is cast.  From shadow to smoke to flesh and bone, the transition seamless.

“I’m your teacher, aren’t I?  Who else is going to test you?” He stretches his arms leaning back against the cliff face with his arms crossed over his chest.

Spirit supposes that makes sense.  Macaque is their teacher, in the sense that he’s really the only person who has bothered to teach Spirit anything, save for their mom.  But Mom isn’t a teacher, she’s Mom, so Macaque is their teacher.  It makes sense when you think about it.

“So,”  Macaque starts, a claw lazily tugging at Spirit’s sleeve to get their attention.  “Got any new information?  As a favor,” he adds the last part like he always does, and Spirit perks up like they always do.

A new favor is always so nice.

“Oh, well, the Demon Bull King was released,” they start.  “Red Son, Princess Iron Fan, and the Demon Bull King have congregated on the outskirts of Wán Qiãn Chéng, where Monkey King’s successor lives, and they battle him from time to time—”

“Monkey King has a successor?” Macaque all but shouts, loud enough that Spirit takes a step back.

They fidget, and hide their hands behind their back.

“Um, yes?” Spirit shrugs at Macaque’s incredulous look.  “He stopped the Demon Bull King when DBK first emerged, and has been protecting the city and, uh, the world since then.  He’s a little younger than me, age wise I think.

“I haven’t gotten a good look at him, but he’s friends with the youngest member of the Long family, so he might be aristocratic?  I don’t know,” They finish lamely, smiling a little.

Macaque grins.  It’s not a nice one, one of his scheming grins he gets when he wants something and is figuring out how to get it.  Spirit finds it familiar, considering Macaque always wants something from them, in one way or another.  Why he feels the need to scheme is beyond them, because Spirit does most anything if asked politely.

Then again, they were a bit obstinate when Macaque and them first met.  They made Macaque work for their favor, which is stupid.  They should’ve listened better back then, and Macaque would maybe like them more now.  

Most people don’t like them, though, so they suppose they should be used to it.

“Well then,” Macaque starts, rubbing his chin with his hand in thought.  “That is something.  Thanks kid.  I’ll use that.”

Spirit brightens at the praise.

“You’re welcome!” they beam.  “Um, anything else, sir?”

Macaque waves a hand.  “Nah.”

He turns towards the horizon, and then, for some reason, looks back almost...shy?  Spirit doesn’t really understand Macaque’s moods.  He can flip flop in terms of good or bad feelings very quickly, with no rhyme nor reason Spirit can discern in regards to why.

They jump, scrambling to catch an item as Macaque just...tosses them a bag of what they soon realize is coins.  A fair bit, if the weight is any indication.  The bag is purple, with a silver drawstring for the pouch.  They love purple and silver!  Macaque doesn’t do silver, save for the token he made for them; his cuffs are gold.

They glance up at him in confusion.

“Got tired of carrying that,” Macaque says, looking away from them.  “Figured you wouldn’t mind.  Buy yourself something with it, or whatever.”

He glances back at them again.  Spirit waves.

Macaque jumps off the cliff, and disappears.

Spirit heads back to town, after that, flitting through different shopping centers.  They don’t really have a lot of money regularly, but they also don’t spend a lot of money regularly, so they’re typically okay with spending money when they want or need to.  

The last thing that was a big purchase was getting their outfit fixed up for the third time.  They always wait until the fabric is so worn that they can’t stitch it together to do so, because they try to be frugal, but keeping their one and only outfit in fair condition is a necessity.

Macaque had mentioned the practice, saying that it was how he kept his outfit pristine after centuries.  Demons who could weave silk would restring the fabric line by line until it was simply the same but brand new, keeping the old string to be salvaged for whatever they could find within.  It wasn’t terribly expensive, but was still a purchase to be saved up for.

They don’t shift into human form, staying in the alleyways where they’re hardly seen and glancing out to the streets to see if there’s anything neat to find instead of walking in the open as a human.  Their eyes catch on a shop in the food district, a colorful storefront.

Bitter Sweets.

They can see the colorful creations set up in the window display.  Sweets, pastries.

Pastries.

They remember pastries.  It was such a rare thing to have.  Father was always in the Inn, always toward the front side they’d have to cross to get to the indoor kitchen.  They never wanted to cross Father.  They knew what would happen.

But it became a game.  Find whenever Father is gone, fixing up a room for a new customer, off to the town to find tourists, and sneak into the kitchen.  Throw together the ingredients, skipping across the floor to find each and every item needed for the recipe.  Mixing the ingredients into dough, kneading it and playing with it as Mother laughed, shaping it into its proper form, placing it in the stone oven and watching, waiting.

And then the dough would rise, and Spirit would lean in so close to watch that Mom would gently tug them back with a soft smile.  She would pull out the finished product, and Spirit would tug on her sleeve and say ‘Now?’, and she would smile and shake her head and make them wait until it cooled.

They would pull apart the warm (but not hot!) balls of sticky bread just to see the inside and finally stuff a piece into their mouth, giggling.  They’d take the lot and scamper off into safety with Mom, off into the back area where the infirmary was, where father couldn’t reach, the taste of sweetness on their tongue.

Spirit remembers pastries.

Entranced, they cross the street and enter the shop.

The inside is just as warm and bright as the outside, purples and pinks in pastel hues the general color scheme, with cool gray walls and white highlights to accent the colors. There’s a second display case by the front counter, a small table with two chairs off to the side, and a sweet smell of something baking that hits you both with nostalgia and hunger.

Spirit thinks about the last time they’ve eaten, and can’t quite remember.  Then again, that’s not too terrible, considering they don’t need to eat regularly.

“Hello, dear!” A voice calls from further inside.  

Spirit jumps at the sound, and stares as brown hair, purple skin, and red eyes greet them.  The demon is of the spider variety, a cap on her head and smudges of flour and icing on her apron and face.  

She has 3 eyes, just like them.  But they’re not supposed to have three eyes, so it’s different.  She’s allowed to like hers.

She wipes off her hands on her apron and steps up to the counter, a pleasant smile greeting them with her hands on her hips, ready to be of service. “What can I get for you today?”

Spirit stares for a moment.

Right.  They have to order something.

“I-uh-um,” They stammer, because they didn't have time to prepare for this, and just a glance at the display case proves that they don’t know what any of the pastries are, nor do they know what the names mean.

And what did they even expect?  That this random sweets shop would have the exact type of pastry they remembered making centuries ago with someone who has been gone so long it shouldn’t matter?  Those things are lost to time, lost to a world they left behind when there was nothing left but blood and memories.  The soft moments are held only by the crumbs left in their head; there’s nothing tangible here.  They’re so stupid.  So, so, so stupid.

“I can always help you pick something out, if you need help,” the shopkeep says, gentle as Spirit’s anxiety mounts.

No, they can’t ask for help, they’re not allowed to.  They can’t do this, they should just run, run and never come back because this is stupid, what are they even looking for-

“Mooncakes!” they nearly shout, clapping a hand over their mouth a moment later, face bright red as they look away.

Their tail curls around their leg tight enough to hurt.  The shopkeeper's eyes glance down at their leg, for a moment.

Spirit tries again, softer, and fidgets with their belt. “Um, if you, uh, if you have any mooncakes. I would...like those.”

They bite the inside of their cheek hard, just short of drawing blood.

Mooncakes are the only pastry they know by name.  The only pastry that Father allowed and wanted them to make, special for New Years.  That was when they could be in the kitchen for hours, baking batch after batch for customers in the Inn and to hand out to those in the infirmary.

Father never let them make anything outside of what people wanted, what could bring them in money.  He was always so worried about costs, irate by a single lost yuan.  They were only to do what could be profitable.  Providing mooncakes to the tourists brought them business.  That’s all he cared about.

Mom’s hospital business always made far more than the Inn ever did.  It’s a point of pride they carry, that their Mother’s sunny disposition, kind nature, and astute healing practices made her far more of a matriarch than their Father liked.  No one likes staying at an Inn with an owner who has such a cruel gaze, where the owner’s wife and child are too afraid to show their faces.

No one likes staying at an Inn where the owner doesn’t even have a face, but, well, Spirit wouldn’t know anything about that.  Why would they?  They’ve had claws for a long, long time, claws that are strong enough to rip and tear, but that has nothing to do with this.  Nothing happened.  

It’s none of your business.  Stop asking.

The shopkeep smiles.

“Ah, Mooncakes,” she says.  “It’s been a few months since the New Years celebration, but people are still coming around looking for them.  I make a batch every other day just in case.  Lucky for you, today’s the fresh batch!”

She turns away to the back, and Spirit lets out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you, Miss.”

“Call me Almond,” Almond calls from the back.

Spirit smiles.  “Thank you, Miss Almond.”

They only ask for a few, maybe three, but after they pay and leave they find nearly ten in the bag they’ve been given.  They idly chew on one, and almost stop in the street as the rush of nostalgia is accompanied by the taste of an expertly baked mooncake.

Watching the fireworks with Mom, bright lights up in the sky, sharing a mooncake with someone who cared, being carried home, half asleep under the stars and wanting to be nowhere else but where they were then, because the only place that was home was her arms because they were warm and safe and now they’re….

They blink back a couple tears and continue to chew.

They walk around aimlessly for a while, and eventually climb up a random building to sit on its ledge, letting the wind brush through their fur as they chew on their second mooncake.  

They wonder if Red would share one with them, if they asked.  They never stayed around long enough to share one with him on New Years.  They almost pull out their cell phone and text him, but…well.

Red hasn’t been close for a long time.  A rift was made because Spirit failed him, and they’ve always been a coward, too afraid to reach across the gap where something safe and special used to be.

They put their phone away.

A token buzzes in their pocket.

Huh.  Guess Spirit doesn’t have too much time to introspect.  That’s okay, though.  Introspection doesn’t lead to anything good, and Spirit much prefers action over thought when they start to think too far back.

They dig into their pocket, pulling out the proper token.

Oh.  It’s Spider Queen!  

Spirit hasn’t heard from her in a long while, but they’re always happy to help, so they let the token whisk them to where they need to be.

They can hear the rush of cars overhead when they appear in what they assume is the sewers.  Eerie green pods of something litter the walls and ground, and there’s a fair smattering of purple grey spider webs that lighten the dark stones.

“Spirit!”

They turn, and see the Spider Queen just a foot or so away, bathed in green light from a crater shaped pool that has a green, bubbling liquid boiling within.  She’s grinning wide at them, and Spirit will say that, for a demon lost for half a millennium (that’s most demons, to be fair.  They all disappeared when the Demon Bull King did.  After all, if Monkey King could do that to someone, what would he do to them, the weaker ones?), she looks just as much of a threat as she did the last time they saw her.

They bow.

“Hello, Miss Queen,” they greet, and, after glancing back at the bag gripped tightly in their hand, they say “Would you like a mooncake?”

Spider Queen stares, for a moment, and then laughs. “Ha!  My, aren’t you sweet?” 

The sound of Spider Queen’s mechanical spider legs sends a shiver down Spirit’s spine, but Spirit has never minded spiders all that much.  As long as bugs stay away from them, in the sense that they don’t crawl onto them, Spirit leaves them be.  Spider Queen is more than just a bug, they suppose, and therein lies the danger.

They stand up, reach into their bag, and pull out a mooncake.

“This is just the thing I needed!” Spider Queen plucks the mooncake from Spirit’s hand.  “You would not believe the day I just had!”

She takes a bite and Mmms at the taste while Spirit fidgets silently.

“You know, I had my favorite meal taken from me, but this might be the next best thing.”

Spider Queen is a lot like Macaque, in the sense that they both talk a lot and Spirit never knows what to say in reply.  There’s a lot of bragging, grandiose statements and plotting, and then eventually an expectation of a response.  Spirit is never good at responses, though.

Then again, Spider Queen likes to hear herself talk a little more than she cares for a response.  She’s easier to handle, in that sense.  Macaque is harder.

“Would you mind giving me a buff, sweetheart?  As a favor.  I’ve got a bigger task for you, and it requires a bigger explanation.  Why waste the time, right?” Spider Queen holds out one of her mechanical spider legs.

“Right,” Spirit replies with a small smile.  “Of course.”

Lucky that they keep the polish for this sort of stuff on hand.  They pull it out with a rag and start to polish the metal, working out old scratches and making them disappear until the surface glitters like new.

“This town has become a hotbed of activity since ol’ Demon Bull King jumped out from the netherworld,” She starts, talking as Spirit works.  “I thought I’d sneak in and see what the fuss was about, maybe grab a meal or two.  It has been ages since the Spider Queen has ruled, and now that we’re allowed to play, I’m planning on rebuilding my empire!  The monkey boy came in and stole my meal, but he left behind a little piece of himself that I can use.”

She chuckles darkly at that notion.

“Monkey Boy?” Spirit inquires, moving onto the second leg.

“Ugh,” Spider Queen growls under her breath.  “Monkey King’s newest pet project.  He comes tearing in, stealing my perfectly good dinner, that little—” She cuts herself off.  

Spirit hands her another mooncake. She makes a motion with it in the air, huffing indignantly before continuing.  “His hair is enough to give my venom the kick it needs, but I don’t have the minions I used to.  I need tech.”

Spirit starts on the fourth leg.  The position they have to be to buff is uncomfortable, a strain on their back, but to complain would be stupid, so they deal with the pain.

“That’s where you come in, dear,” Spider Queen turns to them.

Spirit glances up.

“You’re good at getting information, and you probably understand this modern stuff better than I do.” She waves a hand, almost dismissive.  “I need someone to build me some spider robots to transport the venom.   You don’t need to worry about the transport, I’ve got Huntsman for that, but they don’t know what to look for.”

Spirit worked on finishing the fourth leg while they respond. “Of course, Miss Queen.  Does it matter if they’re a demon or not?” They like to know specifics.

“Pfft—no self respecting demon knows anything about these new fangled devices!  We thrive off of power and magic, not tech like phones!  Those are things humans use as a crutch,” Spider Queen rolls her eyes, huffing.

“...Right,” Spirit replies, pointedly not getting offended on Red’s behalf.

It’s okay.  She doesn’t know she’s being rude. Spirit stands up, having finished with buffing Spider Queen’s armory.

“I’ll get on it right away, Miss Queen.  Anything else?”  Spirit finds that being polite does wonders, and Spider Queen likes it when she’s called a Queen.

“Nope!  I’m gonna relax.  Good luck!” Spider Queen’s legs sound with metal clicks as she leaves, waving as she does so.

Spirit waits until they’re sure Spider Queen is far enough away for them to relax.  They turn, walking toward where they can hear open rushing water.  The sewers are essentially a river, and all rivers lead to the sea eventually.  Macaque taught them that.

It takes them around an hour to walk to the end of the sewers, climbing out of the pipe and sitting atop it.  

They’re just a few hundred yards away from the city’s docks.  They dangle their feet over the edge of the pipe and watch the rushing sewer water drain out into the sea.

They pull out their phone.

Red Son would likely know how to work robotics, but they’re supposed to find a human.  Plus, they don’t want to involve Red in this sort of stuff.  They can probably ask Mei.  She doesn’t know about their favor business, so she won’t be any the wiser, and she won’t feel guilty!  It’s the perfect plan.

‘Mei.

Hello!  It’s Spirit.  I was wondering about the technology of the city.  It is very advanced.  How was it constructed?  Who keeps it running?

Let me know if you know!

Spirit’

That should be inconspicuous enough to get Mei to start discussing things.  They don’t like dancing around subjects, but they don’t think this is the sort of thing they can just tell Mei about.  Mei is the type to have more of a moral backbone than Spirit does.  Spirit has their rules, of course, their lines in the sand, but they do most anything regardless of consequence.  What is good, what is bad; they don’t have the power to deliberate on that sort of thing.

If they were powerful enough that no one could hurt them, they would choose good, of course.  They don’t enjoy most of the work they do, they don’t find satisfaction in it besides the comfort of knowing that they’re a little safer, but it’s necessary.  They don’t have the luxury of knowing powerful people to protect them.  They don’t have anyone who would.

So they protect themself, somehow.  It works.

They pocket their phone, and head back towards the city.

They take a detour to the forest, because being in the sewers did nothing to keep them clean.  There’s a stream a few miles out of town that’s perfect for washing in, though, so that’s where they end up, carefully scrubbing the scent out of their clothes and fur and sunbathing on a rock.  They sprawl across it, back curved as their head hangs off one end and their feet and tail the other.  They have to bend their legs a bit, because the rock isn’t tall enough to keep every part of them off of the ground, but it’s mostly comfortable.

