#falls onto the ground and fucking dies forever.

[fallenclan]

FC I'M GOING TO BLOW UP EXPLODE ABOUT THIS . GOD. GOD!!! CYCLES!!!!!

Otterslip was Insecure as an apprentice, then Ambitious as a warrior, mentored by Maplethorn, the current deputy. Adopted son of the former leader Scorchstar and respected deputy Nettlestem. By all accounts, a good mentor.

Stormsight was Lonesome as an apprentice, then Righteous once they got their name, mentored by Silverbelly. Son of Toro, second of the two litters that redeemed the medicine cat Sunwish in her own eyes.

Interestingly, Silverbelly had that same trait progression - lonesome, then righteous. Which on one paw is really cute to consider that they both dropped the lonesome trait at the end of their apprenticeship, as if to signify they have more support than they first did, or at least first thought, but it *also* means this.

Every single medicine cat since Sunwish, sans Eaglestripe(? from all I could find), has had the Righteous trait at some point. (Eaglestripe was Compassionate, now Loyal.) It shifts as it goes on, growing and changing as it's handed from each mentor to apprentice, but the knowledge is the same. The heart of it is the same. It's an unbroken line from Sunwish, all the way down.

The righteousness is a part of that, I think. At least for Silverbelly and Stormsight. Silver might've suspected, and Storm might've found out for sure - after all, he saw Nick in his apprenticeship. It's not unimaginable that he could see another Starclan cat more recently. That he could ask.

I wonder if he told Otter, too. If he thought he deserved to know, or if let it slip in an argument, or Otter saw or heard him and Silverbelly talking and suspected the worst - confirmed it, teeth bared in rage, near the edge of the cliff.

That's not the point of this ask, though - that cycles are. BECAUSE! I'M GOING INSANE ABOUT BOTH THE SIMILARITIES HERE AND WHERE THEY DIFFER.

Both Sunwish and Stormsight wanted to reach out to someone before their murders. Only Stormsight succeeded in this. Both were Righteous, and struck down by someone who grew to loathe them, possibly blaming them for the death of someone dear who couldn't be saved. Otterslip was trying to defend his mother's secret, too. Both were medicine cats struck down by their own clanmates. Sunwish didn't want to be. (Do they even remember that part of her story, anymore?) (God. Lays on the ground. I wonder if it was the opposite that sealed Stormsight's fate. His connection to Starclan gave him the chance to learn the truth, and it was for the truth Otterslip killed him.)

As much as Otterslip's hurt and fury at Grassroot's death (WHICH I AM. SO MOROSE ABOUT I'LL MISS HER… . God. Imagine Grassroot having to look down and see her dad doing this. Being exposed to this seasons-old anguish and having to reconcile her place in all of it. She didn't *ask* for this.) makes sense, it's not a solid defense. Grassroot was killed by a dog - there probably wouldn't be a chance she *could* be saved, even if she was alive when they found her, and still alive when a medicine cat could attend her with the herbs necessary. And besides that, Stormsight isn't the only current medicine cat! Silverbelly, Eaglestripe, both were equally bound to try and save Grassroot's life, and they couldn't. But Silver was here before him, he grew up beside her, and Eagle is still just a kid. And of course - even if Silver's not his favourite cat, he doesn't **hate** either of them like he does Stormsight.

So it has to be his fault.

god… I had to stop typing to handle something so I've kind of lost my train of thought but this is . SO. God.

Thinks about Silverbelly. JUST READ THE NEWEST JAGUARFIC. GOD. THINKS ABOUT SILVERBELLY X100. Ohhh unrelated to current tangent but Jaguar I really enjoy how you take care to use more cats than just the focuses, it makes the whole clan feel a little more alive, it's nice :3… BUT SERIOUSLY. Silver just lost one of her own kits a few moons ago, grandkits left behind, and Stormy - god. Stormsight was her little brother. Stormsight was her little brother, her apprentice, he was stubborn and passionate and he liked to make her laugh, she got to see him come into his own from the lonely kit he used to be, and he just. He never comes back. What did they even talk about last? After everything about Sunwish - did she wish him good luck, when he left? Did she remember to say I love you? What was the last thing he said to Eaglestripe, his apprentice, bound by blood and teaching, that kind-hearted cat who's grown so well herself? Did Eagle even know something was going on?

Does Stormsight weep angry tears for them, from his perch in the stars? Does he wish, desperately, to warn them? For someone to *know?* Does Sunwish sit beside him, bad with cats at the best of times but feeling the need to support him, this apprentice of her apprentice, this kit she saw as a newborn, struck down for trying to reveal her own fate? More than her - does he get his tearful embrace with Toro and Goosewing, do they sit vigil with him from the clouds? Is Scorchstar warned away with raised hackles, the wound still all too fresh?

Sorry. Sorry. I'm thinking all too much.

(- 🐈‍⬛)

i am so fucking unwell about this whole thing. but yeah Stormsight and Silverbelly were Best Fucking Friends. making me even sadder

[capslocked]

PARIS

male reader x sana minatozaki

30k words

"City's a shithole," you tell Sana, stepping out of a taxi. "Absolutely rotten."

"It is not a shithole."

"It is a shithole, Sana."

"You just got off the plane. Can we reserve judgement on Paris until we've seen the fucking place?"

(This is the one where you get over a fear of flying, of falling - and Sana's breeding kink goes a little further, gets a little more complicated - and neither of you give up much ground. It's an ordeal, that one. You really oughta stop surprising her in hotels.)

-

"Little known fact," Sana says to you near the beginning and looking for once a little less ethereally put-together, a bit more like she wants to go back to sleep. "St. Valentine was actually an incel who died in jail."

She's slumped onto your kitchen counter in a sweater several sizes too large - the one with your college crest, a hole in the armpit - and shorts, her long bare legs dangling above the tile.

"So, y'know."

And you haven't a fucking clue.

She shovels another spoonful of cereal into her mouth, "spending the holiday insufferably alone is something of an homage."

"What?"

"An homage," she crunches, happily.

Oh, you're charmed by her, have been for weeks now, and you chuckle despite yourself, pour her coffee while you're waiting for the toaster to finish. You've decided she's going to eat fruit today whether she wants to or not - it's barely breakfast if it's just a bowl of sugary carbs; and in a pair of fuzzy socks, a stolen crewneck, with last night's makeup still slightly smeared at the corners of her eyes and her hair mussed to shit, Sana makes you feel sorta responsible for her health. Your infatuation must be showing. 

She lifts her chin, blinks lazily.

"I guess that makes us both artists by extension, or something," you say.

"Incels?" Sana snorts.

"No." Your toast pops. "Homage-payers."

You watch her mouth quirk around her spoon. "I kinda like that," she allows.

This morning, for the record, is only different than others in terms of superficial details - today Sana woke up with your hand cupped over her cunt, three fingers sinking slowly into her heat - annoyingly slow, the way she likes it least and best, depending on what she gets out of the teasing: her morning orgasm, in this case - and it was different enough that she moaned high and pretty, back arching as she squirmed on your palm, the sheets, whispering a delirious good morning against your jaw when her wits finally cohered into something more linear, understandable.

It's your new normal, sure: sleeping together - and its odd, comedy-forged counterpart, waking-up together.

It's eating breakfast, it's Sana stealing your clothes, sitting on your counters like breaking convention is some sort of biological imperative.

It's her legs wrapping around your waist while she kisses you soft and open-mouthed, leaving it to you to decide how much morning breath you can tolerate - and maybe that's a routine worth indulging, for a bit. At any rate: it's February 7th, which means there's this sword of Damocles hanging over your head that a whole financial system has been built around monetizing, a day people probably buy chocolates and flowers and write sonnets over - except Sana is jetsetting next week and you'll be spending February 14th in your apartment, possibly taking a shower, definitely sleeping in until noon, not being in love.

She's a once-in-a-generation talent, a gorgeous face, a fantastic fuck - this is just what's in the cards for you.

"You're going to miss me," says Sana, flat-out declaring it, threading her fingers beneath your chin, hooking her ankles loosely in the small of your back.

The cereal bowl clatters as you set it in the sink. "I might," you say, noncommittal, enjoying the way it makes her press further into your body, clinging tighter. "How long did you say this trip was going to be, again?"

"Oh, forever, maybe," Sana breezes, waving her other hand.

"You're gonna change your mind about the whole concept of romance and think about texting me within five, ten minutes of dropping me off at the airport. But then you won't actually do it, because you'll figure that I'm busy, and then you'll spend the rest of my flight kicking yourself for not sending me, like, an emoji, or something, and that it could've been enough to bridge the gap, and instead I'll be off somewhere all dolled-up and glamorous, probably surrounded by hot models, and that's when I'll meet someone new. I mean, there'll probably be no comparison to well, y'know-" She palms your crotch, fingers skating across the fabric. You recoil, almost scowl, and she snickers. "-but that's what happens when you don't text me. We're not in contact for one week and I replace you with a French man named Pierre. Or Jean. Jean-Pierre, honestly. If I were you, I'd play it safe and shoot me a Valentine's text."

"Wow." You push your thumbs under the hem of her shorts. "You got it in one, I think."

She shrugs, faux-modest. "Naturally. Jean-Pierre knows what's up."

You slip your hands up further and her expression shifts as you meet skin under the heavy fabric: all suggestion, no pretense. Sana sighs contentedly, leaning back onto her wrists so that you have to chase her, tilt your head to follow the movement. This is natural. She takes your lip between her teeth and sucks, gently. The angle puts a crick in your neck. You let her get away with it anyway, press further in between her thighs, spread them wide - and then she bites harder, the flesh of your bottom lip giving under her canines.

There's a spark there, it makes you want to pull her hair, kiss her harder, dig your fingers into her hips and leave bruises that'll last through the next couple weeks of international press junkets and glitter-eyed meetings with like-minded, like-pretty strangers. You're starting to suspect she's psychic - because she slides a hand up your shirt, letting her fingers skate over your stomach, the dip of your hips, the places that make you tick.

You clock the twitch in your pants, growing, filling. You've slept with this girl an awful lot. It's a problem.

"Possessive," is Sana's assessment, with all of the derision of a tease.

"Cool it," you warn her, sliding your grip up from her legs to her hips, pinning her solidly to the countertop. "I've got a full enough schedule this morning without you making a mess of things."

"Mmm, you don't." She's petulant, kissing you again and letting the touch linger on your bottom lip. It's a strong argument.

"I do," you try.

"You really don't," she says, sing-song, breathless with expectation, anticipating rough treatment.

Her smile is syrup-sweet, oozing indulgence: the sight of her sprawled beneath you is a pure profligate pleasure. Like she's an apple you stole fresh from the orchard, red and shiny and dripping juice down your forearm, dribbling sticky on the grass, rotted with temptation. You wonder if she's always been this way - begging to be held down, fucked hard, edged beyond the realm of possibility - and recently her appetite for filth seems endless, like she's come into a taste for it. Sana Minatozaki doesn't often say no.

For all intents and purposes, your answer should be a given.

"Well," you drawl, thumbing the soft cotton of her shorts, that spot just above the waistband, where her inner thigh meets the crease of her pelvis and you can make her voice go to velvet. "Did you say he died in prison?" You pull away from her a bit, switching tactics, letting the subject slide from bedroom talk to regular breakfast chatter. "Of what, heartbreak?"

"You'd think," she says, almost curt, irritated at the prospect of edification and sorely lacking a good fuck. It's a pleasant mood to find her in - very manageable, easier if you slip your tongue between her legs, though still relatively straightforward. "It turns out the dude got beaten to death with clubs, then beheaded; hence the martyrdom bit, which I think is fair. Pretty metal death to warrant sainthood."

"Seems a little redundant."

"So does giving a holiday to people who are already, like, super in love or whatever, but." She gathers her hair off her neck - lets it fall, satisfied. "I guess romanticism and pragmatism are just mutually conclusive."

"Exclusive," you correct, lightly.

"What'd I say?"

You exchange looks: it's definitely something you've already joked about before. It's easy, like the rest of your dynamic. Sana smiles, slow-burn, and all you can do is try and one-up her: you shrug, sigh, like there's a lot to consider.

Her fingers work open one of the buttons on the front of your shirt, hover on the one beneath it - her patience is dwindling.