Just for a few hours, they let themself rest, polishing off the last few mooncakes as their fur and outfit dry.

They end up falling asleep and wake up as stars dot the sky.  The more they stare, the more their vision becomes unfocused, so that the lights triple in number.  It’s fun, sometimes, to have lopsided eyes.  It creates an interesting view.

They stretch, grabbing their now dry clothes and putting them on.  They’ll take a leisurely walk back to the city, maybe pick up breakfast.  Maybe.  They already ate something this week, and it’s not like they need much.  Why waste the money if it’s for something unnecessary.

Then again, Comes a voice that sounds a little bit like Macaque, a little bit like Father, and mostly like a part of themself they prefer to ignore; Were the mooncakes necessary?

Spirit doesn’t have an answer to that.

An hour’s walk gives them plenty of time to introspect, but Spirit prefers to avoid that.  Their mind is a winding road paved back centuries, but while it started with lovingly placed bricks somewhere along the way the materials were left shattered.  Glass and broken stone leaves feet bloody and pained, and you can’t go around, only through.  So Spirit chooses neither, and leaves the rest of the road to be forgotten.

The road they’re on now, the present, is made with a mosaic of materials they managed to cobble together, after everything broke.  It’s bumpy, there are cracks in the pavement, and you have to be careful.  Spirit is always careful, though; they’ve had the practice.

The issue with being so, so careful is that leaving behind the earliest stretches of road means they remember little of their childhood.  Spirit would never say it aloud, but they don’t remember their mother’s face.  To find that picture would mean flipping through the bloody pages of their photo album, and Spirit is, at the end of it all, a coward.

That’s enough thought for now.  We have to move things along.

Spirit thinks they can have a leisurely morning, but yet another token buzzes in their pocket, much to their chagrin.  Spirit wouldn’t say it, but sometimes it’s exhausting to be at everyone’s beck and call.  They signed up for it, however, they’ve no room to complain.

Reaching into their pocket, they pull out Yin and Jin’s token.  They frown, if only because Yin and Jin call them the most frequently and, often, the favors they’re called for are mundane and silly.  

Though, compared to the harder, less moral favors, they find these preferable.

They consider letting the token ring.  They’ve done that before.  Yin and Jin have so many favors put down that they get a little cavalier with how they interact with the pair.  The two used Spirit a lot before they knew how the system worked and realized using them as a crutch was a bad idea.

Apparently owing Spirit something is a bad thing.  Spirit can’t imagine why.

They sigh.  As much as Yin and Jin are long-time clients, that’s no excuse for being late or lazy.  They take a deep breath, and let the token whisk them away.

They arrive within the city, at the front step of a hideout.  Spirit recognizes the alley once they swivel their head around.  It’s a fair few miles in the middle of the city, where a lot of nooks and crannies lie between the bustling streets.  Perfect for hiding.  It’s not too far from the main road that it would be invisible, though Spirit isn’t sure if that’s because Yin and Jin want to be near the main road or if they just didn’t think about it.  With their general intelligence, it’s 50/50.

They step inside, posture straight.  All business.

“Hello,” they greet.

Inside is a rather sparse dwelling.  There’s what appears to be an unused kitchen off to the right of the main room.  Said room is a large expanse, and a dirty one at that.  At the back of it is a board, covered in pins and string, tying threads together in myriad ways that Spirit can’t quite decipher.  They see Mei up there.  A picture of Pigsy.  The rest are unrecognizable.

“Hey!” Yin calls.  

Spirit’s gaze drops down to them.  They’ve been taller than the two for centuries.

“Got a favor for ya,” Jin continues.

“I assumed,” Spirit replies.  “What do you need me to do?

Red eyes squint with twin sharp-toothed grins, and they pull out a large book.

“Well you see,” Yin starts.

“We wanna go after the Monkie Kid, yeah?” Jin continues.

“So we made a plan,” Yin finishes.

They open the book, straight to the middle, and on the page are...two steps illustrated.  Pretty self explanatory, in the sense that Spirit can tell that they want to use some sort of artifact to trap the Monkey King’s successor.

“So, we figured, Calabash,” Jin points to the first picture.  “We capture him in it, keep ‘im in there, right?”

“Right,” Yin agrees.

They look to Spirit.

“Right?” Spirit says.

They both nod.

“The thing is,” Jin moves on, which Spirit appreciates because they don’t know where this conversation is going, “The calabash is uh, in a museum.”

“It’s old,” Yin supplies.

“You want me to retrieve it for you?” Spirit parses out.

Yin and Jin smile again, all teeth.  It used to be intimidating, but, well, Spirit is older, and smarter.

Spirit is scared of everyone, but there’s a certain safety that comes with knowing that when push comes to shove, they just need to kill one to incapacitate the other.  They’ve seen the two when one is absent without cause.  They can use that, if needed.  Not that they would, but they could.  That makes them safe.

“Now you got it,” Jin crosses his arms over his chest.  

“Sound good?” Yin asks.

“Do I have a time limit?” Spirit likes to know the conditions.

They’re already working on one favor, and if they have to worry about the time limit of another favor, then they have to balance things.  Not that they do much else when not working on favors, but still.  They like to be a little organized.

“We’re gonna order from the restaurant the kid works at in a week or two,” Yin explains.

Spirit nods.  That gives them time.  They have a phone now, too, and Mei taught them how to search stuff on it, so they can look up the museum once they’re out.

“Okay,” They respond.  “Anything else?”

Yin and Jin glance at each other.  They have this way of communicating without words, and Spirit finds it kind of cool.  There’s a twitch of an eyebrow on one face, a small mouth movement on the other.  Their expressions don’t really change, just shift a little.

“Nah, we’re good,” Yin waves them off.

Spirit nods and vanishes without a farewell.

All in all, they don’t dislike Yin and Jin.  Sure, the two are loud and rambunctious, but so is Red, and Spirit could never dislike Red.  In a way, they’re almost jealous of the pair.  They have each other.  They have someone who will never leave, who could never leave.  Inseparable, two against the world.

One is the loneliest number, and maybe Spirit is just a little jealous to know a Yin who isn’t always alone. 

As they head off, scaling the wall and choosing to traverse the city over rooftops, they get a text.  It’s from Mei, a response to their earlier query.  Spirit stops, tail swishing back and forth as they perch on the edge of a roof, toes curled over the edge to grip it as they squat, leaning down to read the text.

‘hey spirit!

the city is the sum of hundreds of years of advancement, with tens of hundreds of programmers and hardware engineers building it up! ive been looking up a lot of them as inspo for my work in tech. 

i like this one programmer, syntax.  hes a mystery, theres only one public picture of him, but hes responsible for most of the tech in the city!  he was the leading programmer for the weather tower and has a bunch of patents he makes money off.  total recluse lol no one knows where he could even live near!  ive always wanted to meet him.  lemme send you some articles!!!!!’

Interspersed between the sentences are a deluge of emojis.  A lot of green hearts, a couple dragons, some rain clouds when mentioning the weather tower.  Beneath the text are a few articles.  Spirit squints.  They think they press their finger on those.

Sure enough, pressing their finger on the article pulls it up in a...they think Mei called it a web browser?  They should ask her next time they’re called over.

Or...well, Mei doesn’t know it, but they’re doing Spirit a favor, giving them this information, and if there’s anything Spirit fears, it’s being in someone’s debt.  She doesn’t know, but she could find out, and if she did, she could use them, she could hurt them—

Well, Mei doesn’t seem the type, but one never knows.

‘Mei.

Thanks.  I’ll read them soon.  Hey, do you want to meet someplace? I know your mother was not thrilled at my offer to teach you swordfighting, but I am still willing to.  As long as we meet away from your house.  I wouldn’t want to get in trouble.

Let me know!

Spirit.’

That should even things out.  A good lesson or two, maybe more.  Spirit would prefer to do more than less when repaying a debt, just to be sure.

They start to peruse the different articles.  The only public image they have of this programmer is striking.  He’s got eccentric hair and a small mustache.  He frowns at the camera, clearly displeased with having his picture taken, a pristine lab coat on and a pair of bright green glasses adorning his face.  There’s a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place as the picture is taken.

The only known thing that he does is go to a specific coffee shop.  Evidently, anytime he goes, the cameras in the area including phones stop working, thus contributing to the lack of photos.  People like to chat about him, simply because of the mystery of it.

They get a text back from Mei.

‘sounds great!  i know a place.  text u the deets later! <3’

Spirit smiles.

They decide to stake out the coffee shop this Syntax goes to.  It’s toward the outskirts of the city, small, with a reputation for using specially designed and grown beans that no one else can replicate.  Supposedly.  It keeps a low profile, as well as a very high end coffee shop can, but most people are priced out of it anyway.  From what Spirit read from reviews, a lot of people would get this coffee as a treat, something to save up for as a present on a weekend.  It’s a large place, and people often go to sit and relax for a while with their drink.

Syntax, evidently, goes there up to five times a week, to the point that his drink is memorized by everyone who works there.  He pays in cash, to avoid any trace that he was there, and then disappears.  People say he avoids being followed.

People, though.  Mortals.  They can’t see souls the way Spirit can.

They catch him on day two of their stakeout, and they sit, waiting, as he orders.  Cash is exchanged, and he walks away.  No one tries to follow him, but Spirit must, so they will.

They blink, and the world bursts into different colors.  Souls of all different shades, constantly interacting with one another.  Syntax’s soul is a neon green, with lavender lines within that resemble code.  The soul takes on the whole of the person, after all.  People more powerful can have souls that show it.  Spirit likes that.  They like knowing that they can always check if people are lying.

They follow, and soon realize why Syntax is so hard to follow.  Every turn and twist he sends out a...well, he can’t make clones, but they’re digital recreations of himself that continue walking in a different direction than the real Syntax is.  They’re near perfect, able to fool anyone who just saw them as is, but they don’t have souls.  

So Spirit follows the soul.

It’s a good hour walk, not that Syntax walks all the way.  Once he’s out of the main city area, he hops into a hover car that seems like a personal project (if the paint job is anything to say about it) and blasts off.  Spirit follows the trail, far enough behind that they can’t see Syntax but close enough that they can catch his colors in their eye.

It’s a good twenty minutes before they reach Syntax’s house.  It looks like a fortress, a large mansion gated and hidden.  Spirit takes a picture, grabs Spider Queen’s token, and disappears.

They were just told to locate him, after all.  They prefer that.  As much as Spirit is good at their job, they don’t like the thought of having to kidnap anyone, because the person would likely scream, or cry, or beg, and Spirit would have to see that.  

It’s easier if they don’t see it.  They already know it isn’t right, they don’t need the painful reminder.

Spider Queen’s lair is as dark and damp as they remember, with the added addition of an expansion of the green pool of bubbling liquid.  It has spread to little pods scattered about the place, glowing ominously with newfound energy.

“Miss Queen?” They call.  

Green eyes blink from the dark, and Spirit stays very still as she comes into view.

“Back so soon?” Spider Queen leans back on her mech, grinning like...what was the phrase Spirit had heard.  Like a cat who had caught the canary?  That’s it.

Spirit doesn’t know why it has to be a canary.  Cats eat plenty of birds.  And mice!  Odd.

“I have what you want,” Spirit replies, keeping it short and to the point.  “He’s an engineer and a programmer, and a recluse, so people probably won’t notice if he goes missing.  I have a picture of his house, and I can take you to it if you want, bu_t”

“That won’t be necessary,” Spider Queen waves a hand.  She clears her throat with intention, and Spirit tilts their head to the side as another figure comes out from the shadows.

���My Queen,” Huntsman’s voice is as gravelly as ever, and he bows a little in greeting.

Spirit gives him a small wave.  He rolls his eyes at them.  

Fair enough.

“I need you to hunt down this human.  He’s important to my debut as Queen of the world!  Spirit here has the details.”

Spider Queen gestures to them, and Spirit jumps a little as the weight of seemingly eyes all fall upon them.

“O-oh!” They fumble to pull out their phone.  “I have-uh-I have a photo of his house, so you can use that, and, uh—”

They look down, and Huntsman is suddenly very, very close to them.  They take a wary step back.  

He sniffs them.

“Were you just there?” He asks.

Spirit slowly nods, holding out their phone so Huntsman can see the picture of Syntax’s house.  He glances down at it, and then after scanning it over, nods decisively.

“I’ll have him here by tomorrow,” he promises.

“He-uh-!” Spirit raises a hand, pressing their fingers to their mouth in apprehension.  “His house looks very high tech.  There’ll uh-there’ll probably be, um, defenses.”

They haven’t talked to Huntsman or Goliath much, in the centuries they’ve been around to help Spider Queen with different things, but Huntsman gave them a knife once.  Said it was because they looked pathetic without a way to defend themself.  They didn’t want to tell him that they already had a weapon, so they kept the knife.  He got them one with a purple grip, even!  It was a nice gesture, and Spirit would like Huntsman to stay alive.

Not that they ever really want anyone dead, but they know it’s often an eventuality, and saving every person, wanting to keep every person they know around is hard, and will only lead to pain.  They know from experience.  Besides, they’re pretty sure no one would do anything to keep them alive.  If a tool breaks you can always get a new one, so Spirit is expendable, and expendable means that you can’t be expected to be kept safe.  They know from experience.  But they like certain hands that wield them over others, so they’d like those ones to remain, at least.

Huntsman grins, at that.

“I love it when they fights back,” he almost purrs before skittering off.

Spirit watches him leave, head tilted to the side.  They suppose it makes sense that he likes hunting, considering his name is Huntsman.  They wonder if his name was because of his type or his profession.  Or maybe his type dictated his profession?  Then again, there isn’t such a spider type as queen, so that’s a little silly to think about.

“Thank you, dear,” Spider Queen says, jerking Spirit out of their thoughts.

Spirit bows.  “Of course, Miss Queen.”

When they stand up, there’s a bag of money—smaller than the one Macaque gave them, but hefty nonetheless—being offered to them.

“You’re too skinny,” Spider Queen says. “I can’t have a servant of mine looking half starved!  Do something about it.”

Spirit blinks.  They didn’t think they were too skinny.  Sure, they could feel their ribs easily, but that's nice, because whenever they break their ribs they can figure out which one super fast.  It’s useful.  They don’t want to disappoint Spider Queen, though, and while she didn’t say it was a favor she is giving Spirit money, so they might as well get something to eat as a job well done gift.

They ignore how that thought makes their stomach squirm.  How they feel about the jobs they are given does not matter.  It never has.

“Of course,” They repeat, taking the bag.  With another bow, they leave.

Thankfully, this trip hasn’t ruined their clothes, so they don’t need to wash them.  They leave through a manhole cover in an alley, and when they peek their head out to see where they are, Bitter Sweets stares them down from across the street.

Well, at least they know they’ll like something from the shop, right?

The bell above the door rings in their ears long after the sound leaves the room, and Almond comes in with a smile that is slowly becoming familiar.  It’s almost motherly, but Spirit wouldn’t say that, because if they did they’d have to run.  Run before the motherly figure burns to dust, disappears for the sole reason of being motherly to them, of all people. 

So for now, they say it is kind, and warm, and comforting.

“Spirit!” she grins up at them.

Spirit smiles hesitantly back.

“More mooncakes?” Almond prompts.

“Yes,” They nod, toes curling in excitement.

Nostalgia hurts a little, but it’s nice, too.  “And—” they start, because Almond is kind, and open, and soft and Spirit can be brave a little. “Maybe, um, you could recommend some stuff?  I-uh,” They rub the back of their neck sheepishly.  “I don’t know the names of most of this.”

They gesture to the display case lamely.

Almond’s smile somehow gets softer, and her eyes light up with excitement.  Spirit’s tail swishes back and forth with a calm joy from making someone happy.

“Of course,” Almond replies.

Getting the Calabash is, unsurprisingly, boring.  Stealing an item is much easier than tracking a person.  One quick search and they find it in a museum, nestled near the center of the city.  Sneaking in is easy, because while they are tall, they’re quiet, flexible, and smart.  That, and the people here are very lax in security.  Being so used to peacetime makes people complacent.  In a way, Spirit is relieved that they have known conflict most of their life.  It keeps them sharp.

They don’t know what to do in peacetime.  There’s always something to do, a job to accomplish.  A fight to help with.  What else can they do?

The only thing that gives them pause is the existence of two Calabashes.  One, older and far larger, is stated as the original.  Evidently, using a mix of demon magic and more modern technology, a new one was made, one that aimed to capture rather than kill.  

Yin and Jin never specified which one they wanted.  If Spirit was to guess, they know the pair would want the original.  The one that melts whoever is trapped within.  The one that kills.

Spirit doesn’t kill children.  And they don’t know the Monkey King’s successor, but he’s a child.  Younger than they are.

Are they a child?  Were they ever?

So they hedge their bets on the idea that Yin and Jin won’t notice the difference, and pick the newer, kinder one.

The pair does not notice.  They’re a bit scatterbrained like that.  Or maybe they don’t care.

Once the Calabash is secured and delivered, Spirit sits atop a random building, chewing on leftover pastries from their last visit to Almond’s bakery.  The sunset is looking awfully nice, but Spirit thinks that the charm is lost once you lose someone to watch them with, so they pull out their phone.

In the news section, there is a small article about Syntax abandoning his favorite coffee shop.  The article supposes that he picked another spot to get his caffeinated beverages.  There are thousands of comments speculating, wondering where he could have gone.

Spirit knows the truth.  The weight of that, the guilt, sits at the bottom of their stomach like a stone.

But there’s a hundred, a thousand, a hundred thousand stones sitting there, and they’ve been dragging Spirit down for a long time.  One more isn’t going to change much, isn’t going to drag them deeper down than they already are.  They’ve been drowning for centuries.  Drowning, mouth clenched shut, holding in their final breath, as if the moment they let it go they’d finally succumb to the suffocation pressing against them on all sides.  

When they were younger, they’d claw to the surface, take a breath or two, before another stone weighed them lower.  The sunlight doesn’t reach them, with how deep they are now.  Nothing does, because Spirit is alone.  That’s what happens when you hurt everyone around you, isn’t it?

One of these days, they were going to let go.  One of these days, they’d open their mouth, and finally they would be able to scream.

Sometimes all Spirit wants to do is let go, scream, and drown. 

They look at the sunset.  It’s looking awfully nice, don’t you think?

[katsukis-sad-angel]

Thorns

Pairing: Alpha!Katsuki Bakugou x F!Omega!Reader

Word Count: 1.5K

Summary: Two clans have been at war for generations, one obviously more superior to the other, but that didn’t stop the constant bloodshed and turf wars. Being a tiny omega has its benefits and its struggles, but one day when you finally get banished, an aggressive blonde alpha takes you for his own.

Warnings: a/b/o dynamics, swearing, mentions of abandonment, bakugou’s thicc shoulders

A/N: My first tumblr series!! UGH. I hope this isn’t too bad. I’ve been working on this for a while so I hope you enjoy it. I’m super excited for chapter 2!

Chapter 1 💖 Chapter 2 💖 Chapter 3 💖 Chapter 4 💖 Chapter 5 💖 Chapter 6 💖 Chapter 7 💖

Chapter 1; Thorns

Gnats clouded your vision, each tiny bug making a dive for your tearstained face and getting caught in vicious swipes of your stained hands. The sound of running water was nearby, but each thicket of needle-like plants didn’t bring the calming noise any closer. Your trembling arms were ripped to shreds by the spines jutting from each branch. 

That’s probably why the bugs were bothering you. 

You had been traveling for days with no real sense of direction; the only thing you did know was you had to get as far away from your family lands as fast as possible. 

The wind ruffled your tangly, (h/c) hair and blew your shredded dress around your bloody ankles. Your bare feet were scraped up as well, but you hardly noticed it when the sun came out. Its rays warmed your skin and gave you small comfort in your dire situation. The horrid clouds of insects dissipated quickly and you took a deep breath for the first time in hours.

A scent, it was of wood smoke and bubbling caramel, caught in the wind and invaded your nostrils.

An alpha.

No. 

No. 

No.

Your teary eyes widened and you looked around, hoping to get a glimpse of the owner of the scent. 

No luck.

Had they smelled you? No, impossible. That morning, you had taken the utmost precautions and scrubbed your glands with clay and silt from a tiny stream. 

A growl, deep and guttural met your ears from close by accompanied by the crackle of breaking twigs. 

Scared, you tried to fight your way into a small clearing not too far ahead. Your scent going from a sweet meld of lavender and honey to the stench of dead roses made the alpha in your pursuit wrinkle his nose and pause where he crouched. He considered his options; grab you, grab you and knock you out, or let you go free. This was his clan’s territory! Just because you were an omega didn’t change that you were from an enemy clan! That’s why he had been tracking your movements. He couldn’t let your people get the upper hand.

You continued your frantic, yet futile attempts to escape the alpha. His bloodlust and anger were practically tangible. Thorn bushes tore across your limbs, sticks and rocks poked your sore feet but with the adrenaline pumping through your veins, you didn’t even feel the pain.

Nettles. 

Mistaking it for a cluster of mint leaves, you plowed through it and immediately realized your fatal mistake. It felt like millions of tiny knives embedded themselves in your calves and feet. With a blood-curdling scream, you tripped over your own feet and fell face-first into the clearing you’d been aiming for.

Your poor legs, however, weren’t as lucky. From mid-thigh to your feet, nettle plants pressed their tiny hairs into your calf, raising welts as big as walnuts on the bloodied skin.

Sharp cries left your lips until you were able to worm your way into the clearing completely, lifting your skirt to see the damage done by the stupid leaves.

You had completely forgotten about the alpha. When he came out of the brush, his red eyes were fixed on you. Your sad cries faltered as your dilated, frightened orbs met his own. He approached you, fists clenched, vermillion cape fluttering by his feet, a thick fur collar settled around his throat, necklaces made of teeth and colored beads clattering and jingling against his broad chest as he moved.  He was broad-shouldered and extremely muscular, but his face still held a childlike pudge, despite the weathered skin adorning them. 

In short, he was very intimidating and very handsome.

Now he stood above you, glaring harshly with a scowl contorting his lips. 

“Why the hell are you in our lands? You got a death wish or sum shit? Don’t you know what we do to people from your clan?” His tone was as harsh as the look in his eyes.

You cowered against a tree, fearful of what he would do. He didn’t look much older than you were but something in his stare told you he wouldn’t have a problem with fucking you raw and then slitting your throat.

“I-I’m s-sorry,” You whimpered, “I d-didn’t know I entered this part of the country! Please, f-forgive me! I mean n-no harm! I was exiled b-by my cl-clan!” 

The alpha narrowed his eyes.

“Why the fuck should I trust you?” He leaned down so you were forced to meet and hold his iron gaze. The scent of fear emanating from your glands made him flare his nostrils in disgust. “You a spy?” 

Pressing yourself further into the trunk, you shook your head vigorously.

He leaned closer, “Merchant? You sellin’ shit? Where’s your cart?”

Again, you shook your head.

His musk was suffocating; the smell boiling sugar over a smoky fire rolled over you in waves, making it difficult to focus, let alone breathe.

“Please… please d-don’t hurt me a-alpha.” 

He growled in response. 

“You got a name?”

“Y… Y/n.” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

“Tch-”

Suddenly the world went upside down. You squealed loudly when you realized what had just happened. The alpha had grabbed you and flipped you over his shoulder as though you weighed nothing. When you began to squirm, he nipped at the flesh of your thigh as a warning so you went still.

“Where… where are you t-taking me?” You whimper as he stood and began to walk through the trees.

“I’m the one asking the damn questions.” He snapped. After a moment of silence, you heard him sigh. 

“Why the hell would they exile you? From what I’ve seen, your lame-ass tribe needs all the help they can get!” He snickered at the expense of your people, shaking his head at the mere thought of the last battle. His clan had defeated yours in less than 24 hours, killing all of the strongest alphas and pushing you even further back into the land of your fathers. 

“I’m a runt.” You replied in a small voice.

“‘Scuse me?”

“I’m a runt. The s-smallest of the litter. I c-couldn’t speak for the first s-six years of my life b-because my v-vocal cords were underdeveloped. I’ve been an embarrassment to m-my clan since the b-beginning and they t-turned m-me away when I screwed up the rite of passage meal.”

“Never seen one of those.” He mused, “A runt? Hold on, deku is a bitchy little runt.” He adjusted his arm over your knees, “You are kinda shrimpy though.”

You wilted.

“Thanks.”

After a few more minutes of bird-serenaded travel, he spoke again, “Are runts supposed to be this thin?”

“I’m always the last in line for food and I eat whatever’s left.”

A hawk screeched overhead.

“And that would be…?”

“Not much.”

It was quiet again, no sound except the distant rush and bubble of water and birds chirping. The alpha wasn’t as bad as you thought; crude when he spoke, rough when he moved, and a cocky asshole, but there was something endearing about him. It was frightening.

“Alright dummy, don’t fucking move or show your face. Can’t let anyone see you. You’re mine.” 

“Y-Yours?”

“Damn right.”

The sun licked your back, warming your tattered limbs and stinging legs. You smelled fire, metal, and cooking meat. Voices could be heard as well, children playing, men talking, and women gossiping.

Suddenly someone shouted, “Katsuki! You’re back!”

He grunted in response, but you knew he was smirking.

“What do you want?” He barked, “I’m busy!”

“We missed you!” Three voices said in unison. They were young girls.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! Hey, what’cha got there?”

“Mine.”

“Ooh! Is it an omega? Did you finally get a girl?”

“Maybe he’s gay! Is it a boy? Huh? Huh? Huh?”

“Back up! Stay away!” 

The alpha was growling now, turning from left to right as people heard their conversation and became interested.

“He finally found an omega?”

“Took him long enough.”

“Wonder who she is.”

“She looks real thin, is she dead?”

“He’s bonding with a corpse? What the-”

“MIND YOUR OWN DAMN BUSINESS!” He screeched.

You could hear him growling. He began to move quickly through the growing crowds of people, all of them trying to catch a glimpse of the prince’s omega.

After deeming all omega maidens of his clan, ‘gross’ he’d been searching for months to find a suitable mate. If he didn’t find a mate soon, he wouldn’t get to become the leader of his clan. 

You were perfect.

You feared him.

Despite your injuries and excessive thinness, you were gorgeous.

You were ripe for the picking; a young, fertile female who would be his, who would carry his pups despite your origins.

You were submissive.

You depended on him.

He loved it.

Reaching the tent in the middle of if the camp, he tore back one of the curtains and entered the expensively decorated and well-lit room.

Kneeling spitefully before his parents, he lay you on the ground before them like an offering.

“Hey hag. Found one.”

--

Main Masterlist

@seiiblue , @bean-queen-606​

[tailorvizsla]

A Proper Mandalorian Courtship - Chapter 1

Title: The Armorer and an Introduction Word Count: ~2350 Pairing: Paz x Reader Rating: PG-13 Warnings: Cursing, canon-typical violence, crack humor that’s also serious Summary: 

Mandalorian courtship is very simple: declare your interest in someone, spend time together if they reciprocate, and get married after a year or so. Getting married is even easier – simply swap the vows and announce it a few days later to the Tribe so you can all celebrate the happy news. Then spend the next few months fending off the nosy Elders (who all want to know when they can expect to hear more little feet on the ground). At the end of it all, Mandalorians court the same way the rest of the galaxy does.

Except for Paz Vizla. Despite his Traditionalist background, he goes about this courtship and marriage business in a very nontraditional way...a very, very, very nontraditional way. This can also be found at AO3. Chapters: 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

📚 My Master List 📚 Author’s Notes:

This is my first attempt at a multi-chapter story in a very long time. 

I’ve been working on this since February. It’s been finished for a few weeks now, but I’ve been procrastinating in posting because I have had such a hard time justifying why Paz behaves the way he does even though we only see him for like 3 seconds in the series. I’m not sure if anyone else does this, but I like having a reason to write a story, even if it’s just to get the fluff out. For this, I wanted to flesh out Paz’s character for future works, but I have had such a hard time figuring out the words for it that I just...didn’t post. It felt wrong to continue forward without being able to explain to myself why he does what he does. Something that @plexflexico said in one of their responses to a review I left resonated with me and finally inspired me to post this publicly.

“Paz might have had less than a minute of screen time, but that time was VERY enlightening because both scenes were at moments of great tension and high emotion. I felt that any man who could succinctly put his people’s plight into words, and was so angry over this betrayal by someone who should have known better that there was no way this was simply a brute. This is a man who thinks and feels, deeply.”

This. This is exactly what I couldn’t find the words for. This, to me, is Paz Vizla. I have seen stories/HCs that portray him as a brute in an attempt to show him as a strong, confident, and masculine character. I am not fond of that portrayal because it lacks depth. I don't see that from a man whose culture embraces competency and skill before gender or sex. For those of you who have not read Asterism, go do it now, I promise you will love every single word. @plexflexico perfectly captures every emotion and thought of each scene just perfectly. This is Grade Amazing Super Plus Rank writing and Plex deserves an award for their work. And also for the inspiration because her Paz is the man everyone who wants a man deserves to have in their life.

The Foundry is the most sacred place for any Tribe blessed enough to have one of its own. It is the physical manifestation of the Resol'nare: education and armor, self-defense, the tribe, the language, and the leader. Here, children and new recruits receive their first set of beskar'gam and swear their oaths to follow the path, making the Foundry the spiritual birthplace of every member of the Tribe.

At night, when the work is finished, and the flames are dimmed, the young and old gather within so they may learn from and educate one another. Most importantly, this is where most individuals begin their first lessons in Mando'a, under the guidance of the Elders. The foundry is where the armaments are made and dispensed for the protection of each person and the Tribe as a whole. When a hunter returns with their offerings, they return to the Foundry, and disperse it to those who depend upon them for sustenance and care. Finally, the Foundry serves as a place for the leadership to gather.

Armorer has had the distinct honor and privilege of being both armorer and leader to her people for many years, though she is now only the armorer for the tribe. Upon joining with tribe Marell, she relinquished her role as the Alor. However, the respect and authority she commands is not diminished in any capacity. Should Alor Dezha not be available to decide on a course of action, the Tribe will come to her, and her decision will be both supported and respected. Dezha respects her a great deal, and he will often seek her opinion if his path is unclear. Despite the differences in their interpretations of the Oath, they have come to live in harmony with one another. They strengthen what is weak in each other, and that is how it should be in a flourishing Tribe.

Tonight, she once more has the honor of being part of a marriage ceremony. Lifting her heavy hammer, Armorer brings it down onto the glowing ingot of metal, watching as it flattens and spreads under her blow. She continues to strike the metal with slow, methodical precision until it reaches the proper thickness. Then the Armorer takes it back to the flame, where she allows it to glow blazing white. It only takes a few moments, and she returns it to the anvil. The steady clang clang of her hammer is punctuated only by the occasional trip to the flames.

The union of two Mandalorians in marriage is – and always has been – a joyous occasion, for that union brings forth stability for the children and the Tribe. Traditionally, the parents take turns hunting, or if the Tribe has the numbers, both parents will hunt together, and leave their children in the care of the rest of the family. Having that one trusted person, the one who knows their every strength and weakness by their side, leads to success, both in the field and at home.

She pauses once more to check the ingot. When she sees it is properly folded, she divides it in half, and begins to form each blade precisely with her smaller hammer. Two Mandalorians, forged into one soul and body by marriage, whether they are together, or they are apart. Two blades, made from a single piece of steel, to symbolize that union. When they are formed to her satisfaction, she takes the blades to the oil vat and quenches them, a satisfying hiss escaping the bubbling liquid.

Then she returns to the forge, narrowing one of the flames to begin the differential tempering process. Here, the tang and the edges of the blades will be hardened to resist shattering, yet the spines will remain flexible, so that they may flex as needed. Once joined, the couple hardens themselves to outsiders; instead, they will turn their affection and respect inward, so they may grow together. Where one is brittle, the other is flexible, and together, they become stronger than they would be individually. She withdraws the first blade from the flame just as the pale amber color creeps to the edges of the blade and plunges it directly into the water bath to cool.

It takes hours to sharpen the ceremonial blades on the grinding belts, but she works steadily and carefully, honing the edges with precision. The hilts are left bare; they will be wrapped by the parties entering the marriage. When they speak their vows, they will exchange blades, so they may carry a piece of the other with them when they are physically parted. She nestles the blades into separate boxes lined with soft fabric. When she delivers the blades tonight, the newlyweds will handle the rest on their own. Armorer lowers the heat of the flame before she returns to her quarters. There she draws the curtain across her living space. Exhaling, she takes a seat at her low table with a pot of hot tea to await being summoned by the Elders to acknowledge the vows. Her shoulders are tense and tight. It is a good sign of hard work.