"Fine," you relent, rolling your eyes, feigning reluctance. "But we need to be quick about it. Fifteen minutes, twenty max. Then I absolutely need to leave and go sit silently in a room doing jackshit for eight hours."

Sana kicks you lightly in the shins. "Let me get on top, and we'll have time to cuddle, too."

"No dice," you tell her. The negotiations continue, as they always do. "Face-down-ass-up, princess. You can clean up the kitchen afterwards."

"Ugh. You're gross," she says, as you help her down from the countertop, maneuver her toward your room with one wrist tucked firmly in your palm, already rucking up her sweater to skim your fingertips along her ribs. Sana goes easy, her joints loose, willing to bend. "And annoying. And unaccommodating. You're totally wasting my last few days in town."

"I know. I'm sorry about it," you respond, stepping behind her up the stairs, her fingers gliding gently up the rail.

"Liar." She shoots you a half-smile, laughing with no bite behind it. You think, just a bit, that she'd let you get away with just about anything - that is to say, she'd get off on a great many things: you'd let go of your own guilt, just for a moment. For someone so hot and cold with her control, it'd be easy to slide the pendulum to the other side. Maybe she'd beg for it, and it'd sound real: a small part of you thinks she's close enough already. Sana tosses a smirk over her shoulder and your mouth goes dry. "But i'm sure you will be," she tells you, her gaze somehow already unfocused. You suppose all the daydreaming is beginning to affect her too. "In, like, four and a half minutes, give or take. Probably closer to four."

"Careful, Sana," you intone, pitching low; it's like warning a child not to touch an open stove. "Your ass gets red fast."

Sana wiggles her eyebrows in an endearingly ridiculous way - you can't believe this is the girl getting checks from all these designer brands - and twists your way for a second, pressing a soft kiss to the hollow of your neck.

"Promises, promises." She bats those unequivocally long lashes up at you. "You better know I'll hold you to 'em."

-

In any case, she was right: St. Valentine got fucking wrecked. It's the whole morning's lesson. Maybe there's something to be said for dying in a spectacular way, one so fantastically morbid that it has to have happened in another era.

Sana gets on top, sorta, in spite of any negotiations; Sana kisses you stupid; Sana talks nonsense while you eat her out; Sana cums when you get two fingers deep inside her ass and slam her cunt full of another, curling the tip of tongue right across her clit. She goes easily from her knees to bracing herself against the headboard; and you follow her up the mattress when she scoots forward so you can fuck her with her back flush against your chest, head tossed on your shoulder, throat arched so she can choke out sounds you've never heard from anyone, ever. She's not a screamer, but she makes these high, keening noises when she's close - when you're giving her just the right pace, the right rhythm, the right depth - and you lean back on your heels, slap her ass, pinch her hip, "make me cum, baby," and god, her pussy grips down on you greedily, hungrily, swallows every inch and fucks you back until the condom swells full, deep inside her heat.

"You." You say it like it's a half-formed threat, kissing her sweaty, satiny shoulder, nosing the bra strap barely clinging to her skin. "Are such an insufferable cocktease."

"That's me," she quips, out of breath, entirely too pleased. 

It's such a familiar refrain now, her elbow bent back, hand trailing your neck, head tipped - she sinks her fingers into your hair and holds you against her pulse where it jumps sporadically under her skin. You flip her around - somewhat elegantly, somewhat not - nestle her soft, creamy thighs over your hips, warm your cock inside of her as she falls back from the clouds, pressing your hand to the tightness of her waist - she wasn't exaggerating: there's time to spare, to kiss her like a movie ending, and to come up smiling.

It's not just all the risky, illicit sex and reckless abandon already in play: it's also the entire lexicon and etymology of fated ends, of doomed sentiment - each verb conjugated twice and three times and five times over. She's got the filthiest parts of your imagination reined in with that face alone, like you're drowning in divinity; this is a girl so pristine and peerless and utterly without vice, staring up at you from underneath mascara-dusted lashes, waiting for her own devastation - always daring you to indulge her.

"You think you're corrupting me," Sana laughs in your ear, serenely, almost self-aware. "Is that it?"

"Well," you start, and there's a self-reflection somewhere in there - your fingertips on her jaw, her heartbeat in the hollow of her throat. The skin's so impossibly soft. Fragile. "It's a thought."

She lifts a shoulder, smiles lazily. Her mouth has that permanent imprint of sin, somehow simultaneously a crime scene and a place of worship.

"Baby," she drawls, all sugar-sweet. "I'm sure that's a given. I was such a good girl before I met you."

"Yeah," you reply, nipping the hinge of her jaw. "Such a sweetheart. So well-behaved."

"I'll take it."

Sana rolls the condom off of you, sitting cross-legged on your bed as you fold a pillow in half and prop yourself up, watching her do her thing.

She’s got so much control like this - wringing the thick mess out into her palm, then sitting back onto her calves. With two fingers and her thumb, she pinches at it, lets it drip back down. A beat later, she makes another string, decides she's all for swallowing today. That's an art. And it's mesmerizing, the way she concentrates with delicate precision, tipping her chin up and staining her lips, her tongue diligently slipping through the spaces between her knuckles.

"You're really cute," you inform her, and she flushes while licking up the rest - you love it, the little contradictions. "But that is filthy."

“Could’ve been inside me instead,” she muses, casually. She’s just testing it out, rolling the syllables on her tongue.

You raise your eyebrows. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” repeats Sana, quietly. She reaches forward, runs her thumb along your slit, a little lower - just a semi-circle of pressure. Yeah, you’re still achingly hard. She eyes you and her focus shifts; she seems to come to a conclusion, nods her head once; this girl, really, with all her unpredictable tempers. She takes the length of you in her hand, a loose, idle grip, more to be playful than sexy. It works both ways, apparently: your eyes roll up at her, and you suppress a gasp, grabbing hold of the pillow.

It's those dreamy, half-lidded eyes, glazed over and vapid - ah, the total and utter loss of any brain capacity. Something like a prelude to the sweet surrender; Sana does the drooling part for you.

“You wanna go again?” you ask her, and this is another bit: the whole I-say-one-thing-and-do-the-other game, the winding, unwinding tension. 

When she wants something, she talks to you like she'd burn a church down for you, then tuck her arm right into yours like the fire doesn't exist in the first place - Sana blinks prettily up at you, strikes the match behind her back. For her part, she doesn’t lie as often as she could, as often as you would expect her to; in the beginning, at least, you assumed she was a bad liar, a good flirt, that kind of contradiction.

If you didn't know better, you'd fall head over heels.

"Or are you just stroking me off because you like the way it feels in your hands?" you go on. You'd like to find out, actually.

Sana smirks, and slides her palm lower, gets a second hand involved, slow and steady - the friction is aching, fantastic. "Aren't you supposed to be working?” she asks, twisting both. You could cum again, but maybe you shouldn't. "Is this really how we spend all our time?"

“How conscientious of you,” you say, drily, and she laughs before tucking her hair behind her ear, kneeling on the sheets and bringing her lips to the end of you, letting her spit run down the head and catching it with her knuckles; just once, she licks. Then, twice. Okay, well - you could probably afford to stay away a while longer. In theory. Three times, four times - oh, her mouth is hot and silky and there's really no way around it. 

You grab your phone, shoot off an email or two, and slip your fingers into her hair.

-

Sana's someone you know from work, in a real roundabout sort of way. That's the whole sordid story.

You've got the cushy office job, the creative credentials, she's art, the product; and the optics surrounding that means you're supposed to never, ever lay a finger on her; oils mixing like they shouldn't - the finished, the half-baked, the polished to a gleam versus the raw unvarnished clay; but she'd wandered into the employee-only elevator and said good morning with that smart, sarcastic little voice and you'd turned around, thinking of some entitled manager in the process of haranguing you - only it wasn't a suit-and-tie corporate climber, oh, no, no-

"Hey," you said, too stunned for eloquence, too dumbstruck for wit.

Because here's a perfect, pouty-lipped princess, dressed like an angel and grinning like she's ready to rob a bank; like the moon landing and Shakespeare rolled into one, fantasy and classic literature and a pastel linen shirt, with what felt like half the buttons undone.

You blinked, remembered to breathe.

"Hi." She tipped her head and let a curtain of copper-spun hair slide off one shoulder. Took a slow, appraising sip of her iced-coffee. "You're new. Or - new to me, at least."

The doors shut, and suddenly there was no going back.

-

The signs are there. Four different conditioners on the bath rack, her lotion on the bathroom counter, her shaving cream next to the soap. She prefers peppermint to vanilla. And date night takes a turn from red wine to ramen; you'll end up on your couch watching crime documentaries because Sana will hook her fingers into the loops of your jeans, saying, can't we just, like, stay in?

This morning, too: her hand clings around your forearm a little longer when you kiss her goodbye and help her find the shoes she's wearing home, make her promise to return your sweatshirt soon.

But you know that if anyone asked, Sana'd shrug and laugh, say I dunno, it's not really anything at all. 

You're hooking up. You're being idiots - this whole thing, from the very start of it, was so off-the-rails, so questionable. You remind yourself she's never met anyone she didn't like. 

She doesn't think about consequences, and she certainly won't start with you. You figure things will fester, get murky and muddled and frustrating - and the worst part isn't how she's ruining you for anyone else; it's how you're going to miss the idea of her, the impossible promise. She's living the glamour, the ceaselessness, the adventure. It's all planned out. She'll keep living her life this way until she doesn't. It's an occupational hazard.

And she won't pay it any attention once some Jean-Pierre becomes her next hot, enigmatic, incomprehensible, asshole genius plaything - hypothetically speaking.

(Or maybe he'll be the first one to really, really figure her out, and that's the more disconcerting thought.)

So you're just...you don't even know what you are, frankly. Friends who text? Sure, whatever: that makes sense. You can cling to that. It's the most sensible explanation so far.

Sana: i was promised an apology text (´;︵;`)

Sana: the pregnant man emoji seems wildly inappropriate given the circumstances

You, at ten fifteen in the morning on February 8th: i'm in a staff meeting, first of all.

You've been getting nonsensical, arbitrary stuff since, like, October: grocery lists, links to memes, notes on things she remembers in the shower. Occasionally, it's horny stuff - a water droplet emoji, the wink, and the peach; then a photo of her skirt lifted in the mirror and her naked ass in a pair of heels - and occasionally, you oblige it.

You: second, I don't want this to come off as arrogant or anything, but I didn't realize you think about me the minute you wake up

Sana: um, soooo arrogant lol wtf

Sana: but also ur not wrong, im desperate for some relief <333

You: poor, pitiful baby 🙄

You: go find miyeon

Sana: she's ignoring my calls

Sana: just send something nasty please PLEASE 😭

Sana: tell me how hard i make you

You: i'm in a meeting, sana.

Sana: I WILL RIOT.

Sana: jk don't tell me. i'm just looking at pics of us rn and i'm going to die.

Sana: (send a dick pic u coward)

She sends you a heart. And an eggplant. Then the tongue. 

You: I'll see what I can do

She follows up with: thank u thank u god bless <3

-

Oh, it's dangerous, working in the same office, dealing in all that proximity - even with the floors between you.

You're constantly resisting the urge to slide by, to try and catch a glimpse, to find excuses to bump into her in the hallway, listen to her talk, say hi. So maybe you're a sucker for the devil, or maybe it's all just because she's Sana, and she's a vision in a pencil skirt, a beauty with her legs crossed and her chin tipped high; or it's worse: you'll catch her in yoga pants, hair mussed and shiny with sweat as she flits from practice room to practice room, to get water, to take a phone call, to rub chapstick over her mouth - the daydreams write themselves.

But it's not like you know any details of her job other than, 'singer' or 'professional tease' or the occasional tangential reference. She never really talks about work.

You walk through the halls, eyes flitting around every corner; there's a standing appointment, of sorts, and it has been for the past month, maybe longer - you've got your doubts that today will break the streak. You've never actually agreed to meet her; it's sorta an unspoken understanding, and you find her exactly where you thought you might, after you've made a loop around the seventh floor, wandered as slowly as humanly possible - as if stalling could stop you from inevitably descending the same stairwell you do every time. It's an awful, terrible descent and it's gonna get you both fired - or killed, if her manager finds you first. It's a miracle you're still here.

Sana's leaning against the railing, flipping through her phone; when she hears your approaching footsteps she looks up and meets your eyes. Smirks.