It has been many years since she has witnessed a proper Mandalorian courtship unfold and blossom into marriage. The Armorer has known from the start that Paz would be the one to fully embrace the traditional ways. Now, he has chosen to make himself an example to the younger Mandalorians and enter the bonds of matrimony. Her heart swells with pride as she imagines the future progeny they will gift to the Tribe, whether they are born or found. However, she takes the time to close her eyes and pray to the spirits. The newlyweds will need guidance.

Hopefully, the wedding night will not result in nearly as much structural damage as the courtship had.

-

-

-

The first time Paz ever laid eyes upon you was shortly after the Armorer had finished negotiations to join with yours. It took nearly three weeks of negotiations, but your Tribe had ultimately yielded. No sane alor would turn away a dozen Hunters and their children, anyway. Paz admits that he did not find you all that impressive at first. You were – and still are - pretty average. Your armor at the time consisted of a bes’kar helmet and a steel chestplate that looked like the Armorer’s. Everything else was made of leather.

Tradesperson, he thought to himself, and he put you out of his mind.

As time went on, Paz came to like you, and even enjoy spending a few minutes with you here and there as his duties allowed. Even though you openly admitted that were an average warrior (at best), you did your job freakishly well. You had made your desire for a large family vocal, and that, combined with your skills, had caught the attention of several Hunters visiting to deliver the latest news. According to the Elders, the offers of marriage had come flooding in the instant you completed your first hunt, even though you hadn’t completed it until your twenty-third birthday.

When the average Mandalorian completed their first hunt by their nineteenth.

And Paz completed his on his seventeenth.

It didn’t take long for him to understand how you earned the loving-yet-frighteningly-accurate nickname shu’shika from the Tribe – you truly are a tiny disaster. You are dearly loved by your Tribe, but there is a tendency for things to break while you are around.

You are stubborn to a fault. That Paz can deal with. Over the past thirty or so years, he has had plenty of practice to out-stubborn his subordinates, and he always wins. The same holds true with his bounties. With you? There have been a few situations where he has come dangerously close to cracking and losing his temper. It is only your terrible self-defense skills and his affection for you that keep him from simply putting you in a headlock until you submit.

Paz sometimes wonders if you provoke him on purpose because you know he will not throw fists with someone who lacks proper training. He takes no pleasure in winning a fight if it was never a true fight to begin with.

Far too often, you get mouthy with him, to the point where he sometimes wants to grab you around the waist and launch you straight into the lake for being such a brat. You are never truly disrespectful, but you have no problem telling him what you think. Even when he does not ask for your opinion. He does, however, appreciate your honesty with him, since others are usually too intimidated by him to be as direct as you.

You’re kriffing fearless, to the point of recklessness. His threats to launch you into the lake have gone from true threats to playful teasing, and it always earns a laugh from you.

Your forgetfulness…it is truly obnoxious. At this point, he has stopped reminding you to pick up your shit. He has grown used to simply picking up your things off the floor (or the couch, or the tables, or the showers), stuffing them in a bag, and dumping it all on your table in the workshop. Just like everyone else in the Tribe does for you. Or, if he wants to see you, he will pocket your datapad until you come wandering into the common areas, and hand it over without a word. It never ceases to amaze you that Paz somehow seems to know exactly what you are looking for.

Paz has no doubts that if you ever set your bucket down, you will lose it. He kind of finds it endearing. But only from you. He has no problems holding armor, weapons, or personal property for ransom if some idiot leaves it unattended.

If there is even a single power cable in a wide-open room, you will invariably find it and trip over it. Stairs have to be clearly marked with vibrant tape to remind you of their existence even though they’ve been there for ten kriffing years. Your navigational skills are nonexistent. It is all Paz can do to refrain from simply attaching a tracker to your backside to keep you from getting lost whenever someone takes you to the market.

The first time he had taken you to the market, he lost you within forty-eight seconds. He panicked the entire time he looked for you. Fortunately, he found you trying to dig enough money out of your bag to buy some ice cream, with no regards as to how you were going to eat the kriffing ice cream with a damn bucket on your head.

Sometimes, Paz feels like his relationship with you is going to give him a full head of grey hair before his fiftieth birthday. But he thinks you are the most beautiful disaster he has ever seen in his life.

You get his dumb jokes and laugh at his silly puns. You let him steal the end pieces of the bread when you bake. You try so damn hard to improve your hand-to-hand combat skills, even when Doctor Shen threatens to tie you to a bed to keep you from hurting yourself. You turn to him first when you want to learn a new technique. You play hunters-and-prey with the children for hours, like you don’t care that the others are grumbling about you spoiling the kids. You listen to him ramble about whatever random topic he has picked up that week, and while you may not know anything about it, you ask questions and take the time to learn more about what makes him happy. You even offer to share your tiingilar with him, even when you only have a quarter ration of it.

He has spent most of his forty-four years alone in life. His eight-year relationship had ended exactly ten years ago when his partner chose to commit adultery. He was on the verge of proposing marriage when he caught them in his bed. Neither had been wearing their helmet. It was a privilege his partner had never granted him, even after nearly a decade together. After that gut-wrenching betrayal, something had shattered in him. Paz invested himself in his work fervently, his bitterness turning him away from the possibility of a long-term relationship. Now that he is older and wiser, he feels a sort of emptiness to his days. Like his successes mean nothing without having someone to share them with. He wants someone there to encourage and support him in his hunts. Someone who is not as cynical and burnt out from the constant threat of death and war. Someone who still has that shereshoya – that Mandalorian lust for each new day and every experience that it brings. That brightness in your soul draws him to you like a moth to the flame. It is your hidden gentility that has him so happily trapped in your orbit.

He wants to make you strong where you are weak.

He wants you to make him strong where he is weak.

Seeing you waiting for him at the shooting range brings a spring to his step. Hearing your laughter at one of his awful jokes makes him glad he wears a helmet so no one can see the ridiculous grin on his face. Smelling the sweet, flowery soap that you use makes his knees go all wobbly, though he’s not sure if it’s from affection or just from age. Just feeling your hand brush up against his makes him turn into a sweaty, flushed mess.

Paz Vizla feels like he’s strapped to the wing of a TIE fighter spinning out of control as it plummets to the ground below, or something like a fully-grown rath’tar has wrapped itself around his heart to squeeze. His belly is jam-packed with spice-crazed minochs and his heart is pounding wildly. When he thinks about kissing you one day, maybe just gently pressing his helmet against yours, his heart gets so full he can barely breathe.

You make him Feel Things he has never felt before.

Paz Vizla turns into a hot kriffing mess under his armor when he is around you, and he wants off this malfunctioning jetpack.

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Feel free to leave comments, concerns, or critiques. I love all sorts of feedback <3

[downwiththeficness]

A Need So Great-Chapter 10.5

Summary: Eva Moore is assigned to work the last year of her contract with the DEA in Colombia. She just wants to get to the end of her tenure, but she keeps getting drawn further into a string of murders in the city. It isn’t long before she’s forced to face the ghosts of her past.

Word Count: ~3,400

Warnings: F!Masturbation

A/N: For the purposes of this story, Carrillo isn’t married--or, if you like, divorced. A/B/O dynamics are prevalent, and they come with their own warning. The overall rating for this story is Explicit, although not every chapter will contain adult themes.

Taglist: @dirtynerdy98 @1zashreena1 @heresathreebee @deliciouslyclassytrash @maybege @kid-from-new-zealand @clydesducktape @revolution-starter

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 8.5, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21

Eva woke, her hands reached out towards the space where he’d been.  The sheets were cold, though the pillow still had a little indention on the side closest to her. She flipped over and slid from the bed and pulled on her usual long t shirt, throwing her hair up in a bun as she made her way out into the living room. Feet squishing against the carpet, Eva squinted in the very early morning light filtering through her windows.

The sun was not even quite up yet, casting everything in a blue-gray tone that would momentarily begin to turn pink and orange. Eva rounded the turn into the living room, catching sight of Horacio’s head bent over, his hands tying the laces of his boots.

“Were you going to say goodbye?” she asked, no bite in her tone.

He’d made coffee, the smell pulling her into the kitchen. She reached into the cupboard and pulled down a mug—North Dakota State University, Fargo. Creamer. Sugar. Pour. Eva turned and leaned against he counter, watching him circle around the couch and approach. His face was carefully neutral. She rolled her eyes, drinking deeply.

“You were sleeping,” he offered, reaching over to where his discarded mug was sitting, the Las Vegas one again.

She shrugged, “I wouldn’t have minded if you woke me.”

Nodding, he set the mug in the sink, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Eva hummed, taking another sip of coffee. Even with the mug sitting right up against her mouth, she could smell him.  He’d showered, shaved, put on cologne, but, underneath, it was still there. Her fingers clenched on the mug as she attempted to take nice, calm breaths. It didn’t help. Her mouth felt dry despite the beverage in her hands, her skin prickling with awareness. She asked a question to distract herself.

“How long do you think the meeting will take?”

His brows lifted a little as he thought, “I have no idea. Depends on what it is. Likely, its a debrief from  the raid.”

One corner of her mouth turned up, “You haven’t debriefed on that yet?”

“Not officially,” then, “Can I come back afterwards?”

Eva’s heart warmed that he was asking rather than assuming—even more that he looked just a tad bit unsure. She reached out and put her hand on his where it was braced against the counter near her hip.

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

His smile was soft and happy. She couldn’t resist rising onto her tip toes and placing a quick kiss to that smile. As good as her intentions may have been, it did not end out being a quick kiss. He leaned into her, a breath pushing out through his nose as he wrapped an arm around her middle. On the counter, he rotated his hand, threading their fingers together. Eva moaned lowly, nipping at his lower lip, needing to taste more of him.

Her nerves lit up, heat suffusing every inch of her body. The flesh along her neck and spine tightened, goosebumps rising. She arched up into him, satisfied by the groan the movement seemed to force out of his chest.

Pulling away with a gasp, he said hoarsely, “I really do need to go.”

Eva nodded, mouth open, already using his shoulder to pull herself back up to him. He took the kiss greedily, slipping his hand from hers so that he could reach down under her thighs to set her atop the counter. Stepping into her space, he yanked her hips to the edge. She didn’t have to be encouraged to drape her legs over his thighs.

Rucking up the t shirt, he palmed her breasts, thumbs circling roughly over her nipples. Hips rolling, Eva ran her fingers down the buttons of his uniform, tracing his belt buckle before giving the pronounced bulge below it a firm stroke. Against her mouth, he drew in a deep, shuddering breath. He let her rub along the length of him a few times, before he grasped her wrists and set her hands firmly on either side of her hips. Leaning a little weight on them, he rested his forehead against hers.

“I can’t stay,” he whispered, eyes locked on her folds where they peeked out from under her shirt.

Relaxing the muscles of her hips open, Eva tilted them upwards, giving him a full, generous view of how wet she was. He rocked on his feet, a little growl rumbling in his chest.

“I mean it, Eva. I’m already late.”

Horacio didn’t move, his jaw working, eyes dark. Eva let him look, could feel her body growing even more wet, slick sliding sensuously over her folds.

“I’ll be back,” he said, finally looking at her face. “I’ll go to this meeting and I’ll come back here.”

She smiled coyly, “Stop at the drug store on the way back.”

Seemingly against his will, he huffed out an amused laugh, “I’ll do that.”

When she leaned up to kiss him again, he pulled away, hands constricting around her wrists in warning. Eva let her body fall back, her head knocking against the cabinets. He gave her one more once over, tongue wetting his lips. Then, he was striding out of her apartment without looking back.

Eva sat there for a while, body pulsing. Then, she hopped down and, leaving her coffee on the counter, she headed back to bed.

She woke for the second time that day on the brink of an orgasm, her fingers shoved deeply inside of her, a half formed dreamed lingering in her muddle mind. It took next to nothing to push her over with a sharp cry.

Stunned and heaving, Eva stared at the ceiling until the blood was no longer rushing in her ears. Blinking, she sat up and pushed the hair that had fallen out of her bun from her face.  

“Okay,” she said to no one in particular, “I probably needed that.”

Still a little lightheaded, she shoved the comforter down and rolled out of the bed. Moving towards the shower, she yawned wide, stripping the t shirt from her body and throwing it somewhere in the vicinity of her hamper.

The shower was hot and soon the room was filled with steam.  She scrubbed at her face, letting the water cascade over her. Her body was still buzzing from her dream, though the details were extremely hazy. The only clear thing she could remember was the feeling of Horacio’s hands running up her legs from ankle to thigh, pushing them open. Everything else was just sensation and the feeling of her body clenching down.

Shivering despite the hot water, Eva grabbed the loofah from where she’d dropped it the night before and drizzled body wash on it. She started to run it over her arms and chest, yelping when the scratch of the fabric bit too deep. Curious, she thumbed over the bundle. It wasn’t any different than it had been less than a day before. Dubiously, she tried again, hissing when the feeling bordered on pain.

Staring at the loofah, Eva bit her lip, wondering at what the fuck was going on. Chucking it to the side, she reached for the shampoo, cleaning her hair, wincing when her nails scratched a little too hard at her scalp. After gingerly rinsing the suds from her hair, Eva turned off the water and steeped out, blindly reaching for a towel.

It took at least ten minutes of starting and stopping to get her body dry, her skin somehow too sensitive for even the soft, fluffy towel. Eva sat on the edge of the tub, the towel hanging from her fingertips, breathing deeply.  It felt like she’d brushed her entire body against the front glass of a tv, that fuzzy, electric sizzle radiating all over.

When she was able to stand, Eva padded out to the bedroom and ransacked her dresser for something to wear.  Everything she owned was too clingy, too scratchy, too thick. Shoving the drawer closed, she turned and looked around the room desperately. Nothing...nothing...nothing...there!

Sliding down onto her knees, she dug through the hamper until she pulled out one of his shirts, holding it up with a wide smile. Burying her face in it, Eva moaning lowly, inhaling his scent, still relatively fresh. On the exhale, a whine escaped her throat, sounding needy even to her own ears. Shaking her head, Eva pulled the shirt over her, the baggy material hanging over-sized on her body.

She inhaled. There. That was right.

Eyes flicking to the bed, Eva contemplated getting back in and sleeping more, but nixed the idea.  She wasn’t tired anymore. She was wide awake and filled with a kind of nervous energy that had her bouncing on her feet. Tucking her arms against her chest, she scuttled out into the living room and sat heavily on the couch, reaching for the remote.

She flipped through the channels for a while, finding nothing that was going to hold her attention. Distracted, Eva laid back on the cushions.  The clock on the wall read nearly eleven. He’d been gone for a few hours, surely the meeting wouldn’t take much longer. She selfishly wanted him back with her, in her arms, in her bed, despite knowing that what he was doing was important. Eva chastised herself silently. She could be patient.  She should be patient. He’d come back and then she could…

Her mind drifted off into a favored, and closely held fantasy. He’d spent hours going down on her over the last few weeks, happily drawing orgasm after orgasm from her. He was always moving inside her by the time her brain kick started again and so she never really got the chance to return the favor. The few times she’d tried, he’d tucked two fingers under her chin and pulled her back to his mouth, stopping her thought process entirely. Eva knew that she’d have to catch him off guard, which was almost never. He was always scanning the room for threats, no matter where they were, and only very rarely fully relaxed.

It would take effort, but she’d have to wake up before him, press little kisses over his chest, down his stomach, fingers gently rustling the trail of hair leading downwards. It would be easiest to do after one of their late nights, where they were too exhausted to throw on clothes afterwards, sleeping naked and entangled.

She could use her hands to gently stroke him, coaxing him to arousal. Eva wondered if she could do it without waking him. He was not a sound sleeper, waking if she so much as turned over in her sleep. She would have to be very, very careful. Her mouth watered as she thought about taking him in her mouth. She didn’t think she could take more than a few inches, but she definitely wanted to try. What she couldn’t reach with her lips and tongue, she take in her hands.

Maybe he’d wake as she sucked on the tip, tongue running over the slit. Groggy, it would take a few seconds for him to get his bearings. She imagined he’d suck air between his teeth, hands reaching for her. She’d swat them away, focusing on a slow, teasing rhythm. Eva wondered if he’d keep still, letting her do as she liked or if his hips would flex forward, pushing his cock further into her mouth.

Shifting on the couch, Eva bit her lip and ran her hand down her belly to touch herself gingerly. She was wet, messy, and swollen. Moaning, she pushed two fingers inside, curving them up. Pinpoints of pleasure blossomed all over. She used her thumb to circle her clit, her thighs shaking as her arousal spiked. Eva came hard and fast, her mouth open in a soundless cry.