"Ms. Minatozaki," you say, like this is a high school and she's one of the tardies you can't stop calling out. 

It's the nth time this has happened, and you have to know she comes looking for you, too.

"So," she drawls, standing and sweeping all her hair up off her neck, clipping it like it's habitual, and the way her hands rest at your waist is a scandal in itself. The watch on her dainty pale wrist glitters in the fluorescent lights, slides down her forearm as she pushes her sleeves past her elbows. You're not really thinking about things like propriety, restraint; Sana's very good at convincing you to shed all pretense of ethics, morals. You're slave to the thousand-kilowatt smile, the short skirts and thigh-high boots and every calculated display of skin. This girl has her agenda written plain on the walls and you've made it known in ten different languages: it's one hell of a view, and it's impossible not to stare.

"You here to escort me somewhere?" asks Sana, in a way that sounds vaguely dirty - which it is. "Need to go looking for pens again?"

She takes a step closer, presses a palm flat to your chest; hums a low, delighted sound.

"Or you could bend me over the railing and stuff me right here." Sana tilts her chin and squints upwards, assessing the metalwork. She drops her gaze, presses her fingertips to the knot of your tie; and then, a show of pity or mercy, drags her eyes back to your face, pretty lashes blinking slow. "Wouldn't be complaining."

"I really wish you could hear yourself sometimes, sweetheart."

"Trust me, it's been on my mind all morning," she confesses, all soft, wicked intimacy. "Distracting me. I doubt you want me keeping it to myself, either."

"No," you admit. "You've got that right."

Her fingers toy with your top button, pop it open. You grab her wrist, stop her, gentle and warning. Her hand goes limp in your grasp, acquiescing easily; this is the part where she likes it, getting pulled back on the right side of polite. "You should kiss me," says Sana.

Like she has to. Like this girl, rich and famous and inexplicably out of your league, a glamorous songbird living high up in her nest, and still wanting for the little taste of heaven she thinks she can steal away from you in dark corners

"Where?" You're playing, and the moment you brush your mouth over hers, the second her breath meets your lips, you've gone and forgotten all your prior reservations about fucking her at work. You let go of her wrist, allow her hand to wander lower, unbuttoning, dipping past the waistband of your pants. She slides her palm beneath the material of your underwear, tugs them just low enough that her slim, small fingers can encircle the base of your cock.

"Anywhere," Sana decides, and kisses the answer into your mouth, sighing into it - enough to pull you under, to submerge and suffocate.

It's funny; she smiles like she's the heroine of your life story, like the storybook star on the cover of an epic, or an infallible leading lady - like someone to love, like someone to admire and aspire to. Or maybe it's a touch sinister: her eyes sparkle and your worldview snaps a little sideways, just to accommodate her; she could be the villain all the same - not your protégée, not the good girl, not an angel or a miracle. There's your poison, and it's in her blood - it's a flashpoint of pure greed, and Sana doesn't need a mirror. She knows every single sin.

You drop your hand from her hair, the pretense, and give in: the railing creaks a quiet noise of protest as she wrenches her ass against the unforgiving steel, and then she's arching into your body, sighing again; it's a sound you've committed to memory, ingrained it, the sweet taste, the sharpness of her exhale when your hand wanders high up the hem of her skirt.

"Anywhere?"

"Sure," breathes Sana, fingers spidering further into your open zipper. 

It's so incredibly risky, it's bad practice, not to mention illogical: the stairwell is a public, communal space, no escape, nowhere to hide - there's only seven floors to the building, seven opportunities for someone to stumble in, and none of these numbers are in your favor.

"I'll be quiet," she mutters, lips ghosting along your jaw. "I promise." She knows that's not what you're concerned with, but you appreciate the thoughtfulness; oh, who's fooling who? "We can just-" Her hips hitch up and press firm against yours. "-see where it goes."

And, well - you have the rest of your career to be responsible, probably. Professional, obedient and boring and ethical and so many other useless terms you could drag up and wave in the face of the fact Sana's fucking gorgeous. She's holding back from giving you the full-on pout, but just barely - you catch the shadow of it on her lips; the thinly concealed ache, the pretty agony. She kisses you like she's not gonna breathe until the second after you're inside her - then that's that, like some sorta ritual. A tradition, an instinct, it's a swan-song for every shred of decorum she's begging to burn up.

You hoist her, balance her on the railing. When your grip tightens, she shuffles forward, draws her legs up a little - that's the key, letting her settle just right: the end of the world could come now and she'd still feel fucking divine, pussy dripping through her underwear straight onto the crotch of your pants - there's a wet spot now, you can feel it on the side of your thigh where you've got a fistful of her skirt scrunched, rolled up above her thighs, all bare creamy skin, something to remember this by: her in the height of perfection, full of good intentions and eager to fall apart.

"Panties," you tell her, palm up, hand held out. 

"You're fucking crazy," she exhales, but she's fiddling with her waistband and shifting on her ass in seconds - they're tangled around her boots - you're a goner from the start, it's like your soul leaves your body with a wet little snick. "Get - get them off," and it sounds so sweet in her voice, whining, ragged - not that it was in any danger but her own breath renders her resolve for composure pointless.

"Your little cunt's dripping," you note, with your hand cupping it, two fingers teasing along her soaked slit; no part of the conversation has ever needed to go in circles with Sana, or anyone else. You just sort of lean into it. "Been wanting me since you got dressed, huh."

"Your fault," she tells you, nose sliding over yours, seeking affection. "Explicitly. Never got those pictures out of my head."

"Um," you say, slipping into another finger, because she's hot and slick and insatiable and the friction will melt her right to goo - you think Sana's orgasms might be getting a little violent, these days. You're more inclined to inspire them. "I didn't actually send you anything provocative."

"See?" She grins at you, breathless. "Here lies my problem."

"Such a hard life." You crook your fingers a little deeper; Sana collapses against you, a flower drooping from too much rainwater. "Such a burden, being you, hm?"

"So I'm the issue in this scenario," she mutters, pushing back into your hands, squeezing her thighs. "Causing problems, all by myself, sluttly-little-me."

"I never said that."

"You called me a fucking cocksleeve, the other night."

"Sana."

"Which is absolutely correct. Like. One hundred percent. But don't act like you don't get off on it."

"Well," you say, innocuous: stroke up inside of her, stretch, reach - crook - and there's a breathy moan in your ear. "So do you."

"Shut up," she says, "this is about your inability to compartmentalize," and her cunt is so slick that it makes a delicious, lewd squelching sound as your fingers dip and curl in further, the walls of her pussy clenched tight, suffocating your skin - every time you roll a condom over your cock and sink inside her you do have to wonder if it's really, genuinely necessary.

"Wanna cum?" you ask, deflecting a bit, and stroke her with intent, relishing the way her little pink mouth drops open to exhale.

"Gotta be better than getting psychoanalyzed by a guy who has my fucking panties in his pocket," she grits out, hips rolling to the tempo of your fingers, now scissoring apart. You're only touching her cunt and still she moves against you like you've been railing her for hours - you think she's so wet you might hear it down the hall, down the street. "Might be a good tradeoff. Maybe." Then, more resolutely: "Fuck. Yes. Please."

It's hard to take her seriously like this, with her pretty features drawn up, all the facets of a statue rendered beautifully human, transient, falling apart in the pleasure. In moments like these, Sana looks most ethereal; when your thumb's fast on her clit and you croon compliments and the sweetest-bittersweet filth in her ear until her whole body becomes liquid-fire, sloppy and hot, desperately keening.

"On my fingers?" you ask, because maybe you're a lot like Sana: an insufferable tease. 

You slip your fingers down to the next knuckle and curl it up against the slick heat, deep, until she's making soft, whimper-like sounds, brow furrowing in focus, straining for release, and Sana can't even look you in the eyes, too far gone already, lost in this. "Or," and here's the dangerous part - "I could get on my knees and eat this pussy until you can't see straight." You're dangerously close to taking the panties from your pocket and sliding the lace under her tongue just so you could see how pretty she looks like that, huffing, groaning, eyes flickering shut at the sensation - not the actual taste of herself, but just the way it's so undignified. 

She looks pretty at any angle, any moment - you wonder if you can fuck it into her so she'll always know it's true: the kind of egomaniacal narcissism Sana might get off on. It seems appropriate.

Sana just hums at this, arching a delicate brow, considering.

"How about you give me your mouth and watch me fuck the hell out of it, hm?"

"Mildly threatening, but okay." You take one hand, smooth over her ribs until it's cupping the slope of her jaw, and draw her gaze upward, until she's staring into your eyes. "You always taste like a godsend - could get addicted to it, probably, baby - would you wanna ruin my throat? Make me drool all over you? Turn it into a little fucking mess, just the way you like?"

The sound she makes then is unearthly, somewhere between a moan and a groan. A reverb.

You know it's out of hand because you've started using the same euphemisms she does - breeding her, ruining her tight little pussy, stretching it out nice and full. Getting a second opinion, then a third and a fourth. It's a little crass for your typical repertoire, but she makes the sweetest, most ruined noises at that. You're an equal opportunist, and her whiny submissiveness is just as good - maybe a little less effortless. More demanding: there's always the feeling she's lording it over you.

"No, really." You're stroking your fingers in solid, even thrusts as you speak: gentle, measured, nowhere near enough. "You're fucking soaked," you remark, the corner of your mouth tilted up. "Like you can't stand not having something inside you, huh?"

"Something big," she grits out.

You laugh a little, amused. She's practically leaking down the heel of your hand.

"The problem is," breathes Sana, swallowing once, twice, eyelashes flicking lower, her cheek pliable in your palm and her nails scraping gently against the hair at the nape of your neck - she's dissolving. She's all yours to own, consume, to make cum. She's drenched and warm and perfect and there's a whine threaded through every expletive. She always likes things better when you're nastier to her; it's probably fucked up. Everything is, and it's Sana - so that should go without saying. "Fuck - whatever - please. Just-"

You laugh again, and the noise twists a little meaner this time in Sana's ear.

"C'mon," you say. "Tell me about this - about my issues. Your ideas. How badly you're gonna, what was it, destroy my life, I think? Just talk while I go down on you. Might help take the sting out of it." You pause. "Or make it all the more worse, really."

Sana whimpers, broken, liking the sound of that, judging by the way her cunt drips, swollen and fluttering and you can feel her pulsing against your fingertips.

"I'll tell you if you start to go in the wrong direction," says Sana, petulant and lovely as ever. "How's that - how's? Oh, my fuck-"

Sana's words drop off. It's well-warranted. You're hungry for her, insatiable; you sink down to the floor, get your mouth on her pretty little aching cunt and that's sorta how this always starts.

She gasps out and tangles her fingers in your hair, fucks her cunt against your tongue and cries out like this isn't a scandal. 

You pray to god no one comes for a smoke, for the breeze to cool them off: because nobody needs to know how thoroughly you ruin the company's golden goose, their pristine girl-next-door, pop-sweet baby-princess. You pray because she's going to cum like the rest of your brain won't remember it tomorrow, like every teary-eyed scream won't stick to your lips like static. 

Your tongue moves, pressing harder to her clit; she rides your face. Grinds down your lips while your gaze remains rapt, transfixed.

You won't blink, won't look away for even a moment. Not when Sana's falling apart above you: a complete fucking mess, a spitfire and a divinity and a filthy-wet-dream in heels, panting so hard that you're gonna need an excuse. That everyone's gonna see you've done it, broken the perfect facade and left her absolutely mangled. It's fucking obscene the sounds she's making. High, aching whines, squelch, wettened suction; her fingers tearing through your scalp; those god damn lip-gloss-flavored moans - they echo on your neck and chest, run down and through your rib-cage. They land in your gut and rest heavy and stale, ruminant, too thick. Sweet and molasses and unbearable, all stuck inside your throat. Fuck, fuck. She cums; there's your paycheck in the line of her body, arched into an acute, cataclysmic peak, an upstretched needle to pierce the surface.

It's a moment in a crystal-clear shot, one you'll try and lock in the bank, the hallows, your mind.

She's beautiful, obviously: in the aftermath, ragged, inelegant - you figure it's the fact that the poor thing's so damned unused to being fucked, has gone on for all her teenage years, then her early adulthood, barely scraping a few fingers, a low buzz of some unremarkable toy; no - she's used to the admiration. The flattery. The rapture and praise.

But you doubt anyone's made a thorough wreck, a beautiful slobbering, sloppy mess - and who would? She's worshiped like she's an icon. Some half-baked notion of reverence, like she's holy. An angel in the wrong hands - oh, the imagery's much too flimsy. Fawning. Unending, untethered; you might be a sucker, but you wonder when you'll meet the next guy in her rotation, and, not wanting to spend much thought on him, wonder instead about Sana and her subterfuge. 

You've wondered on and off why the hell she chose you.

"You don't deserve that," says Sana, after, a little breathless but otherwise unfazed and smug, like it isn't a big fucking deal to talk back to you while your jaw is still covered in her slick.

"Pretty sure I do." You wipe at your mouth, come up closer to her again. "Seemed like it helped."

"I have a whole monologue prepared," says Sana, a touch irritated - ah, well, she might be spoiled after all. "It wasn't easy to put together. The idea of you fucking me is kind of distracting, just for the record."

"Sweet of you, baby."

"Oh, fuck off," says Sana, promptly.

You smile. It's charming and cheeky and Sana blushes, suddenly off her game. "I'm serious," she says, scrambling back to her point. "You deserve nothing for leaving me alone and miserable and not showing up for ages. You're so - I'm mad at you."

"Oh," you say, and raise an eyebrow, mock-horrified. You kiss her bare, sweat-sticky neck, trace a finger from her navel down past her hips. Sana shivers. "I had no idea."

It's just Sana's axiomatic response: all snark and sass and sly one-liners until you've got your finger against her clit, and then all at once she's begging, sobbing, falling to pieces, whining your name like it's a mantra. She doesn't give a damn about your apology now. The state of your relationship has hardly progressed - but it doesn't matter. It's only the sex, the endless hours spent with Sana's thighs bracketing your head, her lipstick imprinted on your throat, the red lines she paints over your shoulder blades. It's only that. Sana's cunt, clenching and raw from orgasm and soaked like you can never fill her up: dripping, drooling.

And, okay. Yeah, maybe you didn't show up when she asked you to, didn't listen. You admit it. She's needy every second, craves praise and your cock in equal measure - but you are guilty. 

(What's that she said earlier - that you didn't deserve it? Right.)

You aren't really in a position to say shit about being ignored either, so.

-

Sana has you pegged to her whims: she doesn't have to do a damn thing, she just breathes and has you around her finger.

Well - actually, she's very proactive. She likes making demands. Well, really: she wants things.

It's February 9th, for anyone keeping track - the shortest month of the year and the one with a few more grey days in the bank than the others, which makes sense since you're deep into the heart of winter by then. On December 28th you and Sana had spent nearly three hours on the phone discussing the latest installment of this netflix miniseries of very questionable quality. There were a lot of different points to be made, apparently: you think both of the leads are, objectively, fairly attractive, but Sana wouldn't admit she had a crush on the lead until you got to the third season.

Anyway, she was upset on her birthday because of it.

"Happy new year, by the way," you told her, somewhere in the middle of the call. Sana had to speak quietly so her parents wouldn't hear, but she sounded kind of moody. "How are you gonna celebrate?"

"My ex," Sana groaned, ignoring the question completely, "made fun of my taste in guys. Like, my type or whatever."

You cocked your head. "And what is your type?"

"Oh, you know," she said, dismissive. "Hot." You laughed, and then she said, "A little less old and a little more muscular," and that shut you up, quick. Sana hesitated.

"Shit," you said.

"Shit," she agreed. "I really, really like you, though." And then:

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

And you've been kinda done for ever since.

-

Right, okay. You get sidetracked, easily. It's a running gag. Sana gives you shit for it, but then again she gives you shit for a lot of things.

On February 9th, evening leaking through a skyline cracked open and gushing like an oil spill, and the stars dripping silver - auspicious, potentially, on Sana's side - she turns up at the door of your apartment, tapping snow from her boot-clad feet, mouth tight.

"It's fucking freezing," she snaps at you, as a greeting - the hello goes unsaid. You open the door wider and she sweeps past, takes a glance around like she owns the place. You should have known - in hindsight.

Work was fine but felt lengthy. Sana shot photos for some designer brand you'd never heard of and felt pretty proud of the day's accomplishments. She talks your ear off about it while you lean against the counter and nod attentively, put water on to boil and think about getting a fish, a dog, maybe a plant; you haven't quite figured it out. Sana might have opinions about it all.

You make tea for both of you. It's this rose hibiscus thing that supposedly soothes the mind. It was a gift from a coworker at some point. Or maybe it was going to be a gift to a coworker and you just never got around to sending it; either way, it had a bow and everything. At some point in time, when someone received it, there was a bow involved. You'll work out the details - at the very least, you'll say the explanation was very elaborate and poignant, and it'd get Sana smiling. She'd trace your hand, thumb skimming your knuckles. All of a sudden you'd be sitting across a small table, talking and talking as a stream of conversation ebbed and flowed; you'd think about the stars in the sky, like blood in water. You'd kiss her neck and tell her you're not tired, ask her if she'll stay the night - it would be easy.

"So he's a total prick," finishes Sana, chin in one of her palms, blowing over the lip of the mug, "but at least he's good with a camera. Otherwise, I swear I would've left the label years ago."

"Wow," you say. You weren't paying attention.

"Mhmm," she continues.

You blink at her, slightly disoriented.

"I was talking for like, twenty minutes. You should have noticed."

"Were you," you say mildly, "seriously? Shit. I'm sorry. I guess I tuned out, just - went somewhere else."

"Huh." Sana leans on her arm. There's a lacy white ribbon tied in her warm, amber hair. It suits her, matches the gauze-thin chiffon sleeves of her sweater, the floaty skirt she's wearing, dark gray tights adorning her legs - a cossack blouse, maybe, would describe it. She's so fashionable, all the time, like it comes from the tips of her fingers, unbidden and instinctive. It makes sense; Sana's a muse for the finer things in life, all light and lovely like gold. Like - rose quartz, the blush of dawn. It's an indescribable sort of attractiveness - the kind that is rooted in her mind, in her character.

You're glad she hasn't made you spell this sentimentality out.

"Do you have a secret girlfriend you need to be confessing to?"

"I ran into Momo earlier," you say instead, which - bad timing, maybe. Sana's bright-eyed, brow lifted, curious.

"Where?" she asks.

"That cafe place. The one by the second-hand shop she likes. Near the theater."

"I've never been to a movie with you," she remarks, instead of pointing out that your explanation could apply to like, twenty places around the city alone. "Is it because you'd rather die than be seen with me in public? Like, are you worried I'm ruining your reputation?"

She's playing. Obviously. The script here is flipped: you're the secret fling, the casual affair, the quick fuck that isn't meant to mean anything, no strings attached - but maybe the implication in Sana's question is that she'd consider it otherwise. She'd like to go to the movies, or out to dinner. Somewhere crowded. Not exactly an ideal date, but you could see it on her. You want to take her places. Maybe you already do, anyway.

You roll your eyes. "Right," you say.

"Does she know?" Sana taps her bottom lip. "About us."

"Yeah," you say, too quickly.

Sana makes a face. "How? When?"

"She's your roommate," you explain, kind of at a loss. "And - you talk to her. I figured. How could she not know?"

"Dude," says Sana.

"Is this gonna be one of those moments where you pretend to be way angrier about something than you actually are?"

"Obviously, yes." Sana tilts her mug toward you in accusation. "What'd she say?"

"She asked if we were dating."

"What'd you say?"

"No," you say. "And then she asked if I wanted to be, and then I ran into traffic, like, literally, to escape."

"Do you," begins Sana, in her best innocent voice. "Or don't you?"

She looks delighted. You stare at her flatly. "Ask Momo," you tell her, and she dissolves into that creased-eye smile that sends all your faculties reeling. The gorgeous little tri-tone of laughter and her fingers combing through the silky length of her hair - she's still teasing you. You've figured out the steps, memorized the way this game moves forward. It's an indulgence and it's an obsession - and it's the same thing for you as well, really. 

"Can't," she says, still laughing. "She'll lie on your behalf."

You have no clue what that means - but you guess that's just Sana.

-

So here's an inflection point, right before Valentine's day, because you have terrible timing - right before Sana ships out to Bruges, or Milan, or wherever the fuck it is for Fashion Week: you'll only catch a few days, maybe less, before she jets again for some other assignment. It's part of how her job works, and the situation's all roundabout, because she's probably spending the holiday eating French toast with a model and waiting in an airport, watching the world go by from the plane. So, sort of backwards. You should get the bouquets and heart-shaped boxes and share a plate of pasta, you suppose - but the main thing here is you'll only get a weekend. Then you won't even see her in person until the 28th.

Or not at all. Whatever the outcome - maybe she'll stand you up and have her revenge for you being so goddamn difficult and antagonistic in the first place. Who knows. Not you.

She's studying her reflection in your bathroom mirror, tying off an elaborately loose bun, pulling some curls free, working around the headband that she seems hell-bent on keeping in her hair, in case you should ever forget she's a total living doll. A pair of shorts reveals the creamy expanse of her thighs; she doesn't have a bra under her tank top. Your mind wanders.

"You look fine," you say, yawning, elbow to the sink's countertop.

The sound of the shower running is white noise in the background, droning away, and the door's cracked ajar so steam wafts into the hall. Sana doesn't spare you a glance, focused as she is on arranging herself back to magazine-cover perfection.

And it's not unreasonable: you've seen in her high heels and on runways, with cameras flashing, with a toned physique and carefully sculpted makeup and hair to match - but you think there's an authenticity here, the clothes she keeps in a bin above your dresser that have somehow mixed themselves in with a tube of mascara and a stick of deodorant, a set of bristled hairbrushes - the toiletry bag from her makeup case. If you were a more emotionally intelligent and honest man, perhaps you'd say something to the effect of, you look beautiful, or maybe, I'm going to miss you, you know, so if there were any big revelations that you might be having, if you might have something important you've neglected to bring up-

(Maybe it's not healthy - but you'll admit to some oddness, some habits: Sana sleeps better after she's been fucked senseless, her forehead pressing to yours; the sheets need washing more than once a week. It's a very regular development in her life and the fabric softener she prefers, the lavender and verbena, has started appearing in your cabinet; you're using that type now automatically. 

And that's not nothing. That's probably an invitation for some sort of talk. It's not - well, yeah. Anyway: no one will ever accuse you of being great at communicating.)

You wrap your hands around her waist, pushing the cotton of her shirt up, spreading your palms flat to trace her skin, feeling the tight muscles in her stomach flex and quiver - your touch skates to the valley of her cleavage and back, around her side, shoulders to collarbones and the front of her ribs, then her hipbones. She squirms a little bit; her skin pebbles where you're touching her. She's sensitive - ticklish, maybe. 

"Feels good, that," she admits, half into the sink.

And in the reflection, watching, you see her lean back, lean into you, without thought for herself; the familiarity of your touch. The easy intimacy of it.

"Well," you tease, "yeah, it's a bit of a problem for you lately."

The shower's still running. You kiss the side of her throat.

She smacks a hand down on your wrist - she's playful, though, teasing in her chide. "Get out," she says. "Unless you're getting in with me."

It's 11:34PM. You're already halfway to fucked-out; there was a particularly intense stretch, her thighs clenching and trembling on either side of you as she rode your face, hair falling and hitting her cheeks, her mouth parting open into the hottest sound you've ever heard, her shoulders arching; your palms braced tight against the soft skin of her hips, holding her just above your tongue as she whimpered please, more. She'd came on your face - like, all over - and then fell to your lap and was just so, so eager for a second helping. So you held her there, at the edge of your mattress as she took it so prettily; moaning and pleading until she'd sobbed through another and collapsed in a messy heap of satisfied flesh, slumped against you like the physical stress had stolen whatever architecture her bones had remaining. 

It's not an unusual turn of events - and now, there's the two of you. A routine; a domestic dance, almost. A morning-evening-afternoon affair.

"Nah," you say, pressing a kiss to her hairline, her jaw, the nape of her shoulder. "You could use some space, baby. Wouldn't wanna infringe."

"It'd be worth it," she says - not even flirtatious. Just blunt, honest.

You run your hand through your hair, intimate deep-in-thought.

"Oh, c'mon." Her reflection scoffs at you. "Momo doesn't call us a pair of sluts with a love story because you're the uncomplicated, mature one."