Her fingers kept going, winding her higher, high pitched whimpers escaping her throat. She ground against her own hand, lips pulled back from her teeth as she sought out that second orgasm.  It hit her like a train, her ears ringing.

Eva panted, sweat pooling below her. Her thighs clenched together, an inexplicable pulse in her core.  She sat up and looked down at herself, bewildered. She’d just had two deeply pleasing orgasms and she was still fucking horny. That was...not new…

Swinging her legs over the edge, Eva stood and paced.  Each step created a little friction, her body answering with a dull throb.  She grabbed her purse from where she’d thrown it the day before digging for her pack of suppressants.  She’d taken them correctly. For safety’s sake, she grabbed her cold coffee from earlier and downed one.  Eva knew it would do no good. She was beginning her heat cycle and it was unlikely that it could be stopped now.  

She didn’t know how long she stood there, staring at the sink while she processed this new development, but her phone ringing snapped her out of it. Eva stumbled to it, picking it up with a scratchy ‘hello’.

“Did I wake you?”

Oh, God. Dear, sweet lord. The sound of his voice made her knees buckle.  She had to brace herself against the wall to stay upright.

“No,” she said with a little bit too much force. “No, I was awake.”

There was a beat of silence, then, “Are you alright?”

She swallowed a little moan at the concern in his voice, knees pressed together. No, I’m not alright. I’m  on the upswing of my heat and you’re not here with me.

“I’m okay.”

“Good,” he replied, “Listen, there’s something that’s come up. We’ve got a real chance at...we could get him this time.”

His words were stilted in a way that told Eva he was trying very hard not to be excited by the prospect of catching Escobar. He’d been tracking him for so long and there was a kind of timid hope underlying his tone.  She couldn’t do it.  She could not tell him.

“That’s great,” she managed, working to make her tone happy and bright.

She heard him sigh over the line, “I’m not going to make it back—I’m sorry. We’re heading out to a location pretty deep in the forest, a compound we got a tip about.”

Holding her hand over the receiver, Eva took a long, deep breath, “How—how long will you be gone?”

“A week, maybe a few days more.”

Eva’s entire world stopped, spun around, and fell face down on the floor. She scratched at the skin above her brow, trying to think of something to say that wasn’t begging him to come back and fuck her through the next few days while her heat continued to rise and crest.

“I’m not sure what is the appropriate thing to say, here.” She was going to try for a joke. “Is it ‘good luck’ or ‘happy hunting’?”

His laugh was genuine and it tunneled right down into her belly, adding to the pressure that was building at a rapid pace.  She had to get a handle on this really fucking fast.

“How about I just go with, ‘be safe’?”

Eva could hear his surprised inhale and it made her smile.

“I will. I’ll call you when I’m back.”

“You do that,” she whispered.

They said their goodbyes and then Eva was hanging up the phone, trying to work through what she was going to do. All the while, her pulse was rising, her body warming, slick dripping between her thighs. She could barely fucking think around the need piling higher and higher in her body. Inevitably, she came to the conclusion that there was really only one thing she could do.  She picked up the phone and let her office know that she was going to be out sick for the next week or so.

Turning, she headed for the bedroom, each step more excruciating than the next. By the time she got to the door, she was on her hands and knees. She had to make herself come again before she could even cross the threshold.

Breathing hard, she licked her dry lips and crawled hand over hand until she reached the bed.  Then, she rolled heavily to her side. Eva laid there for a while, sweating into the carpet. When she had the energy, she reached underneath the bed, fingers trailing along the edges of a cardboard box.  It turned as she grabbed at it, until her fingernail caught on the lip, pulling it towards her.

Hugging the box to her chest, Eva rolled to sitting.  She pulled off the lid and threw it to the side, reaching in and unwrapping the dildo from the spare shirt she’d kept it in. It had been an impulse purchase after she’d gotten out of prison. During her incarceration, she’d had two heats without a partner, thrown in solitary for her safety. Afterwards, Eva had decided that if she wasn’t going to have someone with her, she’d at least have the tool she needed to help her get through it as painlessly as possible.

Tracing her fingers over the length of it, Eva laid the first two over the knot at its base. She’d lingered over the decision as to whether or not to choose one with it. It felt a little too taboo to admit that this was what she needed it for, but Eva had forced herself to be practical. Even now, she could feel herself flush as she thought about sitting down on it and pushing that knot inside her.

Rising to her knees, Eva climbed onto the bed, falling to her back.  Panting with the exertion, she laid there for a moment and collected herself. The next wave would start soon and she wanted to rest while she could.

It didn’t take long, the steady hum of her arousal sizzling upwards through her skin. She breathed deep, centering herself as her mind took its leave and left only her writhing, needy body. She spread her wetness over her folds, slipping her fingers in to ensure a smooth glide.  Then, she grabbed the toy and pressed the tip in. Careful not to get ahead of herself, Eva let her body suck in the length at its leisure, until the knot was pressed right up against her.  

Fuck, but it felt good—her mind whispered that it could feel better. She could have a warm, solid man atop her, whose cock was thick enough to burn her when he pressed into her body. Very sternly, she told her mind to shut up. It was no use wishing for what she couldn’t have, and he was gone, anyway.  She’d take what she could get.

Still, her mind kept replaying the night previous.  How he’d held her wrists so tightly. How he’d used his weight to keep her still and open for him. She pumped the toy into herself, groaning at the memory. A thought snagged at her brain, something he’d said.

...feels too good when you ride me…

Eva hadn’t missed the way he looked up at her when she was bouncing on his cock, the way his hands gripped her, the praise he gave her. He liked watching her take her pleasure from him. It made her think that he’d very much like watching her take his knot in the same way.

Moaning loudly, Eva folded her body over and balanced on her knees. She let gravity pull her all the way down, the toy dragging against her walls. She knew she wasn’t going to be able to drag this out any longer. She needed it too much now.  Grinding down on it, she took a deep breath, and let her hips open wide, the knot pushing past her opening with an internal ‘pop’. She screamed, coming around it, body shaking so hard that she could not remain upright.

That’s how it went for several days.  She’d wake up, fuck an orgasm out of herself, pass out. She couldn’t eat, couldn’t move from the bed except to use the restroom. A few times, she leaned over the tub and guzzled water from the tap. The heat burned through her in a way that left her exhausted and weak and sad. At its height, she cried tears all over her pillow, her only thought that she wanted him to be there.

Thankfully, it eased after the third day, the downward slope filled with more naps and less frantic masturbation. By day six, she was up and moving, eating a little, and watching TV listlessly.  She’d have to go back into the office eventually, but for now she was happy to do absolutely nothing while her body recovered.

[lunnaya-dragon]

Rated: your emotions.

Warnings: strong deviation from the Canon/strange Viggo.

Pairings: Hiccup/Viggo.

Summary: Viggo is infected with a terrible disease, and begins to hunt his most delicious prey.Hiccup, finding out who is hunting him, tries to save him.

And also a small explanation:

word - is a plain text.

word -is a thought .

word -is the author's words.

word - is the language of a monster or monster.

HORROR AU.

Chapter 2.

"The day I was possessed by a demon".

The guards laughed softly. And how can you not laugh when your chief cackles like a sick rooster?

Viggo was laughing merrily as he watched his father lose another game of Maces and Talons.

"Son, only you can disgrace your father like this".-Ragnarok said, smiling softly at him.

"But is it my fault that you can't play?" Viggo said, still laughing.

And the ships were nearing the island "Bescheshuichetyi dragon". And as soon as their bows were firmly planted in the white sand , everyone was told to leave their cabins and go ashore.

"Well, are you ready for your first hunt?" - said Ragnarok proudly, leaning his powerful hands on his son's thin shoulders .When he heard the guard's voice from outside the door.

"You'll be proud of me , I know every weak point in these reptiles.I spent days and nights preparing for this moment, not like some people.Viggo said confidently, looking straight into the brown eyes of his best teacher , his father.He jumped out of bed and began to pack his bag .

A few minutes later, they left the cabin and went to the General meeting , where children from different tribes met. However, as soon as Viggo noticed a group of children of different ages, something made him become quiet and timid again.

In it were the heirs of other tribes and kingdoms. Their age ranged from 15-18 years .They were all dragon hunters.

After examining his new companions a little, he decided to find out more about where he was.A small village on the other side of the river caught his eye.He decided to find someone who could tell him about it.

A tall man was standing near a group of people .Approaching him, he greeted him and asked him about the village.The latter answered him thus .

"Hello, my name is Armstrong the good-Natured.As for those buildings, this is a small village, as well as a medical center.It was specially built here, because there are a lot of things in this place, graduates get seriously injured. This is where we treat them....although sometimes there were cases when children did not pass the exam, for various reasons, and came here to send a letter to their homeland to be taken away.To be honest, boy, I'm against such survival .You're too young to hunt such beasts, not like those big foreheads over there! So let's agree on this, I really feel sorry for you, you can come to me if you want ,my house is that building with a carved wooden horse head. If you ask me why you have such a privilege, I will answer right now , because you are the only 7-year-old child , around you there are already healthy deer that are about to turn twenty.That's why.Now go to hunters." With that, the mustachioed man in armor walked away.

When Viggo got the answer to his question ,he said good-bye and went back .

Next to the group that had already gathered, a man in a white coat climbed onto a wooden pedestal and tapped on a silver disk.This attracted the attention of everyone standing around.

"Dear Sirs, ladies and their children, today we have gathered for a reason, today is the very day when our children must prove themselves for the future of your tribes and kingdoms. They will have to: survive for 3 months, on their own, develop a sense of courage, ruthlessness, coolness and fearlessness. Be able to calculate their every step , because it depends on how they will lead their people. But their most important goal is to defeat the Bescheshuychetogo dragon, one of the most terrible creatures on this island.I wish you good luck. " - with these words, the elder descended from the pedestal and walked away.

Viggo was alarmed by this statement, because he had never met or remembered this class of dragons before .As a result, all confidence in victory collapsed . And he even wondered how Riker had handled it all and brought home a bunch of little dead dragons.

He did not have time to think about all this , because his father's hand clearly made it clear that it was time to say goodbye , and perhaps forever , because no one is immune from their own death.

He let him go , his eyes sad and full of fear .

An hour later, he was standing alone on the beach. Unnoticed, the others had already gone hunting.

"pull yourself together ,everything will work out for you." With this thought in mind, Viggo pulled out a book and a coal from his bag, and quickly began to write a plan of action. After all, you need to have time to do everything before sunset, otherwise you won't be able to say Hello to him later.The plan was this :

1) Find suitable shelter, both from the weather and from predators.

2) Find a source of fresh water , and it is better to find shelter there.

3) Take care of the availability of food.

4) to Prepare a sleeping place.

5) Prepare items for tomorrow's hunt.

Having written the plan, he began to carry out the first point. And putting the items back in the bag, quickly ran into the woods.

It's been a few hours or more, but he still finds what he thinks is the perfect place to hide.

Coming out of the thorny bushes, he sees a waterfall and a small river, a source of fresh water .And behind the waterfall is a hidden cave.Viggo cautiously walks up to the entrance ,narrow enough that it does not fit Gronckle, and looks around.There is nothing inside except one spacious room . And most importantly, it is not inhabited by anyone! Today, luck is on his side. He quickly found a corner to sleep in and began sorting through his bag of things .Taking a couple of pitchers with him, he left the cave, ran to the river and filled them to the top with clean water and returned to put on the floor.

"All that's left is to find some food.Sticks, stones, and leaves for a fire ,and reeds for a primitive bed."

Viggo crawled out of the cave again and searched for branches, leaves, and rocks.After about half an hour, all the necessary items lay in the middle of the cave stacked in the form of a fire.It was also good that the island is located in the South and at night it was not cold, and during the day it was warm enough.

The second race in the forest was to the pond with water lilies and frogs ,which was located near the shelter. This place could be found by following the direction of the river. So it was almost impossible to get lost. Water lilies are not reeds , but they will also pass for a bed .When he returned, he left them to dry in the sun.

The third time he decided to go fishing, in the same pond. The catch was small , but it was enough to satisfy a seven-year-old boy.

It was already evening , and the water lilies were dry .Putting the fish on them, he took their vruki and dragged them into the cave. The leaves of the water lilies were not put in the most comfortable, but still the bed. A leather bag served as a pillow. The fish was still in the bowl . When he got to the fire, he quickly lit it, after all, he was training.

While the fire was burning, he began to prepare the fish for cooking . After a few minutes, the fish is already fried on the fire .Dinner will be ready soon .In the meantime, making a curtain out of a small, thick, leather towel, he closed the passage to the cave .

After dinner, he went to bed .

Somewhere around 01: 00 or 02: 00.

He often woke up to something like crying, which gets worse every time.Viggo was very scared, but he gathered his will and decided to check who was making this cry.With the help of the still-burning fire, he made himself a torch. He left the cave and went to the source of the sound.

The crying increases, and turns into someone's painful and heart-rending moans.With each step, the forest around them only grew darker.Trees took on the appearance of strange monsters .The sky was turning a deep purple, and the stars were not visible because of the dark red clouds. The air around them smelled of dead things, and there was a sound of someone slurping.Suddenly Viggo's whole body is paralyzed, and he sees a body behind the bushes.Of the fear he hides behind the rubble and looking at a terrible picture.

Before him was a bald, disfigured, and huge dragon.From the smiling mouth of which the flesh descended in bloody streams. He recognized the prey of this monster , it was a teenager whom he met on the beach in the morning.But it's not the gnawed teenager that's more terrifying, it's the dragon .It seemed to him that it was the birth of nibelheim .It resembled a Deadly Nadder, but without scales or a disfigured appearance.Its head was covered with countless curved horns.The monster had no eyes.The wings looked like broken arms with very long fingers. On its tail instead of spikes sticking out sharp as a needle bones .The paws were much more massive, with long, razor-sharp claws .His skin color was beige like a human's, but there were veins and arteries in places .It began to smile even harder, spreading its toothy and blood-stained smile all the way to its ears.And she laughed merrily as the man said something in his own language, but Viggo didn't understand a single word .

"-×%^*?,;&:))08¥¥" .

Thank Thor, the monster was sated and soared into the sky, flying away.

Viggo, in a fit of shock and hysteria, ran back to the cave, his heels flashing .He couldn't even squeak, thinking that this creature would want to eat him ,too . He didn't want to pass this test. He was smart, and remembered that his main prey is nibelheim dragon , as they are called.

This monster was described in legends as a carrier of the worst disease , "Lekantinism".If a person managed to survive (although this word is figurative) after his attack, then he will live in agony, every night reincarnating in Lekantra.But no one knows what really happened to the man and the dragon.

This is unfortunately what our hero will have to learn.

When he reached the cave ,he threw the torch into the water and hid inside . He became hysterical. Falling on the stone floor, he began to cry loudly and call for help. But alas, no one will come to him .After a few minutes, he calmed down a little and Remembered Armstrong's words . He quickly pulled his bag towards him to get a book and a coal.

Viggo began writing a letter to his father asking him to take it back.And in addition, he could barely describe what happened to him now. After that, he put aside all the items and decided to wait for the beautiful sun.

As soon as it was morning, the birds began to sing their morning songs. Our hero was already running to Armstrong's house. He couldn't lie down to rest.

When he reached the house, he quickly knocked on the door,and then recoiled from it ,turning red as a tomato .Because he didn't expect Armstrong to come out of it just waking up in his underwear. After a few moments, he realized that he was standing in front of the child not in the best clothes and posture.The man allowed the child to enter the house , and he began to dress, ashamed.

After the morning nonsense.They sat down at the table to eat Breakfast , but only Armstrong, Viggo after yesterday ,him appetite Packed up and left him.

The man noticed the red streaks on the boy's face and decided to ask him what was wrong and why he was crying.

"Viggo, first of all, I'm sorry about this morning's concert.I am ashamed of this , I did not expect that someone would come to visit me in the morning."

" nothing ."it was very quiet.

"And one more thing, why were you crying?"

With this question, Viggo's face turned pale, and other than the strange combinations of sounds, he could not utter anything else.

"Don't be afraid, I'll have it all ,honestly."

"P ... just me ..I strongly this b..Bo..I'm afraid."

"What are you afraid of?"

" Dragon's "

"Hmm, I told you that you can't hunt them, fool, stop being afraid they are just animals , and they follow their instincts."

"-×%^*?,;&:))08¥ ¥ " Viggo said.

"Uh , sorry about what?"

"So the dragon said."