"So you did talk to her." She shoots you a glare through the glass - but no fire to it. She's relaxed in your grip, compliant. "And listen, maybe it's my character arc, honey, let me have it. I think I'm really coming into my own."

Sana flushes just a little at the pet name. There's a roll of her eyes, too. It's intentional, and you adore her for it. "Are you?" she snipes, but you're her favorite frustration and this is all just prelude; there's heat in her tone, an anticipation of wanting to be grabbed, to be slammed down into the pillows and fucked hard until her thighs can't tremble anymore. It's an indulgence in familiarity. You understand - but you don't quite give her what she's looking for.

"I hope so." You lean further, push deeper into her space. Your arms bracket her in. She's a beard-burn shy of looking completely debauched. It's tempting. "One of us has got to get their shit together, and you're obviously not taking any interest," you continue, all clandestine and shrewd and serious. Your free hand presses at her thigh. It doesn't matter which one.

Sana rolls her eyes again. "You bitch," she mumbles, shifts her weight - nudges you a bit with her elbow. She keeps you close, either way. "I'm being serious." 

You'd beg to differ, but the way she reaches her hand back into your hair and looks at your reflection is so loaded: lips plush, jaw smooth, a shadow resting across her shoulders. The honeyed quality of her hair. The rough shape of her collarbones, half-hidden beneath her loose cotton top, gray as gunmetal and baring her smooth, gorgeous shoulders. Sana is, above all, an attention-getter. It's hard not to fixate on the physicality. All parts of her - legs, ass, tits, hair, the swan's neck, the way she's just tall enough that you'd need her standing on tip-toe to kiss her, chin lifted, eyes down - that sweet little pout of a mouth - they're all an aesthetic intent; her waist has been grabbable since you've known her, and you would die to tug the ends of her hair free, ruffle the order and let them fall, a wavy-brown disaster, to her bare shoulders, frame her eyes with her eyelashes. That would make you soft, for sure. Or, anyway - more soft. As though you hadn't spent the past three months staring her down in the mornings, sneaking glances like she'd catch you at it, fixated and lust-ridden: Sana has all the elements to break you down.

You snap her waistband to make her flinch.

"You know what our problem is?" The water's still running - maybe she likes the sound of it, is trying to tune you out. "I always have to watch you for like five minutes before you kiss me," she chides, lifting her hair like she's fishing for compliments. "It's fucked up."

"A serious dilemma," you agree, without hesitation. Your thoughts are: 5'4", 120 pounds soaking wet, a perfect proclivity for being manhandled and made to feel cherished and worshipped and slutty as she needs. It's what you know of her, more or less. There are more things not on record. Things of consequence, weight. It would require context. "Truly."

"I mean, your mouth is never where it should be."

"Everyone's a critic."

Sana leans into you. Tips her head back. "Pay attention," she whispers, "be good," and lets her lips begin to part.

"Yeah?" your reflection replies, unkind.

She rolls her eyes again. Again again. There are many moments for this: the attitude, the incredulous stare, her naked body pressed to the marble walls of a bathroom she's becoming dangerously fond of - she sighs, like her heart's in it and it aches her. It's dramatic. "I'll teach you."

She spins away from the mirror and cups her hand around your mouth: another gentle touch, in contrast.

You think, all over again, of her thighs. Of the weight in her shoulders. The fine points of her wrists. She loosens the ribbon from her hair and places it on the counter. You don't know why that's so poetic. It feels like you've won something.

"Do I need to go get another condom?" you ask, dry, when your head goes south and your gaze gets low, right there - the cut of her clavicle, the way she'd probably like being handled rougher, hiked up on the bathroom counter, forced to submit like she's letting you do it.

Sana doesn't smile, but her lips twitch.

"Maybe," she says.

(You have an inkling, or two, or more.)

"Maybe you should take your clothes off before we talk logistics, huh?" she teases, and she does smile now. You laugh, despite your better judgment. "Don't look at me like that."

"I'm not looking at you like that."

"I swear," she mumbles - it's accusatory, the way she leans her weight against you. It's her signature move. "I think your new thing is just a dirty girl complex."

You stare down at her. "Oh, okay."

Her lips crease: disgusted. "Just a thought," she says. Her eyes are hooding, and it's what she does when she's letting herself slide. Her hands come down slow, so slow to your neck. You could bite her if you wanted to. There's plenty to mark, plenty of skin to bruise: she's at your mercy, and she loves it like that. She licks her lips and waits. "You're out of them, by the way. Like - the condoms. I grabbed the last one from your nightstand and - you know." She's shaking her head - something solemn about it. "No more. I'm telling you for your own benefit. So, um - yeah, that's your warning."

"My warning?" you repeat.

You take her jaw, watch her cheeks bloom pink - it's nice. Pretty. Very charming. Well, that's Sana - well, at least it fits.

"What I'm trying to say," she begins, slowly, uncharacteristically bashful, "is you could, like, do whatever you wanted, probably."

"Dirty girl," you repeat, quiet.

She blinks at you. A furrow forms, impervious, in her pretty brow.

"This isn't - I don't - listen, no one says that- they only do that shit in the movies."

You grin.

"But you're like, a guy in real life."

She swats at you.

"I can't believe I have to clarify the fact that-"

"You want me to fuck you raw," you interrupt, gently - and when Sana looks at you there's something guarded, and soft, and caught, and it's almost like-

Well, what's the word?

"I just mean I trust you," she mumbles.

You think: well, you could've led with that.

"Oh," you say, instead. "Oh - sweetheart," and then she blushes harder, but it's not because of you. She has a sudden and surprising sense of embarrassment, and you just blink at each other for a couple seconds - maybe you weren't expecting that from her, the sentimentality - and she doesn't want to apologize. "Listen-" you begin, and then cut yourself off. What is there to say? What did you just spend the better part of an evening trying to avoid mulling over?

(A fleeting, untoward notion. Some sort of unsolicited idea, illicitly tangible. As in: maybe you're both going a little insane.)

"I have a couple questions," you add, like an afterthought.

"I can't with you." Sana ducks her head, pulls on the bottom of her top. "Sorry, just," she starts, but lets the rest slip. "You don't need to make a thing of it."

"You seem - conflicted, is all." You catch her by the hip, guide her a little closer. There's a slow-simmering feeling stirring in your gut - something incessant, demanding of attention. "A little regretful. Look at me."

"I wasn't asking." She looks. It's a direct hit: she has a mean glare, one with the same capacity to bore through you, tear you limb by limb. She has the capacity for cruelty, is what you're getting at. "If you're that curious about the specifics, it was an expression of trust. Take it or leave it."

"Now you seem upset."

She arches an eyebrow: the normal one, the regular sardonic-you're-so-hot-I-hate-it eyebrow, not the sexy-sultry-dirty eyebrow.

"Five minutes," she huffs, without explanation. "Five whole minutes and I'm still not being kissed, like, why-"

Your laugh comes from somewhere in your chest; deep, surprised.

"There's no winning with you," she grumbles, but when she looks up you can already see it - it's in her eyes, she's not actually that upset. There's no stormy undertow, just the fondness lurking like a tidal wave underneath everything else. You feel the current a bit before it swallows her: there are hands tugging, winding, drawing the whole mess closer and closer. It's affection, an entire sea's worth of it, flooding and indiscernible. You can see all the stars that shimmer. It's just: her hips are so fucking grabbable, you know that already, that it's to the point of being inescapable, an absolute truth - and she wants to get off, she always wants to, but there's some greater, darker purpose to how her breath ghosts on your neck. How she blushes like it's the first time.

"I want," she breathes. It comes with intent.

(Yeah, a lot of fucking intent.)

"I know, baby," you tell her, low - and press a kiss to the juncture of her jaw, one hand lifting her top, palming her breast, the other sliding into her underwear. "You always want more," you murmur. Sana nods like a doll - you've reduced her, again, into a bundle of fussy limbs and breath and gasps, begging you to get inside her pussy. "I've got you," you coo, a bit darkly: and, well, Sana isn't wrong - it is a kind of dirty girl syndrome. At least for her. 

For you, it's more like a daily reacquaintance with your sins.

Your mouths meet, clumsy and off-kilter; Sana's tongue is heavy, languid in the wet heat of your mouth, and the kiss tastes like everything else: her hair like flowers, her makeup, the faded sweat, her cherry lip balm, the flat, glassy quality of the cum dried on her thighs, her underwear around your fist. There's a lingering scent to her sex that reminds you of how badly you wanna fuck her; your finger ghosts at her cunt and it's wet again, dripping-pink and sensitive, ready, open, a bruised thing.

"You," she breathes into your mouth, and her teeth skim your lip, "are so fucking hard." She's skated her palm down into your sweats, taken a rough hold of your cock, as though to prove something: and she's so right. She doesn't break the kiss. Her thumb smears a bit of your pre-cum over the slit, spreads it up and down your length. You're already aching-hot and throbbing for her. "Baby," she murmurs, sounding devious, feeling it, too. There's more to say, more of that floodgate left to open up:

"You're going to cum so much in me, aren't you?"

(It's rhetorical.)

You hoist her onto the counter, shove her shorts down, pull your cock out of your pants: it's just muscle memory, the way the rhythm works itself out - and if Sana was trying to push you, she's definitely succeeding.

"You should be careful what you wish for," you offer, half-nonsense, half the judicious side of an agreement. The devil on the shoulder's not exactly in the business of sticking to your promises: "I should probably pull out, you know," you go on, mindlessly - but she's got her arms around your neck, is rolling her hips impatient and insistent like the conversation isn't even important enough for her to properly listen to.

"Gonna cum on all over me instead?" she asks, too quiet. "Is that the plan?"

And it's the least combative you've heard her be in a hot minute. You slicken your fingers with her cum and rub your digits along the flushed, throbbing surface of her clit: the only way you know to deal with her filthy mouth.

"Right on my tummy, or all over my chest," she goes on, heedless, dragging her fingertips over her shirt like you need a demonstration. She's just spewing bullshit for the thrill of it. The grin accompanying that is sly, cheeky, like her whole self; she rubs her nose against yours. 

You gather her panties and let them ball up in your palm.

"Maybe a mess all over my ass?"

"Oh, definitely," you sigh, finally, and work her apart as the kisses fall out of line.

She looks up at you from beneath long, delicate lashes, fluttering like she knows the effect it's having on you: it's un-fucking-fair, the way she uses it, wields it like the weapon it is. A sigh slips from her, ragged, fucked: she's bracing herself, chasing the tip of your cock, leaning into the nudge. "Maybe you can push me onto my knees, shove your dick down my throat and gag me with it until I swallow every drop, yeah?"

"Sana," is your reply. "Of course." It's the conscientious, mature, adult thing to do.

She's batting her eyelashes. You should do something about it, maybe: you line your cock up against her entrance, holding steady, and slap your hand on the smooth expanse of her right thigh. "Spread," you snap at her, and then grin back. 

Her face scrunches: genuine exasperation, tight cunt, real feeling.

She huffs, opens her thighs wider, gives herself up to you - and that's another victory. Her fingers reach up and dance against the scruff on your jaw like it's a fond curiosity. You watch her search your face for affirmation like it'll fix everything. There's not much to do but to slip your arms around the waist, let her wrists cross over your shoulders like she needs the anchor to survive.

"So pull out then, mister-good-ideas-at-work," she taunts, nosing at your throat, the underside of your jaw, up to your ear: "Show me, if it's so easy."

You can barely breathe, it's so tense; the way she teases the shape of it, her cunt slick and open against you. She'll stretch like she was tailored for the fit, easy and familiar, taking, taking, taking - she's always such an angel, but she's halfway in hell already, legs spread out, slick pussy lips bumping against the blunt head of your cock, so wide, so vulnerable.

"Sana," you hear yourself say, voice like sandpaper, throat drying. Her smile twists her features to something more-knowing, all full-lipped and curving at the corners - she's a little more practiced in sinning, knows the game better. It's an act and it isn't, all at once.

"C'mon, I need it," she drawls, but the soft little plea comes back: "please."