"Uh , Viggo ,dragons can't talk."

"No! HE WAS TALKING, AND I HEARD IT !"

"Hey, what are you doing, calm down , everything's fine "

"THERE'S NOTHING GOOD,I SAW A BALD AND DISFIGURED DRAGON WITH A SMILE ON HIS FACE DEVOUR A PERSON, A PERSON, AND THEN SAID THIS PHRASE AND FLEW AWAY!!!"

"Stop, wait, calm down first, just breathe in and out .Now, you said you saw a bald dragon eating a human?"

"Yes, I was very scared of him and hid in a cave.I wanted to give you the letter , to be honest, so that you could send it to my father.I don't want to stay here anymore.I'm afraid it might come back and want to eat me."

With that, Viggo began to cry again, and then opened his bag, took out the letter, and put it on the table.The man, clearly discouraged by such statements of the boy, took the letter and got up from the table.

"Viggo I'll be back soon, but in the meantime, you wait , and better lie down and sleep on my bed , you're tired.I'll send an email and come back."

Armstrong left the house and went to the post office.Viggo obeyed, found his room and bed, and lay down to take a NAP. Soon he fell asleep.

--------------------

"!!!@@&*((¥@))₽₽₽#&&,'/_€÷¥"

Said the Monstrous Nightmare, following in Viggo's Wake. And in a few moments Viggo was in the clutches of his monster.

" (÷):^^;))-#$"

" What,......what do you want from me?!"

":)))^*^)"

And with that, Viggo is completely in its toothy mouth.He tries hard to resist, but his hands slide over his tongue .As a result, the creature tries to swallow it whole.Turning his feet to the throat, he rests them against the monster's tonsils, and his hands cling to the fangs, screaming and begging for help. Eventually, his feet slip off his tonsils, and Viggo ends up in his throat .After a few moments, he opens his eyes to see around him a black, glowing and transparent liquid-gastric juice .

"Well, that's it, my end has come, and my father will never know or find me "

" :))))!!"

But when the pain starts, something grabs him and shakes him like a rag.

------------------------

Viggo wakes up wide-eyed, choking on her own tears.Armstrong stared at him in horror, his blue eyes showing only fear.

"Uncle Armstrong, don't worry, I often have nightmares ."

"Nightmares! Yes, you literally ran around my ceiling and growled incomprehensible phrases, rushed at me, tried to strangle and bite me.I will continue to list your antics, so-called nightmares!"

"I ... I was sleeping, and the dragon was trying to strangle me and eat me."

"Well, I don't know about the dragon, but before you go to bed, warn me, at least I'll tie you to the bed or something.""

"Please forgive me, I really didn't see anything"

"Okay, forget it.By the way, your father will be here in a few days , but in the meantime, will you stay with me well?"

"Well "

With these words, they decided to remove the mayhem of the unfortunate room.After cleaning, we went down to lunch.

In the meantime, they're having lunch. Perform different work within 2 days. Viggo no longer had such nightmares.But here comes the very moment when our hero is possessed by night horror.Day 10: 00.

Viggo picks berries for a cake in the woods .When suddenly his attention is attracted,crows gathered in a black cloud and flew away.Then he sees one tree after another break and fall on its side.And what breaks them rushes straight in his direction .Viggo is terrified and, throwing the basket, he begins to run towards the settlement.But before he reaches half the way, right before his eyes POPs up his dragon from nightmares, a giant bald and terrible Monstrous Nightmare. Its head resembled a deer's skin-covered skull, with huge curved horns .Empty and humanized eyes . .Bones sticking out of his back.Throbbing veins completed the picture.It's like a nightmare . It does not hesitate for a moment to attack Viggo.In shock, he took the hit .The claws cut through the flesh of his chest and neck, leaving huge cuts.Blood spurted from their necks.Viggo screamed at the top of his lungs .And the monster did not calm down , it began to tear his stomach and chest with its teeth, releasing black drool . But there was a whoosh of an arrow ,and Viggo fell from the monster's mouth .And it itself died, falling to the ground .The arrow went through him the skull.All Viggo could see before he lost consciousness was the terrified faces of the young hunters and Armstrong.

Our hero is not dead now he is in the infirmary. In the meantime, others are looking at the monster they shot recently. The worst thing is that with exactly the same cuts, but from other bezcheshuichetyh dragons, arrived from different parts of at least 4 people. And they were all in their bunks.

In the evening, the parents of the injured and surviving children arrived on the island.

Ragnarok raced to the room where Viggo lay ,Riker barely able to keep up with him.As soon as they were in the right room, Ragnarok ran to his son and took his hand.

"Son, if you can hear me, please answer me...."

But there was no answer.Soon Viggo's hand became cold and limp ,a sign of death.Riker and his father burst into tears .Too big a loss for them.Ragnarok wanted to take his son to Valhala that night.

Night.Everyone gathered near the common grave .The dead 5 children were put in one boat .And let the waves. But as soon as the moon peeked out from behind the clouds, something happened that threw everyone into horror.There were groans from the ship, then screams, and then growls .After a few moments, the ship began to sink into the water .And sank.A black ball with a red glowing dots began to approach the shore.Some began to hide behind the cobblestones, while others drew their bows and prepared arrows. Parents unsheathed their swords. And the tangle was getting closer and closer. Suddenly one of the creatures from the tangle climbed up on the reef.This creature was no longer a child, this huge winged creature with a piercing cry that leaped into the air and landed near its mother.The mother was horrified to see her child like this .But instead of showing my mom that everything is fine, I'm here, I'm alive, I just changed a little. He pounced on her ,then tore her throat out ,grabbed her, and like a featherless bird flew away with her dying mother.

On the second and third, they did not stand on ceremony and immediately got arrows in their temples.Kill them .The fourth, like the first, flew away.The fifth was Viggo.He turned into a disfigured dog.

But unlike the first one, he did not attack ,but ran away into the woods.

In the morning, everyone sailed home with terrible grief, and village the people down with them.

[sojourner-between-worlds]

Why the Idea of Disabled Jesus is Heretical

(Or, at best, a gross misinterpretation of Scripture. But really, it's heresy.)

@aspiringautistic asked on this post from my side blog: "what would be so harmful if there were people who perceived jesus as disabled?" and I am happy to oblige in expanding on those thoughts (though since the answer has little to do with autism and everything to do with Christianity in general, I thought it more appropriate to answer here on main). In case you hadn't prior seen the linked post and don't feel like clicking through, the short of it is this: the Gospel Coalition recently published an article in which the author, Andrew Abernethy, argued that Jesus was disabled. I'm here to tell you where he went wrong.

Hold on to your hats, folks. This is a long post.

(All Scripture quotations taken from the ESV translation.)

1. Disabilities are a result of the Fall. Before I get into anything else, I need to make this point abundantly clear. While being disabled does not dictate worth and it is not an indication of personal sin, it is still not how we are meant to be. Adam and Eve were created in the likeness of God, and were, therefore, created without sin or any of the things that came with sin. They were perfect -- at least until they disobeyed (Genesis 2-3). Sometimes people ask "if there is a God, why do bad things happen?" and the answer is because we live in a sin-cursed world. Disabilities, illness, and death itself exist because Adam and Eve sinned. (Romans 5:12: "Therefore, just as sin came into the world through one man, and death through sin, and so death spread to all men because all sinned.")

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2. Old Testament laws regarding sacrifices. The Old Testament Law is very specific when talking about what makes an acceptable sacrifice. There are a lot of different types (everything from bulls to grain), but the relevant ones to this discussion are sacrifices made for the atonement of sins. 

There are two categories of sacrifices made for sin: sin offerings made for unintentional sins, and burnt offerings made for sin in general. Burnt offerings and sin offerings both ranged from bulls to doves (or flour for the latter, if nothing else could be afforded) and sin offerings varied depending on both the person and the sin as well (Leviticus 1, 4-5). But all of the animals sacrificed had two instructions about them in common: that they be "without blemish", and that the sinner must place their hand on the head of the animal. The difference between the two was that a sin offering was required as an act of repentance and a burnt offering was voluntary. In the case of burnt offerings, the requirements for bulls and sheep or goats are laid out very plainly: "a male without blemish" (1:3, 10). 

In addition to all of this, once a year, on the Day of Atonement, one bull and two male goats would be sacrificed for the people to remove their sins (Leviticus 16; only one goat was killed; the other was sent away, symbolizing the removal of sin). Again, these animals had to be without blemish, just as all the others. The person offering the sacrifice was to place their hand on the head of the animal. The action of placing their hand was symbolic: it was a way of showing that the person's sin was being "transferred" to the animal so that the animal could take the person's place and receive the punishment for sin instead. "Without blemish" meant that it couldn't be sickly or diseased or crippled in any way. It had to be as close to perfect as was possible in a sin-cursed world because anything less than perfect had to die for its own imperfections. 

Because these sacrifices could never be truly perfect, they had to be repeated, but all of this was pointing to the time when Jesus would come as the final sacrifice made for the sins of the world.

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3. Jesus as the final sacrifice. If you know anything about the Christian faith, you know that this is at the heart of everything we believe. Without Jesus, there is no gospel. So here's why that matters to this discussion: 

"But when Christ appeared as a high priest of the good things that have come, then through the greater and more perfect tent (not made with hands, that is, not of this creation) he entered once for all into the holy places, not by means of the blood of goats and calves but by the means of his own blood, thus securing an eternal redemption. For if the blood of goats and bulls, and the sprinkling of defiled persons with the ashes of a heifer, sanctify for the purification of the flesh, how much more will the blood of Christ, who through the eternal Spirit offered himself without blemish to God, purify our conscience from dead works to serve the living God" (Hebrews 9:11-14, emphasis mine). 

This passage in Hebrews (as well as verses preceding and following) are all about how Christ made atonement for us with His death, and how His voluntary sacrifice of Himself is superior to the OT sacrifices. 

So allow me to direct your attention to the bolded phrase above: “offered himself without blemish”. If this sounds familiar, it should, since I talked extensively about this in the point above. “Without blemish” in Leviticus meant to be not crippled or disfigured or ill in any way. If this same phrase is also applied to Christ, then the same must be true. If the OT sacrifices were required to be so, why would the same not apply to the Final Sacrifice that ended the need for sacrifices to be made? It wouldn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense. Not when the OT sacrifices were pointing towards Jesus; not when we have a God Who created order and purpose. Jesus had to be perfect to take our places -- and that includes being free of deformities that are a result of a sin-cursed world.

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4. Isaiah 53, misinterpreted at best. This was one of Mr Abernethy’s main points, and it’s one he got disastrously wrong by reading what he wanted into Scripture (eisegesis) rather than letting Scripture say what it says (exegesis). See, the thing about interpreting prophecy is that you have to be careful how you do it, and, just like all Scripture, make sure it’s within the proper context. 

In the case of this chapter of Isaiah, the wider context is that it’s a prediction of Jesus’ suffering on earth and His death. One of the verses he tries to pass off about Jesus being ugly or deformed is the second part of verse 3: “and as one from whom men hide their faces, he was despised, and we esteemed him not.” The problem is, this verse and one directly after it are not about his physical appearance at all. They are about emotions and grief: “He was despised and rejected by men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief; and as one whom men hide their faces, he was despised, and we esteemed him not. Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows; yet we esteem him stricken, smitten by God and afflicted” (vs. 3-4, emphasis mine). This is about Him bearing our burdens and our rejection of Him anyway. This is a parallel that continues as the chapter moves forward. 

There is only one physical description in this passage that is not related to His death, and it’s the second part of verse 2: “he had no form or majesty that we should look at him, and no beauty that we should desire him.” And this is the only point that Mr Abernethy got correct: Jesus wasn’t the Hollywood definition of drop-dead gorgeous. He looked like your average Joe. In order to not be conventionally beautiful/handsome, that does not dictate that a person must be deformed or “ugly” in any way. The only thing this verse means is that he didn’t stand out from the crowd with His looks. He didn’t look the way they thought their Savior should. That’s it. That’s all it means.

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5. Tradition isn't truth (no matter how much anyone wants it to be). I have to admit, adding in a section about a so-called “tradition” that’s nigh on impossible to find anything about was brilliant. The average person wouldn’t even bother looking in the first place, and most people who would look, would give up after five or ten minutes of searching. I spent an hour and found exactly nothing on this “tradition” of Jesus being a leper. So you just... have to take Abernethy’s word for it. 

Aside from not being able to find anything on it myself, the argument he uses is faulty anyway. Because tradition doesn’t equal truth, in the first place, especially a tradition that didn’t pop up until the 16th century. There’s no basis for something that apparently wasn’t known until 1400 years after His death. 

Aside from that, he calls on Jerome’s Latin translation of Isaiah 53:4 that translates a phrase as “he was like a leper.” First of all, “like a leper” does not mean He actually was a leper. C’mon, man. Any fifth grader in America could tell you that similes are used for comparisons and aren’t literal. 

Second of all, if you’d like to make a point, it’s a much better idea to go back to the Hebrew manuscripts rather than to any one translation. Now, I don’t know Hebrew myself, but I do have access to a little thing called the Internet, where you can find a plethora of commentaries from people who do know Hebrew. For this particular problem, I went to Albert Barne’s Notes on the Whole Bible. I’m not going to put his whole notes here (because there’s a lot), but if you’d like to read all of his notes, you can search the verse on studylight.org and use the ‘jump to’ feature under the verse to find him, but the bottom line of his notes on it are this: Jesus wasn’t literally being rightfully punished like the Jews would incorrectly think; leprosy was used here as an example because it was seen as a divine punishment for sin. It has nothing to do with literal leprosy at all. 

And to top off this cake of incorrectness... well, has he even read the New Testament? If Jesus had had leprosy, He: a. wouldn’t have been allowed in temples or synagogues, b. wouldn’t have been allowed in towns period, and c. wouldn’t have been nailed to a cross because no one would have risked touching Him in order to do so. Abernethy shouldn’t have even brought this up in his argument, it’s so far off base, and no artist in the 16th century should have painted a painting of a leprous Jesus nailed to the cross because, quite simply, it never would have happened.

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6. Jesus relates to us -- but not in the ways Mr Abernethy says. While he never cites any Scripture on this, I’m pretty sure I know where this idea came from. In his article, he states that in order for Jesus to have related to the disabled, He had to be disabled Himself. Since He relates to us, then He must have been disabled. 

First of all, the logical fallacy of this statement is this: if He must be disabled to relate to the disabled, then can the abled still relate to Him? The answer to that, of course, would be no, because if He wasn’t abled then He can’t relate to the abled in the same way that Abernethy asserts that He can’t relate to the disabled without being disabled. It’s one of those things where you can’t have it both ways. Another example of how this logic falls short is pregnancy. Can Jesus not relate to pregnant people because He Himself was never in such a state? And the rabbit hole just gets deeper from there: Can He relate specifically to the blind when He was never blind? How about the deaf or hard of hearing? Or people missing limbs, either from birth or through amputation? All disabilities are different, and experiencing one doesn’t mean you understand them all, so by Abernethy’s logic, Jesus had to experience all of them. Do you see how ridiculous Abernethy’s logic here is yet? 

Second of all, Abernethy is, once again, taking Scripture entirely out of context -- if, indeed, he got this idea from Scripture at all. Hebrews 4:15 says, “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin.” The problem with trying to use this verse as proof is, obviously, that it’s talking about temptations (Matthew 4:1-11), not lived experiences. If he was, again, referencing Isaiah 53 -- well, that doesn’t work either, because, again, that is in reference to His death and the sins He bore for us on the cross. The fact of the matter is, there are no Scriptures to back up the idea that He had to personally experience everything we do in order for Him to understand our pain and suffering. 

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The source of this heresy is the same as many heresies, actually: People want to make Jesus into something He's not. I listened to a podcast recently where the host was talking about a couple of heretics, and while I don't remember the heretic's name, he said that to him, Jesus was Latinx because he himself is Latinx. Except that, ya know, Jesus was a Middle-Eastern Jew. It's the same fallacy to say that Jesus was disabled. Everyone wants Jesus -- and God, for that matter -- to be something He's not, rather than for Him to be what Scripture tells us He is, but you can't force God into the box you've carved for Him. He is who He is, no matter how much you want Him to be something different.

There's no getting around it: to make Him out to be anything other than what Scripture tells us He is -- especially when it contradicts Scripture, is heresy.

[serendipitous-magic]

what's your writing process like? do you plot things out beforehand? or do you sort of write it as it comes? a mix of both?

Depends on what I'm writing!

In general I'm a planner. I can't write from a blank page, unless I'm just like... really really captivated by whatever I'm writing, which was what happened with the first chapters of both The Art of Living Your (Second) Life and The Partnership Plan.

a) In general, if it's a fanfiction I'm writing, I tend to build the plan as I write - meaning, oftentimes I'll be inspired to write the first chapter, and I'll write that with little idea what the rest of it will be. Or, even if I have an idea what the rest will be, it's more of a vague skeleton than a full plan. And then, as I continue to write, I think more about where the story is going and I continuously add to and refine my plan kind of alongside the actual writing. In this way, the plan grows at the same time that the actual chapters do - but because the chapters take significantly longer to write than planning does, the plan outpaces the "real" writing and I usually know the basic story arc from fairly early on. Then it's just a matter of fleshing it out, adding detail, writing down scenes I thought of, etc. And then when I get to that point in the actual writing, I have a framework in place already.

-_-_-

b) Sometimes for fanfic, I have a more complete plan upfront - although I use "complete" here to mean "from beginning to end," not "completely detailed." So, more like a full skeleton than a full body, if that makes sense. I did that with Roll for Strength. What usually happens is that my plan will look something like...

...

Chapter One

-Will suspects Mike has a girlfriend and is kind of put out about it but thinks he's over Mike so he tells himself he doesn't care

-Will walks in on Mike and his BF (name??) and has a crisis (they don't see Will, so Will knows about Mike but Mike doesn't know that Will knows)

-Will might get off to that later, guiltily? (Or move to chapter two)

Chapter Two

-Do Mike's POV to tell about how he ended up dating a guy, how he got very disillusioned with the world after canon events and got into a "fuck it, the rules don't matter and I hate them anyway" mentality, which eventually snowballed into him kind of realizing and accepting his sexuality earlier than usual fanon

-Also introduce BF (name??) in a scene

-Set time and place - season should set the mood if not already mentioned in Ch 1

-Maybe also do BF's POV briefly to introduce him?? Or leave that for later

...

Etc.

And that's the original skeleton plan. And then it gets expanded upon more and more and more as I continue to think about the story, sometimes even with full pages' worth of unbroken text blocks as I get inspired and start basically thought-vomiting an entire scene. So by the time I get around to actually writing it, it might look like the above, or it might be a few steps shy of an actual draft already, depending on how much I've thought about / worked on that part.

See #5 in this writing advice post to see what I mean about a "thought vomit" draft.

-_-_-

c) Here's the thing - the above was for fanfic, or for short stories, or stories that I'm just kind of having fun with.

For original stuff, I adhere much more tightly to the "rules," because the guidelines for original work (that you might try to publish in the actual publishing market) are much stricter - and for good reason! Fanfiction is a sandbox, and we're all invested in the characters and worlds and settings already. We're all reading and writing fanfic because we already love these characters and this world, and we just want to play in it.

It's a different situation with original novels that you hope to publish. The plot, pacing, tension, and story beats have to be much, much tighter and more polished. Because people reading original work have no prior reason to be invested in it or care what happens - that's work that you have to do. For fanfic, that work was done for you by the original thing. Not to mention, the publishing world is so absolutely choked with competition, and the emphasis lies so heavily on sales, that if your book isn't fucking top-tier compelling, no publisher or agent will take a second look at it. Which is kind of unfortunate, because there's value in slower, more relaxed, more reflective storytelling, too - it's just not what capitalism has decided to value, which is sad.

But anyway.

When writing an original thing, I basically need a full plan - beginning to end, covering all plot points. Not necessarily all the details, just all the plot points - I need a skeleton and I need connective tissue. The rest comes later. But to start, I need to know what happens, why, and how the characters get from event to event. I need to know the physical story events, the emotional beats, and how those things logically flow throughout the story.

Some people can write without this and it still turns into a compelling story, tight narrative, etc. I envy these people. I have all respect for these people. I cannot do this. If I write original work with no plan, and especially without at least like 50-75% of a plan, I end up with something slow, meandering, and kind of limp. No bueno.

So, I usually use a beat sheet.

What's a beat sheet?

It's a 15-beat plotting structure used by screenwriters. And, yeah, technically it's for movies / screenplays. But storytelling is storytelling. And it's highly flexible. (And my favorite professor ever taught it to me in college so you can pry it out of my cold dead hands.)

Google it. It's what I use to make sure my (original work) plots are tight, have momentum, have a satisfying character arc, etc.

Okay, okay, I'll paste the basic structure below just so you can see wtf I'm talking about:

-_-_-

-Act I:

1) The First Frame

-What is the first thing we see? This should be a snapshot of the main character’s problem, before the story begins

-Ex: the Star Destroyer in A New Hope

2) The World Around Us

-What is the main character’s world like at the beginning of the story?

-What is missing in the main character’s life?

3) State the Theme (sneak this into The World Around Us)

-What is the story secretly about? This should happen during The World Around Us

4) Inciting Incident (smol tentpole)

-What happens to put the hero on the road? This is where the hero’s life changes forever.

5) The Hero Questions

-1st introspective moment

-Can the hero really do this? Should the hero chicken out?

-Oftentimes the hero fails at something

-Ex: Luke gets his ass beat by the raiders

-Act II:

6) Crossing the Threshold / The Emotional Hurdle (big tentpole)

-The main character makes a choice

-Beginning of Act II

7) The B Story / The Love Story

-Introduced here

-Often but not always a love story

8) Promise of the Premise

-Fun and games in the world you promised

-Horror movie? Creeps here!

-Sci fi? Space battles!

-Animation? Shenanigans!

9) Midpoint (big tentpole)

-The hero finds out that what they want is not what they need

-Luke rescues the princess - turns out that’s not really what the story was about

10) Bad Guys Close In / Throwing Rocks

-Events conspire to tear the hero’s goal to shreds

-Wesley is mostly dead, Inego is drunk, Fezzick is part of the brute squad

-This is the other side of the fun and games coin where things are no longer fun

11) All is Lost

-Something super bad happens, and that goal is impossible

-If someone important is gonna die, it’s probably now

12) The Pit of Despair (smol tentpole)

-The hero mourns the death (if someone died) and wallows in his/her lowest point

13) Inspiration

-A fresh idea

-Act III:

14) Come and Get Some / Final Confrontation (big tentpole)

-The final confrontation - the final showdown

-A and B stories wrapping up at the same time

-The theme makes sense and the battle is engaged

15) Final Frame

-Opposite of the first frame

-The hero is changed

-_-_-

It's what I use. But hey, you don't have to. What works for me might not work for you.

I'll finish this off by pasting in a section of actual real-ass planning I have open in a document for one of my novels at this moment (it's giving me the evil eye, I swear) so you can see what I kind of mean by "thought vomiting." Also note that in my actual document, the bullet points are indented incrementally to be kind of "nestled" underneath the relevant points, if that makes sense, and that it's a whole eye-watering mess of different colors. But for Tumblr, it's this:

-_-_-

-You have to be rescued by the rest of the team, because you fell down that hole - and you are, eventually, after screaming yourself hoarse some more (plus it’s been like an hour or more now, so they have since noticed that you were missing)

-I could gloss over this, like end the chapter when you run away, and open the next one with “It takes another half hour of screaming your throat nearly bloody before the team finds you,” or something

-They berate you for chasing after ghosts - you say you didn’t find anyone down there, because you know for damn sure nobody’s gonna believe what you think you saw, and you don’t even think you believe it

-This leads to a trip to the local doctor (a clinic, probs, akin to UrgentCare), which you’re not happy with because that’s more people taking notice of you

-However, you’re also going through the change in mindset here - see below

-Note: I as the writer don’t have to worry about the paperwork or whatever that you’d normally have to fill out, getting hurt on the job, because you weren’t officially hired - however, it would be a good “humanity is okay” moment if the guy who hired you came in and helped you with the medical expenses because he felt bad - he’d also probably be a little nervous about you suing or something, but you assure him that you have zero interest in that

-I could include a funny line where the guy says he’ll pay for your doctor bill and you try to say no (being indebted to someone is bad news for you) but he insists, because he says he feels responsible, and you just kind of stare at him and then blurt, “Do you need me to kill anyone for you?” (Something you probably regret as soon as you say it, not because you expect him to accept but because you abruptly remember what happened two days ago.) (Would it be too much to also add like “You want me to murder anyone for you? You want a blowjob? I will do anything,” and he gets flustered and bats it off like “Nah, nah, nah, chill out. You’re crazy, man.” And insists that you don’t need to pay him back)

-Here’s a decision I have to make - does the guy pay for your doctor bills as well as paying for your work today (leaving you enough money to potentially split town, but you decide not to), or do you have to pay the $2,500+ in doctor bills with no insurance for the injury, which raises the stakes by depleting all your money?

-I think I like Option A best, because it gives Sam more agency as a character if they decide to stay despite having the option to leave, versus them just being stuck completely - plus I don’t know how else I’d be able to explain away you having money for the hotel

-The guy who hired you pays you for the work day here - and maybe, just maybe, that gives you barely enough to buy that used car (although, why would it? It couldn’t have been more than like $200 for 8 hours of work, maybe $300 if he was really really desperate - if it was a really cheap used car, that might give you barely enough to buy the car but literally nothing left over)

-Point being, maybe you have enough money to bolt now, if you chose to - and you have to make the choice not to

-The car you found might be a $1,500 Honda Civic (or Jeep or whatever) with a dead battery, and the guy selling it says it should run fine with a new battery, which you Google (apparently it would be somewhere in the range of $100-$200) - maybe you think of how nice the mechanic was for you and wonder if you could cut a bit of a deal with him, if you get this car - and if the guy pays for your trip to the doctor and pays you for the temp work, this could just tip you into the margin of being able to afford the car, if you haggle with the seller

-_-_-

Or another example, with more actual sentences:

-_-_-

-As you approach the trailer you start to register a smell that turns your stomach - something like a porta potty and something like the sharp tang of rusting metal. It makes you pause - maybe there really is someone in there, using the place to live whether there’s a sewage hookup or not - it wouldn’t be the weirdest thing you’ve heard of. But after standing for a bit, silent and listening, and then hiding behind a large tree to chuck a rock at the vehicle to no response, you continue forward. You’ll just have to be cautious. Your spirits lift when you see the door. It’s completely grown over. (Leafy vines lace over it, tangling in the handle, yellowing and unbroken. If someone is living in there, they’ve been using the window to come and go, and that doesn’t seem all too likely. Bolstered by a new swell of confidence, and picturing the unlikely riches you might find stashed away in a cabinet or a glove compartment, you cross the last few feet towards the shape.

-You find the body and recognize it as one of the two obnoxious vlogging dudes from the motel

-I’m kind of imagining the moment of discovery like the wardrobe moment in Narnia where, during your nice forest trek, there’s been some pleasant acoustic music playing (like All the Pretty Girls by Kaleo maybe) and then it just stops abruptly in the middle of a phrase, maybe echoing slightly, when you see the body, and all at once everything is sickly silent.

-Oh dude, maybe you continue thinking it’s a duffel bag (possibly feeling pretty upbeat, though cautious until you’re literally about to step over it, and then you happen to glance down and get a sickening, chest-slamming shock when an empty human face is staring up at you

-Note: there should be mushrooms growing in, on and around the RV, because mushrooms are Creepy

-You go to investigate the RV

-Maybe you recognized the body as one of the vloggers and you’re trying to see if his friend is around - or maybe, in a kind of sick daze, you short circuit and find yourself doing the only thing you can think to do: continuing along your trajectory, stumbling towards the RV and tearing the rusted-out door free from the lattice of brittle vines that held it in place (this is what alerts The Dude that someone has been here), like if you just get to your original goal that’ll fix everything - somehow, if you just keep moving forward on the track you set out on, that thing won’t be real anymore - at the very least you have to get inside, to put a door between you and the body, like you’re pulling the blankets over your head to shield yourself from the boogeyman. Just as long as you’re not out there with, with...

-_-_-

Anywho, I'll stop.

I apologize again for... (scrolls up for a million miles) all of that, but you asked me about my passion and now you pay the price, lmao.

[badolmen]

tysm to everyone who has interacted with this fun lil fic - your likes, reblogs, and comments never cease to make me smile!  who’s ready for the spooky season? @billy-hoepe @bonniebunz @softupshur and @bandtrees I hope y’all’re doing well and taking care of yourselves <3

Chapters: First, 2, 3, 4, 5

Billy had been to churches before. Old ones, new ones, small ones, big ones, bright ones, dark ones, and places of worship of every denomination. He had slept on pews and stone stairs when the doors were locked. He had spent many Christmas nights bathing in the warmth of candles and songs, the midnight mass providing respite from the bitter winter if only for a few hours.

He didn’t understand churches, of course. His mother murmured of being raised Baptist on occasion or spit angry curses at Catholic and Mormon ex-boyfriends. She would mutter negative sentiments to cultures and beliefs he had no concept of outside of his mother’s warped and hate filled snarls at the television.

Billy knew nothing of worship or prayer or faith.

Sometimes, in Mount Massive, he wished a god would answer his prayers. Sometimes he was sure there was no god listening at all. He wondered, on dark nights and rainy days, that if he had learned prayer the higher powers would listen, that if he had faith, any faith at all, he would hear a response.

The phantom that scratched at the back of his mind didn’t bring any revelations with the pain it caused – it was just static, a ghost and whisper of hate that drove ice into Billy’s thoughts when he tried to explore the concept of the being that shared the same corporeal form as him.

This church was old and big but marred with minor disrepair. The main tower was wrapped in blue tarps to keep out the rain, and the shingles shuddered in the wind. The red brick had been stained a deeper crimson by the moisture, almost seeming to bleed into the gray concrete below.

Blood, smeared across the walls and floors and the stink of rotting flesh and freshly dead meat and insects and flies and maggots and –

“Here we are,” The driver hummed, her car groaning to a halt on the street in front of the massive building. Miles said her name was Beatrice. “I’d walk you in, but…” She trailed off, eyeing the rivulets of rain cascading down her windshield. “Just go right in and head to the room behind the altar, at the back of the building. We gave Fr. Kos the heads up so he should be waiting for y’all.”

“Thank you,” Miles said, stiffly nodding to Beatrice. Billy could feel the tension rising in the man like a spring coiled tighter and tighter. Exhaustion, too. “You good to go Billy? Probably best to make a run for it in this weather.”

“Good to go,” Billy whispered, swallowing back the metallic taste in his mouth. Had talking always hurt this much? Dr. Wernicke complained that he talked too much in their sessions. Maybe he finally fixed that problem.

“Alright then,” Miles grunted, car door opening and closing as he rushed the building. Billy tried to follow in suit but startled at the slam of the car door and tripped over his own wobbly legs while trying to scale the stone steps. Miles reached out, catching him before he collapsed at the top of the stairs.

With an exchange of thumbs up between Beatrice and Miles, the car sputtered away from the curb, leaving the two clinging to each other beneath the eaves.

The door was big, dark and solid wood heavy enough to make Miles’ face twist up in pain as he held the door open for Billy to shuffle inside. But the door closed softly, mechanism clicking in place the two stood in the warmth of the hallway between the church and the outside world.

“Man, forgot to ask if this is the back of the church or if the other end is…” Miles muttered, trying to find a comfortable way to hold his hands. Blood had seeped through his bandages.

“…think it’s this way,” Billy breathed, trying his hardest to keep his voice soft. It hurt less to whisper than to speak. He held open the inner door for Miles and the two treaded quietly across the carpeted floors toward the altar.

The church was empty and quiet save for their breathing and the quiet light of a few candles.

Billy’s eyes searched the many corners and peaks of the vaulted ceiling for cameras – Miles was probably doing the same as the pair slowly made their way toward the door beside the altar. But there were no cameras to be found. The fog that usually clouded Billy’s thoughts seemed to lift, or at least offer a shimmer of relieved clarity.

The door they were walking to opened, and the pair tensed.

“Oh, didn’t mean to startle you,” Billy couldn’t place the accent, but the voice was lighter than he thought it would be. The men or women in black who stood on the altar and wore colorful robes always had hard voices, sometimes even angry. But this man’s voice was soft and gentle. “I’m Father Kos – or Father Sebastian, whichever you care for, you are Miles and Billy, right?”

“Yeah,” Miles said, voice still tight even as his posture relaxed. “Yeah, I’m Miles, he’s Billy. This is Saint Gobnait’s?”