Your hand drops from her mouth, smoothing over her chin, down the swell of her breasts, her ribs. You slip your cock inside her and can see the exact moment her face blanches - it's so sweet, so sharp: her eyes widen and her jaw goes slack, lips falling open as her brow furrows. She's so wet around you, taking you, swallowing up every inch like it's no work at all, her perfect pussy clenching just as it hits the base: like it's muscle memory, like she's been molding herself for it, opening for you. The very thought makes you want to fuck her even deeper: you tighten your hand at her hip, drag yourself out of the slick squeeze of her cunt.

"Oh," Sana breathes out, eyes half-lidded. "Holy- oh, you're-"

Your cock sinks deeper. The word gets lost in her moan; a crease forms on the bridge of her nose, between her brows, and she presses her fingers to your nape, clutching at the skin like she's unsure of the support. One of her palms strokes across your cheek: a wonder, a mercy, a favor, all of it. You'll ruin her, just like she wants, just like you promised. You're sure of it.

You have to fight the urge to ask if she's okay, because you know what kind of face she'd make: exasperated, disappointed, incredulous. Instead you snap your hips and drive yourself inside of her again.

All her thoughts and her confidence - the casual faux-command, the playful, arrogant tilt in the turn of her words - unspools, dissolves, crumples in her eyes, collapsing to dust around you: she can't even choke out her filthy demands, let alone the sugar-soaked slights and slander that came first. The innuendos, the bullshit, all those deliciously-subtle negotiations. She blinks, and the second you slide a couple inches back in and in and in, her eyes flicker shut and you both exhale into the same breath: an oh-my-fuck-Sana, and the answering whimper-moan that falls so effortlessly out of her mouth. Your palm burns against her hip bone, sinking deep, trying to press her tight against your cock, skin-to-skin and full-to-the-brim.

"How," Sana gasps out, sounding delirious, out-of-it, her brain rattled by nothing more than the full, perfect fit of your cock inside her. Her fingers lock behind your head, pulling you even closer. She gasps against your mouth, "-how does it- fuck, oh my god, fuck-"

You see what she's getting at.

There's nothing separating you, and it feels - well, her pussy is unbelievable. The realization is hitting you harder with each glide you sink inside her; just like everything else with Sana - charged, thrilling, slightly inappropriate and hotter for it.

And you'd tell her if you had the words - how fucking good she feels, the grip around your shaft as you hilt inside her, the exact feel, taste, texture of Sana's perfect, pretty, slick-squeezing cunt. Oh, you're slaking a kind thirst here they write stories about, the kind you die for: it'll never be sated, you'll always be seeking, and the deeper you go the further you drown.

"Yeah," is all you can say. "Fuck." The only explanation.

Her voice goes tighter with each stroke, her legs wrapping around your waist like rope. You're touching everything of Sana that can be touched: you kiss her hair, suck marks into her collarbone, cup her face and force her eyelashes open; you fill her up so deep you can feel her throat tremble when your name just brushes the roof of her mouth.

Oh, it's rough, messy, somehow incandescent; you're pounding her right there on the counter, against the sink. The showerhead's hissing just loud enough for you to miss the string of expletives you know she'd be spitting, the half-bitten curses. She keeps her ankles hooked like she's afraid you'll fall, afraid that you'd slip out of her, leave her empty, unoccupied, unfulfilled, wanting. 

"Fuck, baby," you hear, feel against you: her lips are near your ear. She shivers. "If I knew," a pause as Sana swallows, her hair clinging damply to her forehead. "If I knew- felt this good- you're going to- your fucking cock, I swear, ohmygod, I swear-"

You press your mouth right at her temple, harshening the rhythm and loving the way her fingernails dig hard, bright crescents into the skin of your back; there'll be marks there tomorrow, the perfect imprints of her grasping, coming apart, holding on. 

"God, Sana," you mutter, almost desperate. It's such a fucking disaster. She's wet on your skin, soaking everywhere. It's so fucking hot.

You want her cumming on your cock; you want her on her back, knees up, shaking; you want her a sweat-shining mess, breathless and glassy-eyed. You'd worship her body if you didn't have your hands clenching her ass so you could push her (one, two, three, four) times (five) against the tile, (six) against your skin.

It's more imperative than religion, really.

Three months later and you suppose there's been a lot of perfect, sopping-wet, begging-and-creaming, broken-off, rough-thrusting, sinful fucking, and sometimes it's in her apartment or in the backseat of her car or in your fucking kitchen, her braced up against the island countertop with her legs spread and you railing her in her pajamas. Sometimes it's when Sana whimpers in this awful way when she's kissing you, pressing a soft, barely audible "ruin me," into your mouth - it's then when she gets really, truly fucking filthy: you're actually going to fucking cum inside her, sobbing and stupid, if she doesn't fucking knock it off. If this doesn't just kill you both - and that's how it'll go: her legs locked so tight around your waist, hands white-knuckled around your shoulders, face-to-face and with the base of her cunt kissing your cock so sweetly.

Sana makes a weak, overwhelmed noise, like the same thought's gotten the best of her, too.

"My pussy," she says in this high, thin whisper. "It needs you. Like I fucking - oh, fuck - like I think I was made for your cock." Her words have gotten little manic, voice edging at hysterical: "It's a perfect fit. Just feels fucking-" A whine pitches in her throat and she grinds her clit against your lower stomach, her abs quivering like she's had three cups of coffee. 

You thrust once - no, you really, truly fuck her: you snap in and in and in - you hold her fast to the sink basin and bury your cock all the way to her deepest point, to where Sana clenches and her muscles ripple around you.

She's always so sensitive. Like in a smearing-lipstick, fucked-through-half-a-box-of-tissues, you-absolute-angel kind of way. 

But there's no tease, no falsified modesty to it - none of the push-and-pull from either of you; your expressions are blissed-out, stuck in awe, in reverence. Jaws dropped and punching out each hard, deep fuck into her, gasping for air. "Oh my god," she's saying, head lolling like there's no rigidity left to her spine, nails digging into the hard muscle of your back. She's saying other shit - and you're talking, too, talking a bit: it's the kind of delirium that strips language to the bone. "Holy fuck- I know- Yeah. Fuck, I know."

The nodding is excessive - but in your shared defense, so is the sensation of fucking each other raw. Who the fuck coulda guessed?

She's hot and tight and god-blessedly gorgeous - and you tell her that. From the first time you watched her stretch a condom over your cock, roll it down with her palm, and felt her pussy sink onto you inch by inch and the pressure was immediate and aching - "It feels so fucking good," she'd been saying - to the fifth, to the fiftieth. To her draining you dry, her moans winding you up and around her finger - even that first time in a filthy, nasty, cramped bathroom stall, drunk as all fuck, and then the next morning. "More, more, more," and now, too, all: "It's everything, please, fuck, keep going," all the other times where your tongues have turned to satin, curling into the place of your own destruction, where the warmth is licking out all sense. 

In the worst of moments, in the best - she's clung to you, body arched up, hips up, heels dug into you so hard you might be bruised under her.

All her moans are punched-out, high-pitched, shuddering with her exhales.

It's everything: "Don't stop." 

And that's really how the last shred of coherency slips past, disappears down the drain: her voice twists as you graze the spot inside her you want her to cry at, and you sink into a pleasure so intense, a release so in-tune, it's like it'd only be complete after you both sank to hell.

"Such a good girl," you kiss into her skin, sinking your fingers into the round fullness of her butt, spreading her apart so she knows, even better, exactly where her cunt ends and your cock begins. "The prettiest fucking girl; your fucking pussy is so tight; hot and soaking wet for me." Your voice sounds worse with each dirty little nothing: you've both been babbling for a while. Maybe ten seconds. Maybe since the beginning. "I think I could fuck you forever."

"Cocksleeve," she agrees, and tips her chin to the ceiling, blinking hard at nothing, trying not to lose it, but maybe also, in the same sense: "Literally could just - be my cunt. For the rest of time. Cocksleeve."

"Gorgeous," is what comes next out of your mouth; and, in some warped parallel to the truth, "All mine."

For her, too, really: she likes being tossed around, told how much you need to breed her, how slutty she is - but then you watch how her brain fries with the softer, sweeter stuff. Oh, you're making love to the thoughts she keeps trapped under a box in the back of her head, and all the things she'll only dare admit to under dim lamplight; when she thinks she can disguise how they might come across as anything at all besides absolutely fucking tragic. 

You could bottle her tears for how sentimental this shit is - well, you could do that anyway - the whole messy situation. You say her name once and she whimpers out your own. That's the state of affairs. Just one look at her face is all you need. It's an instant trigger, it's how the electricity rushes and buzzes through the wires.

"You're stunning," you say, totally earnest.

And the heat goes straight to her guts.

It's the transparency of it all, or the bordering bratty-tilt to it, or something, you're not a therapist - it's just what sends Sana toppling, fluttering like a heartbeat as her hips stutter into your own, legs spasming, pussy clenching - and right on the heel of that, with a strangled: "So fucking good to me, I swear, please-"

The moan barely passes the boundary of her lips as it breaks like dawn over her body, sending her spine arcing, chest heaving. It's a kettle-whistle pitch and you think your neighbors are sick of the screams, the late-night-to-early-morning, pounding rhythm against the thin walls, the laughter, the headboard beating like a drum. And they would have to be blind, to not look at her and see a sin they want to taste, too - she's divine like this, moans broken-off and falling into each other, a slur, a blur, her tits bouncing under the flimsy tank, rising higher with each stroke - the fat, firm weight of them; and this is when you know she's going to cum on your cock, the way her muscles go loose, pliant, willing, relaxed - it's all an afterglow in the waiting, she's wriggling into her death, in anticipation, arching up to meet you.

When you pull your hand out from under her ass to grab a fistful of her shirt, right at the center and pulling up to keep her back arched off the counter, her breasts spill from the loosened material and up, and up - they bounce higher, tighter; you're pounding her sopping-wet pussy harder than you have any right to.

There is no heaven to compare. 

You'll tell her, if you'll survive the sight of it: Sana is an absolute fucking wreck. Her jaw is slack, her lipstick has long smeared to obscurity and she is a vision in the sexiest, sluttiest sense. She is the kind of fucked that's worth staying dead for. Worth taking last breaths to witness, dying to witness. 

And, the moment her lips graze yours: your insides crackle and smolder.

Her hand hits the counter, knocking whatever's next to you onto the tile - the clatter would've been distracting, but you're balls-deep and you think it'd break her if you hit it any rougher-

"Ruin me," Sana pants into your mouth, barely audible. "Fucking ruin me, please, ruin me-"

"Sana," you manage through the hot clench of her around you, the near-painful crush of her arms tight at your waist.

"Need your cum," is what she sounds like. "Like fuck, do you feel that?" She's breathing into your ear. "God, fuck, your cock is right against my tummy, right here," she mewls, one slender hand slipping down to tap a knuckle right below her belly-button, "can feel it pressing up against me," and your mind's gone off, racing down every back-alley, all the old dirt-road streets: "You'd cum right up my little womb. You could. If you wanted, you could breed me up - pump me full, fuck me full. Give me- just - give me everything," and she has no idea - no idea what she's saying, what she's doing, how hard it is to think around a girl with such a perfect, pretty, slick-squeezing cunt-

"Sana," is all you can manage, warning and plea in one. "Careful." It's stupid: you have half a foot on her, outweighing her by more than the other direction, and yet Sana makes you weak. You're like clay for her to mold, bending beneath her fingertips and falling straight through, like the word please: a request. You don't know how she has you all figured out. It's no fun this way.

"Or else what?" Sana smirks, winning. "Gonna get me pregnant?"

You swear you see stars, that it's going to end embarrassingly fast for you, and the thought of you hilting right into Sana's tight cunt, knocking up against her insides, breeding her like your stupid fucking cock knows it wants, that's so, so fucking filthy - no, no, fuck no: that's not what this is, this is supposed to be innocuous, or some approximation of it - you're gonna put her on her knees, cum on her face, fuck a load across her tits, in the bowl of her cupped palms and watch her lap it up and lick clean her long fingers, maybe push the whole, aching head of your cock between the lips of her plush, pink, sweet-as-can-be mouth. Send the load directly down her throat, tugging those gorgeous tresses while her brown, liquid eyes peer up at you. A mess: a sopping, fucked-out, splayed-out, mess.

"Filthy fucking mouth," you deflect, because you can't keep on track with how pretty Sana's perfect cunt's clutching you like a fucking fist, her tiny frame somehow matching you, thrust for thrust.

"What about it," and Sana isn't even flinching.