“Correct, come, this way. I’m sure you two will want to warm up,” The man in black stepped back into the room, gesturing that they follow. Miles paused, only for a moment, before stalking toward the entry. Billy kept close behind, eyes still wandering across the stained glass and statues of the building.

This room was warmer, but not by much. Father Kos had begun descending down a flight of stairs, black shoes clicking against the wood.

“Ah,” He sighed, noticing Miles pause again. “There’s a short tunnel to the rectory basement. Would you rather go outside again?”

“Yes,” Miles was quick to answer, curtly nodding to the man. Billy did not want to go outside again – the ice in his thoughts had made a home in his bones and every step felt like he was standing on nails. But he couldn’t tell Miles that fast enough, so he nodded in agreement.

“Alright, here,” Father Kos said, taking an umbrella from beneath his black coat. “Use my umbrella, it’s not far but it would –” He muttered a word Billy did not understand, before gesturing vaguely to the door that led outside. “Bah, never mind, follow me.”

The umbrella was small, so Billy stayed close to Miles’ side, careful not to jostle the man too much as they walked. Miles’ hands kept shaking, bandaged fingers struggling to get a comfortable grip on the handle.

Father Kos seemed unperturbed by the down pour, heavy black coat soaked, and glasses blurred by the time they reached the rectory, a small white building beside the brick church. The trio shook rain from their shoes at the doorway, a breath of blessed warmth working its way into Billy’s aching bones.

“Oh, is that the – Father! You’ll catch your death, go, go take a warm shower and get some dry clothes on –”

“This is Sister Francis, Sister, this is Miles and Billy, the one’s Carolyn’s Place called about,”

Billy shrank behind Miles, hoping to seem small. The woman was shorter than him, stout with a round face and liver spotted cheeks. Her voice was grating and hard, the static in the back of his mind hissed like water on an electric burner.

“I can introduce myself, Father. Go warm up the shower, and try not to track too much water in here,”

“Yes, yes,” The man’s lighthearted laugh calmed some of the building static in Billy thoughts. “What’s for lunch Sister?”

“McDonalds or Burger King; it depends on our guests,” Francis’ voice had softened, the crow’s feet at her eyes becoming more apparent as she smiled.

“I vote for Burger King – they have better fish,”

“Dully noted,” Francis sighed as Father Kos slowly made his way up the staircase. “Leave the umbrella by the door – goodness knows this rain won’t let up anytime soon,”

“That what the weather is saying?” Miles said, voice relaxing as the older woman limped down the hall.

“Yes, flood warnings – very strange for this time of year. Did you hear about the bugs down in Arizona? Flock of locust; they blotted out the sun just yesterday and then poof! No one knows where they went.”

“That…is strange,” Miles breathed, beckoning Billy to follow them as they made their way down the carpeted hall.

“The kitchen’s right there – don’t be in there when I’m cooking, Father might not mind but it’s a small space and I’d rather not smack you with a pan of potatoes by accident.” Francis said in a practiced tone, waving to the small oven and refrigerator for a brief moment before continuing the slow walk down the hall.

Billy didn’t bother looking in the room, his eyes trained on the back of Miles’ head. It was warm – cozy and comforting. The air smelled like dust and the faintest trace of smoke – and mixed with the blood and sweat of Miles’ jacket, it almost smelled like home.

[aion-rsa]

How the Cyberpunk 2077 Soundtrack Found Its Dystopian Sound in a Soviet-Era Synthesizer

https://ift.tt/2Knk6oM

CD Projekt Red’s Cyberpunk 2077 is arguably the the biggest video game release of 2020, transporting players to a gritty sci-fi world full of bio-augmented criminals and lowlives. True to its name, the game explores some pretty deep concepts about cyberspace and what life might be like in a futuristic transhuman society where technological advancements have turned us less human and more machine. So it’s no surprise that the game’s score often sounds like something recovered from the year 2077 and brought back to our time. At its very best, the soundtrack elevates this grim dystopia.

In the wake of Cyberpunk 2077‘s massive launch, Den of Geek spoke with the trio of composers behind the game’s score: Marcin Przybylowicz (The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt), P.T. Adamczyk (Gwent: The Witcher Card Game), and Paul Leonard-Morgan (Dredd). The three composers discussed the soundtrack’s conception and revealed the unconventional methods they used to create the score’s unique, ominous sound.

The Cyberpunk 2077 Original Score, which contains two discs-worth of the game’s enormous pool of music, is available now to buy and stream. As players have discovered in the week since the game’s launch, the score isn’t exactly the pulsating, adrenaline-fueled synth barrage some might be expecting from a cyberpunk title. It’s largely ambient, with ominous layers of otherworldly bass bellows, tribal beats that sound both futuristic and primal, and melancholic wades through placid synth soundscapes. There are definitely bangers on the tracklist, but what stands out is that many of the pieces almost feel introspective. 

“You’re dealing with a complex story, and there’s [a vast] number of characters in Cyberpunk,” Adamczyk explains. “Finding a theme or an idea or a motif and being confident in it…that’s really difficult because there are so many different things happening in the story, and you could score it a thousand different ways. And they all would be good enough. But the question remains, ‘What is the essence?’”

Przybylowicz was the first of the three composers to start work on the score for Cyberpunk 2077 very early in the game’s production. In laying the foundations for what the game’s music would sound like (the elusive “essence” Adamczyk speaks of), he set out to create something unique, though he was also committed to honoring the source material that the game is steeped in.

“We were trying to find out how our take on Cyberpunk would differ from other bits of culture,” says Marcin of the initial creative process. “We must never forget that our game is not a game that is simply set in a yberpunk universe. Our game is Cyberpunk 2077, which means that it’s based on a very well described and very lore-heavy, already existing universe, Cyberpunk 2020 by Mike Pondsmith. So that means there is a ton of source material, tons of creative work that has already been done before. So we needed to reach out to these books and see if we could pinpoint anything that would remain useful for us after we move the events from 2020 to 2077. Then we started to formulate how that would translate to the game’s sonic palette.”

The original tabletop game paints a picture of an alternate future in which corruption reigns and oppressive megacorporations wage war on each other, as the denizens of gang-infested, urban sprawls like Night City struggle to survive on the streets. Humans and machines intertwine via cybernetic enhancements, and this unholy merging of flesh and technology is represented vividly in the game’s score, which often employs the use of synth that sounds both metallic and organic.

The majority of electronic music is created from a widely-available database of preset sounds built into a computer or synth. To create Cyberpunk 2077’s unique sonic identity, the composers eschewed convention and took a more experimental approach, using a slew of odd machines to create bespoke sounds that give the score its ethereal edge.

“What we’ve done is ridiculous,” Leonard-Morgan explains. “It hasn’t been done before. We’ve composed with virtually no software at all. It’s all external gear. So it’s all weird and wacky synthesizers, all weird modular synths, always stuff which you then had to record the audio and process that around. You can never recreate the sounds again.”

The trio used rare, long out-of-production machines, took their already unique built-in sounds, and manipulated them further to compose the game’s music. The result is a tapestry of interconnected compositions that have a dark, Frankenstein’s-monster bizarreness to them, and one of the most prominent and peculiar synths you’ll hear in the mix has a curious background of its own.

“P.T. and I own our own Soviet-made Polivokses. Mine’s from 1982,” Przybylowicz says. “My Polivoks still has a price tag: 800 Rubles, which is, I think by today’s standards, 10 bucks. It’s a duophonic synthesizer similar to the Moog Sub 37, which is a very famous duophonic unit. I heard a story that during the Cold War, blueprints [of the Moog Sub 37] were stolen by Soviet agents in order to obtain something that they could copy [to build their own synthesizer]. Supposedly they were trying to make an exact copy, but you know, something always goes wrong on the production lines–they ended up with a machine that is truly, remarkably ugly-sounding. Yet still sounds like nothing else.”

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Another strange machine in the trio’s fleet of synths is the Folktek Mescaline, an infernal-looking mess of jet-black panels, spiraling bronze detailing, and a scattered arrangement of inputs, knobs, buttons, and switches. It looks so intimidating and unapproachable that it’s no wonder the trio harnessed its power in their compositions.

“All three of us own Folktek Mescalines,” Przybylowicz says. “It’s a small modular system that allows you to basically do anything. It doesn’t come with a very good manual. It doesn’t feature keyboards. It doesn’t feature any self-explanatory indications of what’s doing what. So it’s all based on experimentation.”

Adamczyk elaborates, “You can’t really decide, ‘I’m just going to play an A minor chord’ on a Mescaline. Getting an A minor chord is a real pain in the ass because you have to pretty much tune the machine to that specific chord. You have to try to find your way with these instruments and try to somehow find a musical way of using them. Half of the time, you have no idea what you’re doing.”

The game boasts around eight hours of music that, amazingly, is virtually all in the key of A minor to allow the different compositions to flow seamlessly in and out of each other as the player transitions between different encounters and scenarios.

“Games are like living organisms,” Przybylowicz explains. “It’s dependent on the player’s actions, even if we’re talking about the most linear scripted games. Ours obviously is nothing like that. It’s a full-fledged, open-world RPG with multiple branching lines in the narrative arc. So obviously it’s even more difficult [to compose for], but I think in a sense it’s almost liberating to work on a thing that changes so many times during even a single playthrough, you know?”

Cyberpunk 2077 had fans practically salivating in the days leading to its release date. It’s not only the next chapter of a long-beloved sci-fi franchise, but CD Projekt RED’s follow-up to the all-time classic The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, which is, to put it mildly, a tough act to follow. The composers feel the magnitude of the moment, though they remain unshakable, confident in the work they’ve put forward.

“Working on a game of such a big scale, ambition and quality and fan base…I think it naturally adds to the pressure,” says Przybylowicz. “So the bigger the hype gets, the bigger the expectations are getting, and the bigger the pressure gets. I think it’s at least in some parts a natural process of this profession, when you get to work on a project of this reputation.”

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“It doesn’t matter for me whether it’s a one million dollar film, a hundred million dollar film, a billion-dollar game, or whatever,” Leonard-Morgan adds. “The point is it’s all about the creative process. That’s the part that I really, really enjoy. And I think as soon as you start letting external forces come into your head, that’s where I start to kind of…Self-doubt is the wrong phrase. But you start second-guessing, and second guessing is just the worst thing you can do as a composer.”

You can listen to the score below:

Cyberpunk 2077 is out now on PlayStation 5, Xbox Series X, PC, PlayStation 4, Xbox One, and Google Stadia.

The post How the Cyberpunk 2077 Soundtrack Found Its Dystopian Sound in a Soviet-Era Synthesizer appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3an3h8A

[polandspringz]

I’m sure you probably got asked this many times but what’s your rank of the brothers from most fav to least fav? Least fav doesn’t mean dislike but still a ranking :0 from your fics I get that Mammon might me in that top hehe

I don’t think I’ve actually been asked this before? But, either way, I have been waiting for someone to ask me about this! Although I’ve given my MC’s relationships on another post, (and a tiktok where I ranked the battle themes) I haven’t actually given my own personal ranking, so here we go!

1. Mammon- You knew this, he knew this. He’s our first, and I’m weak for characters that are the “bad boy, tsundere” type I guess. The devs and the writing team did an excellent job in creating his character because I opened the game a Lucifer stan and the moment Mammon softened I became a simp, lol. I also am a big fan of Osomatsu-san, so Mammon is very much the equivalent to Karamatsu, which is part of why I like him.

2. Belphegor- I know he’s a very controversial character to like, and I haven’t even finished chapter 16 yet, so how can he be my favorite? I ended up starting the game in the middle of an event, so while my MC was going around being like “Who is the seventh brother?” I meanwhile was talking him up in the side story (plus, I got spoiled by a crack guide on Youtube and then for fic research spoiled the time travel events for myself). I will say my opinion of him is somewhat changing as I witness him be more cruel and manipulative, but I honestly feel bad for this brother who was isolated for months from his family and was left to boil with the rage and hatred thinking it was because Lucifer hated him, but not knowing it was because Lucifer was trying to protect him. (That was one part that didn’t get spoiled for me, so when Diavolo walked in and did the “protect you from me” my jaw dropped) I’m also just slightly biased because I like reading fics of characters cuddling and when you have someone who is literally always sleeping, you can find a LOT of that.

3. Satan- The reason he’s number three is just because I am very drawn to the “academic” type of character. Overall, his bookish aesthetic I just really like, and his casual design I find very attractive. (I’m a fashion major so I’m very interested in what characters wear. Menswear, and in particular Ivy League style, I have a big appreciation for, so sweaters and such are big plus!) Also his character design looks a lot like Usui Takami from Maid-Sama, and my previous dating sim crush, Jiwoo from Dandelion. In terms of his character though, I admire his efforts to be his own person, and try and overcome his anger. I’m someone with some bad anger myself, so I connect to him a lot in his efforts to improve and control it.

4. Lucifer- Okay, so I really dislike a lot of aspects of Lucifer’s character, but I love how dedicated he is to his family and I feel so deeply for how he wants to completely bear the burden for the Celestial War on his own. It seems somewhat cliche to have a character that is full of pride be the most self-sacrificial, but I love that it was done in the way that he is secretly super humble and loves his family so much but because of that pride being a barrier, he can never express it. He’s obviously one of the most fleshed out characters in the game, but the devs did an excellent job making me feel for him and so I want to comfort him the most.

5. Levi- I was iffy about Levi until I saw a bunch of fan art of him by a certain artist (cough, cough, I don’t want to tag them and bother them but, cough cough, pon-ee) Although I find him a bit annoying with his Woahhhh and his self deprecating personality traits, I’ve learned to see the potential in him and would love to just, give him a hug or something? I’m sorry but my logic for liking him is honestly that he’s a weeb like me and we would probably bond really well over discussing shows and cosplay. (Also COOL TAIL) in all seriousness though, because of how I interpret each character in how I write them, when I was writing fics like “Cause You Don’t Really Wanna Go”, Levi’s scenes and feelings were very inspired by how a lot of people portray the younger Osomatsu brothers reacting to Karamatsu having depression and low self-esteem on behalf of their words and actions. What really drew me to his character was just the potential of him, and really all of the characters who beat each other up like siblings do, deep down having a very strong connection that they don’t ever want to be damaged, but then having that realization that they might have been the one to do it. Levi already has enough self-esteem issues, so I don’t want to say I like him because he’s such a sad character, but in those moments where he’s not sad and is happily gushing about things he likes and soaking up attention from MC and others, I find him a very attractive character personality wise.

6. Asmo- I feel bad putting Asmo so low because I do like him a lot! As you said, least favorite doesn’t mean dislike. What keeps me more distant from him is that I like him, but not romantically or with my MC. I really enjoyed writing the Solomon scene with him in “I’d Rather Be Dry”. Again, what really brings me closer to these characters is psychoanalyzing them in my own writing. I know there is more to his character than the typical, sexual lust, but because I’ve been playing the game so spaced out I feel like I haven’t absorbed as much as his character as I could have to appreciate it. I’m hoping I get to see more of his character in the future lessons, and his “lust” is taken in different directions besides just “cheerfulness’ and to more anger and protectiveness.

7. Beelzebub- I know a lot of people get mad that many people rank Beelzebub low for the writers making him “only/always hungry”, but that’s not why he’s this low on my ranking. I honestly like how a lot of fans take his character to be that his love/connection to MC distracts from the pain of his constant hunger, because his gluttony isn’t just for food. All of the sins are overindulgence, but it is nice to see them all come to this sort of singularity, away from individual desires, and connect as one because of the influence of one person bringing light into their life and re-establishing their family bonds. But, back to why he’s the last on my ranking, is it shallow to say he’s really just.. not my type? I feel bad because I try to give everyone equal screen time in my writing but I know Beel definitely gets less than my top four. I admire his dedication and care for his family but I just don’t find him that attractive. The emphasis on his athleticism and such I honestly don’t care much for, and he’s just a bit too of a warm/welcoming personality for me? I like seeing him defy Lucifer when he gets angry about Belphegor, but every other time, I just feel he is very complacent and too obedient. I don’t want to call him mindless, because he isn’t at all. I do love him, but like Asmo, it could be that replaying the first 20 lessons again (when I finish them) will make me connect to him more. For now though, I find him lacking in individuality, his character too dependent on Belphegor and Lilith’s story, and in the most shallow way possible, he’s just not my type. Sorry!

You probably weren’t expecting me to go on a tangent trying to justify each one, but this honestly took me like... 2 hours to write up. If the undateables were in here, it would be even longer though! Thank goodness you only asked for the brothers! (Although I would be happy to give my ranking on them too, and then my overall ranking on all the characters too...)