"Gonna cum in it," you snap, a growl, and it's supposed to be a threat, but then it hits - right at the crease between her torso and legs, your favorite place to pound into her; you're fucking her like a toy, treating her like the easiest little hole you've ever had your hands on, and you'd never pull out, you'd never give this up and Sana knows it, too - you have to make sure to take the base of your cock and work your cum deeper into the bowels of her perfect, hot cunt.

"Yeah?" she hums resplendently.

Somehow, fucked-out and blissful, soaking your cock as you split her open, there's a note of tease in her voice - and an echo in the swell of her womb, clenching, just as willing; Sana's a genius, so she must have found all this shit out already - but it's the type of thing you have to admit, privately and to yourself, through gritted teeth, not within hearing-distance of a girl whose smile could undo every thread in the fabric of time: it's kind of really, ridiculously hot.

"Can you promise?"

"Yeah," you choke.

"Go on," breathes Sana, a dare and a request in one. "Love hearing you say it."

"On your knees," you try to swallow, "gonna pump your cute little throat full," you groan, a man unmade, "gonna have to fuck you like this again, baby. I'm going to make you-"

Make her what: a mother? A whore? A wife, a baby, something she'll be afraid to call out loud, but will say anyway-

"Yours," and that's Sana, fucking the thought out of your head, "so you could use me up, so you'd make me take it, give me everything - cum, cum in me, I need it- please," her voice climbing, crescendoing, "Cum in me," a broken record, all instinct. Sana and her tight, creamy little pussy, you pumping full, you flooding her insides and spilling out, the messier the better - it's how she gets off, her voice wavering until you can feel the shivering, the shaking, the quivering; that perfect moment of collapse, where you're there with her, just the same.

There's a certain kind of pure, self-destructive stupidity in trying to rationalize it, you know, but that's the fucked-up part.

"Oh," she breathes, deep and deliriously hot, and it's an aftershock of its own. 

There's no reasoning with how badly you're pounding into her, fucking your cum as deep as it'll go, letting her soft curves rut against your body, to meet her rhythm in turn, to fill her up to the brim and then just a bit over.

"Oh, I can feel it," and Sana sounds like you've done the unthinkable: as if you'd broken a prayer, a hymn, the key to heaven held beneath the wetness, the heat, the fluttering pulse, the tightness, the sex, this body of yours. Like she could die. Like she should die. "That's - oh, oh - your cum's filling up my pussy," and it doesn't register that she shouldn't say it, and you should be telling her to shut the fuck up, but it just doesn't cross your mind at all: "Oh, God. You're - it's so hot inside of me, can - feel it," and it's all true.

There's nothing like it, her silken, creamy, slushy warmth surrounding your softening cock, the way you fit so easily against her.

"I told you," is the first thing out of her gorgeous, swollen mouth. Her lips brush your jaw, your neck. Sana's breath tickles, light on your skin. "No shot you were pulling out."

"Shut up," is the best you've got - it makes her laugh, eyes creasing, throaty and sweet; oh, there's that quintessential Minatozaki charm. 

-

(That's it: she has your number; you watch her smile, watch the way her legs shake when you slip out of her, watch her warm brown eyes flit upwards. You can't let her leave. And she knows.

Sana's fingers graze the curves of your cheeks as she holds your lip between hers, tongue tasting, teasing. A long beat before she releases you, and her smile spreads over the line of your face, slow and steady, like a sunrise. She's impossibly gentle, all silk and sweetness. Unthinkingly soft as her palm smooths your hair out of your eyes - her skin on your skin. Sana's eyes are dreamy like this. The radiant gleam in her irises clashes with the moonlight on her lashes.

She's glitter, gold.)

-

The pharmacy. The one by your apartment that's open a little after 1 am on a Saturday.

And this should be your cue: walk on by, look forward, straight ahead. 

Walk, like you have somewhere to be. Toss some distractions into the basket, drain cleaner, detergent, a fifth, new, foreign bottle of conditioner; maybe some light beer, too, to fit the stereotype, to balance things out.

You tell yourself you have no place here, amidst boxes of birth control pills, gels and patches and syringes and capsules of every single kind. Don't dawdle - don't linger.

Sana's milling the aisles in pursuit of candy, or a bag of those heinous fucking Takis, probably. A bottle of gatorade, realistically; she likes the blue one, says it tastes like putting your tongue to a nine-volt. What an eloquent princess, you think, and find it hard to hide the smile, the simpering stupidity, the tenderness.

She's someone you text about shitty things, who complains to you about her coffee stuck in the vending machine, Mina's ongoing billionaire-affair and Nayeon's chattering over some boy she likes from way back when. Someone whose high ponytail can be found above a pair of comically large glasses, a paperback novel pressed between the bend in her arm and her ribs (bitch, of course there is, she'd said when you'd asked, there's smut in everything these days); whose laugh, tinkling and lilting and silver-bright, has no right to sound as rich or as deep or as richly deep as it does. 

Someone who looked in your eyes and found it - that gaping hollowness, a vacancy in the marrow - and who laughed at that, too. She makes it worse. You might actually love her.

"You're like, really nervous," she tells you, not asking.

"Well," and that's when the wall between your mouth and your brain finally collapses: it all rushes through; no air left in the room. "Maybe I'm a fucking idiot."

"I've actually always known this." Sana looks at you, half a smirk. It's almost impossible to imagine the last time you were anything else. "But, like, aren't all men, really?"

"Yeah, yeah. A genius observation." You run a hand through your hair; her smile blooms wider.

"If you insist," and Sana tosses her head, exaggerated, before dumping a shit ton of Twizzlers into the cart. "They're for Tzuyu," she explains. "She's been fucked by her publicist more times this week than she's had hot meals."

"Y'know I actually caught wind of that," you say, moving one step forward in line. "It was neck and neck until she skipped a lunch. Although I don't think those count as like, substantial nutrition. It doesn't negate the other thing."

"Fuck, you're probably right. Gummy bears next time, then."

"Right. Better, slightly."

"That's the spirit," and she peels away, leaving you with her smoky sarcasm - a hand on your bicep as she saunters off to the parking lot. "Also: get some of the good Tylenol from behind the counter. You fucked my brains out and I think I'm coming down with a concussion."

"Jesus christ," you groan. "Again with the outdoor-voice, Sana."

She flashes you her megawatt-grin, flips you off, and the whole transaction at the register is over before you've made sense of it. It's an opportunity for some perspective, a chance to decide you've got it wrong. You should walk home, Sana should ask for a ride, or an Uber - neither of you should need a night-time pharmacy. You could change it if you tried. It's almost absurdly simple, but the way she takes your hand on the walk home is so soft. She's so close: her profile is elegant, poised in the streetlamp's sick, sulfur glow. 

You turn the key. There's her laughter again, echoing like windchimes through the city.

And, fuck. It's going to be harder to forget this than you think.

-

"The internet says it's best to use within twenty-four hours," is all Sana says about it. The tablet's small and green. She hands the plastic bottle to you to check it. Her hair's fallen over her shoulders like ribbons, soft as her eyes. "And the way Momo described it," she explains, almost playfully, "if I wait to take this tomorrow, I think we'd get an excuse to fool around some more."

The look she gives you then is somehow uncharged, despite the suggestion, and she has that habit, when she's laughing or when she's moaning, of chewing on the inside of her lip. She's sitting on top of your breakfast table and looking like starlight. She uncrosses her legs, tips her head.

"What do you think?" and it's everything, a complex trap in four syllables. She's caught you well and squarely. "Do we have a reason?"

"Hm," you say. Sana crosses her legs the other way.

"It's bona fide," she says, teasing you a little, running a finger along the tabletop, her eyes flicking up. She's impossible. It's terrible. "You can creampie me over and over. Can fill up every inch of my pussy - fill my guts right up, and breed me good."

"Huh." It's all you have left to deflect with, when she's laid it all out like that. "That's not what bona fide means, by the way."

Sana lifts a hand, cocks her head. "Means you can do whatever you want." She clicks her tongue, scandalized. There's not much point in refusing, and not even a chance.

"Carte blanche might be what you're after," you offer.

Her laugh is a little breathless, annoyed. "Yeah," and it's like she's flushing pink. "That's what I said. Are you gonna ask me if I know what creampie means too, smartass?"

"Princess," you say, grinning a little, setting the plastic down beside her. You're pretty sure it's rhetorical anyway. "If you read even another sentence from one of Momo's incognito tabs, you'd end up drooling on my sheets." You keep her gaze, eyes locked - well, at least one of you's taking this seriously, you think, as the corners of your lips curve, unbidden - fuck, she's always making you smile.

"Does this mean you're into me, or something?" You tilt your head, pretend to consider. Sana makes a show of scowling. "Or do you just have a thing for being a cumslut," you gesture vaguely, "like, generically?"

Sana leans in and kisses the underside of your chin.

Quick, easy; she snaps back into place like you'd somehow never notice. "A little of both," she says, as breezy as possible. "I'm surprised you're ruling out me taking pity on you." Her eyes have all the mirth you'd expect, and the warmth - the fondness. She looks up at you, and her smile's not as bright or sharp as it used to be. She just seems happy. "Wishful thinking, but whatever."

-

And maybe Sana's on to something: wishful thinking - but, then again, maybe you're getting close to the part where you've both got it all so, so wrong. You'll have to figure things out from there. Either way, you're at a place where you're genuinely taking medical advice from Hirai Momo.

So, it is what it is.

-

You don't exactly talk about it. Which is to say neither of you ever bring up how this whole arrangement came to be.

Because it's not romance, it's not sweet, it's not soft or sentimental - it's not even halfway serious: the way everything unfolds haphazardly and with no real, defined idea of what you're getting yourself into, other than a precautionary 'hey, we're not gonna know each other' rule that got broken almost instantly is all that you can divulge, for now. There's all these complexities, layered and tangled and difficult. It's all-consuming. It's an emotional quagmire. It's the kind of thing that'll take years to unpack, the kind that'll never really have an actual explanation; a mistake, probably, you think, one worth repeating, definitely.

"Look. You're leaking out of me," she murmurs from against your pillows, thighs parting - you glance at her cunt, exposed by her twisted panties, and sorta get stuck there. Sana laughs. "Wow," she says, watching you with that wide-open smile of hers, dark hair splayed across the pillows. "Your obsession's worse than I thought."

She's leaving town in the afternoon, so it's been this lazy, lingering fuck all morning, just to pass the time.

You're working from home in the most metaphorical way possible - taking advantage of the daylight streaming in the windows, playing with her hair, fucking her on and off until you get tired of having a mess of a stranger in your apartment. Right. That's the explanation you'll give, when anyone asks. It's a miracle you've slept at all - but then again, Sana gets blissfully and completely tuckered out, turns into putty in your arms, and this is the most dangerous thing of all, the sultry, doe-eyed beauty of her slack mouth in the dark. 

You fell asleep together the first time you shared a bed and now never seem to wake up on your own anymore.

She's lax on your mattress, and the blanket's riding low on her thighs, revealing the slopes of her perfect ass. Her little cunt's gaping. Leaking cum. There is no denying it. You think the devil would look a lot like this.

You place your reading glasses delicately on the nightstand, pretend you haven't heard her - or the squelch of her fucked out cunt as she slides a finger down, down, down-

"Oh. Am I distracting you?"

"You have a breeding kink," you say, once she's on a second bottle of water, when her skin's less flushed. You're rubbing between her shoulder blades - she's glowing in your sheets like she belongs there, all white satin and innocence, even with the sweat matted at the ends of her hair.

"Probably," sighs Sana, eyelashes fluttering. "Do I?"

"Definitely," you say, amused.

"Maybe," hums Sana, sounding winded still. You dig your fingers into the nape of her neck, and the next sound out of her mouth is not entirely uncontrolled. You have a point; you're both thinking it. You're just not going to make it. "What's your excuse?"

"Excuse?"

You're not asking her to clarify the question, you're simply buying time to scramble for an answer. Because- "I have no excuse." You shrug. "Just - biology." She rolls her eyes at the apparent insufficiency. "Something about filling up this perfect little body and ruining your whole" - you make a gesture toward her - "pristine-ness."

"Ah, there we go." Sana sits up, the sun casting golden streaks over the angles of her back as she goes. 

She stretches like it's an accident, reaches for the hair-tie on the nightstand, and it doesn't matter if you see her do it. "Well." She combs back her damp curls, piling it in an errant bun with practiced ease. It looks good. It's hot, actually. Your cock's still sensitive - but, well, so is Sana's everything. "We're fucked in the head. We get it out of our systems."

"Speak for yourself," you say. She raises a pointed, unmistakably Sana-ish brow. "I'm well-adjusted," you insist. "No baggage."

You watch her go through a moment of disbelief, trying to find some leeway before she snorts. She's climbing on top of you, apparently. Theoretically, you've been keeping an eye on the clock - counting down the minutes before she has to be checking bags and folding up a boarding pass into her purse - first class, because the company believes luxury begets beauty. You'd argue she was both regardless, but-

"That," she says, very matter-of-fact, and settles down so the curve of her ass is over your thigh. It's light pressure. Barely. "Is bullshit."

"I thought that's what you wanted, Ms. Corporate-wunderkind. A therapist type."

"Shut the fuck up." She smacks your chest, too hard to be playful, but a beat later and her hand's snaked back behind her, palm curved over your cock with a promise that makes the rest of the world seem sort of dull.

You shift beneath her, involuntary. Let your hands trail to the warm hollow of her hips, brushing your thumbs over the pink blush marks that blossom on her skin when you touch her for too long.

"Wanting, wanting," she muses, with a strangely alluring sense of casualness, "you've got one track mind - ah - don't even try to hide it." You're more interested in her fingers dragging over your tip, the graceful knuckles that go rigid as she finds your cockhead grazing over the pad of her palm. "For all you know I'll fuck another guy," she says, in a matter-of-fact, it doesn't matter anyway type tone. "Or, god, a dozen."

"Please." Your incredulity and chagrin slip out in equal measure. "Have pity."

Sana cocks her head, intrigued, and takes ahold of the base of your dick.

"No," she decides, "can't say that I can."

There's the stretch, the press. She sinks onto you with no resistance; she's all velvety and wet and you know you were the one who'd gotten her that way. You hiss - so does she. Then it's just quiet again, except for Sana shifting above you, her long legs tangling with yours, the heels of her palms pinning your thighs down to the mattress behind her. She gives a languid little swivel.

"Do you remember," you hear Sana saying, very dreamily, and that's what makes you think perhaps it isn't a serious inquiry and that your input isn't required. She goes, "there was that last day of scheduled rehearsals, that we had before the long winter break. And we got through the numbers in four hours, maybe? Tons of time to kill, and there was nowhere for me to be."

"You came over to my place," you mumble, a vague, wordless reminder of your role.

"Right." Another shift; you're still sensitive as fuck but Sana's weight feels good in your lap and the view of her tits is objectively excellent. "And I took a shower."

"Sure."

She squeezes and rises in tandem, sighing blissfully.

You sit up slightly, support yourself on one elbow and watch yourself disappear, reappear in the wet slit of Sana's pussy. "For a really long time."

"Like an hour," agrees Sana, almost humming, and snaps her hips forward. The jolt forces a groan out of you. She tilts her head up as she does it again, eyelashes fanned, and the reverberation of her movements shakes loose that damned piece of hair clinging to the arch of her temple. You watch a thin stripe of cum leaking out of her, too; that'd been inside her an hour ago. Maybe less. She's fucking you like it doesn't bother her, like she'll never grow tired.

She pulls at the long lock of her hair, seems to examine it contemplatively. She's so perfectly content in her self-aware, blasé, cat-like smugness, purring and untouchable and arching back. Then she says, "That was because I was fantasizing about getting filled with so much cum that I just started running down your shampoo bottle - that's, like, the ultimate breeding fantasy for me, honestly."

"What about that one time," you say, as though unhinged, as though half-conscious, as though every word has the consistency of molasses and there's a bright pulse of blood flooding your brain and rushing out your cock, "when we snuck out to the parking lot, and I made you sit on the hood of my car-"

"Shh, not the same," dismisses Sana, leaning into you, and you hold her there, lock your fingers into the swell of her ass to steady the desperate throbbing inside her pussy. Her tongue darts to the corner of her mouth, but her head lolls to the side, the gauzy curtain of her hair swaying at her waist.

"But," she concedes, an exhale, "that was good, yeah."

"You came really fast - like, so fast," you insist, thrusting up to the sound of her small groan. Her body, all lush skin and ample, unresisting curves, is flushed and gleaming. There's so much of her to take in: the inky fan of her lashes, the ridge of her ribs, the way her breasts hang heavy as she moves. This kind of debauched view feels exclusive, as if reserved just for you. "Remember that?"

"Did I?" She blinks owlishly.

"I'm remembering it for you." Your palm is heavy on her ass; it's what keeps you grounded, lets you get leverage. "What were you thinking about then?"

She bares her teeth in an indecent grin, tugs on the corner of her lip, as if reveling in the memory.

You watch her mouth open, close again.

It clicks: "Right," she answers, finally, and rides you all the harder. "Errant thought, but." She climbs up onto her feet, knees swung wide, her tiny soles balanced perilously atop the duvet - it's all slippery friction and she's so light you could flip her right over. It's all at your discretion. You lean up further. Your arm braces her back, low and hot. "Was imagining how you'd feel in my ass," Sana continues, carelessly, matter-of-fact, as if discussing dinner plans or a movie rental, and you don't expect a laugh from your lungs, but it comes out harshly, all surprise and hot delight, like a confession.

"This was a few years ago," Sana says.

She lifts off, teases your cockhead with the shallowest grip. Watches all the lines in your face start to wobble, and then sinks back down, all the way, burying your cock in her pussy again. Her lips move, you bottom out, you know she's going to ruin your next orgasm like that.

"Someone online posted some bullshit comment about me being - quote-unquote - easy," she tells you, turning her head to the side, to the window. You know the expression on her face: her mouth curved, eyes dark and so, so full of that amused contempt. "Just this thing that you see on the internet all the time. Everyone just doing the same thing - said I probably love it in the ass and - yeah. Can't recall. Fucked off right away."

"Really stuck with you, huh?" Your hips snap, and you swallow hard. "Brought that - image. Up. Didn't it."

"Guess it kind of did."

"Uh-huh."

She licks her lips. "I'd heard worse," she says, and hums, low.

Your grip on her back, her waist, her hip - they're steel-tight. "Felt like someone had put it in my head," Sana remarks, dreamily, then raises an eyebrow. "So y'know. Had a thought and let it take me there. Only made sense. Let myself. Daydream a little, take a long shower," and her smile goes lopsided, her eyes drift, "breathe hard against the bathroom tile, take two of my own fingers up there-"

And she drops, sinks, the lewd, sloshing sound of it resonant; your hands pull her to you by the roots of her hair and she gasps, heaves a small, faltering breath. She's so fucking wet.

"Baby," you groan, completely flat. "I'm gonna cum in you."

"Yeah." Sana looks like she's miles away. She could be. "I know."

She brushes the hair out of your face, holds her nose to your cheek, starts riding you fast, faster - and you do.

-

This is where the story actually starts - which, in retrospect, is kind of ironic, because everything was technically pre-written, already preordained:

You're in an airport, arriving late and harried, your hair a mess, Sana's luggage slipping from your shoulders. It's snowing biblically outside, the pavement frosted and dangerously slick with ice. The precipitation heavy and thick and white enough to obscure vision. You keep checking your phone, checking your texts, trying to stay grounded even though the forecasters specifically said the skies would clear by sundown.

Flying conditions: sub-optimal - but only barely. 

You think serendipity could be something of an old friend to the two of you - if only the pantheon of weather-adjacent gods didn't seem to like her just a little more.

She's calm and unruffled and preposterously cool, with one hand slipped into her coat pocket, her face tipped towards the window so she can survey the falling snow. She looks the part of the chic world-traveller, clad in leather gloves and a tweed peacoat, the collar popped high and stern.

In contrast, you feel like the embodiment of frazzled, clutching anxiously at the handle of her suitcase and turning frantically to ask her which direction to head in; you're not her manager, you didn't plan her flight, didn't schedule any car services for the ride to her hotel. In a few odd hours she'll be on a different continent, standing in a different hemisphere, and you don't really know what to do with your hands.

"When am I gonna see you again?" she asks, pointedly sidestepping all forms of goodbye, bypassing any polite small-talk about the state of the storm. 

She's done up in semi-dramatic makeup, a pair of gold earrings swinging when she tilts her head, fixes the edge of her fringe with her fingers: you watch her catch herself, relax - like a true work of art, you suppose, nothing to imply a separation.

There's the duality, you guess. You're looking at a profundity in motion.

And there will be a thousand cameras in her face when she touches down, vying for attention, swivelling and clicking, seeking shots that are just perfect enough - the internet is rabid and frothing at the mouth for a glimpse, some semblance of truth to satiate the rumor-mongers and their constant dissections of the arch of her spine, in the sway of her walk. She's got knee-high socks on and the fashion mags will be desperate to tear her apart at the seams, claim a sliver of all that profundity - they'll never know it's less of an aesthetic decision and more just a stopgap for the thumbprints blooming yellow-bruised in the curves of her calves.

Sana's watching you watch her; expectantly, eyes shining, big enough to fall into.

"Soon," you say, like you have a choice, and hope it sounds like reassurance, not resignation. "Hopefully soon." 

She lifts her carry-on to one shoulder, smiles.

The lens you have is quieter, subtler - that's all.

-

(You can feel Sana turn to look from the terminal, paused, hovering, her jaw catching on her silhouette; and she waits until you're gone before she strides confidently to the desk, brandishing documents and asking sweetly, charmingly, for the check-in. Her walk slows, stutter-stops. Her posture straightens.

She brushes back her hair and keeps going.)

-

"You better not be romanticizing your melancholic solitude," Momo says later, with a tray of food in her hands.

It's the next day - same time, probably - you'd gotten back from the airport, hailed a cab and stewed in something like self-reflection before deciding you'd bury yourself in your work. You've been letting Sana distract you too much recently - not that you particularly mind it - but if she's not here to drag you into a conference room and drop to her knees, you might as well start making some progress elsewhere.

You roll your pen around your fingers. "What exactly do you think I'm gonna get up to? Staying up until midnight writing shitty poetry and getting blackout drunk?" Momo snorts. "She'll be gone for two weeks, Momo, not ten years. I think I'm gonna manage okay."

"Don't go punching through glass windows just yet, buddy. It's been twenty-four hours, that's nowhere near enough time for your brain to bathe itself in all the wrong chemicals yet." She plops a bowl of instant udon down in front of you. You realize suddenly you haven't eaten in - well, quite some time. 

She wrinkles her nose. "God. So morose."

When you glance up, Momo's regarding you with one fist balled tight to her hip. You stare back at her. Her shirt is doing absolutely nothing to contain the top-half of her chest and your coworkers keep passing and rubbernecking. You get it. Her lanyard just goes right through the center of her cleavage; you sorta squint.

Some things never change.

"Um," she says, mock-scandalized. "Can you not?"

You lean back in your seat. "That was totally professional. I looked right at you."

"Yeah, like I'm a specimen." Momo pulls out the chair next to yours and takes a seat.

"I mean, you kind of are," you deadpan.

Momo chortles, pointing her chopsticks at you. "That was almost flattering, thank you." She slurps up the first noodle. "If you're nice to me, I won't tell Sana you're flirting with girls at the office while she's away. I think she'd come all the way back and wring our necks."

"And wouldn't we deserve it," you add. Your computer screen is frozen, blue-tinted with failure. Great. Momo sits down and the sky's falling within seconds. You assure her for the umpteenth time that she's not really your type anyway.

"Excuse you," Momo says, indignant, because that's a joke. 

See - Momo's everybody's type, if you had to peg the definitive example of universal attractiveness. She's everyone's favorite eye-candy whether they swing right, left, upside down or none-of-the-above; it's the ass, ostensibly. The big eyes, the gorgeous cheekbones too - her jet-black hair's cut short, practically the opposite of Sana, sleek and androgynous and hanging off her shoulders in the prettiest sort of way.

If they made dolls they'd be collectibles, wildly sought after as a pair, mint-in-box-worthy - the perfect, polished icons of feminine beauty: brains, bravery, strength. But also definitely the ass.

You blink. "Is there something you're here to harass me for, or is my total lack of interest in banging you just something you're interested in re-establishing?"

"I dunno," Momo says around a mouthful of noodles, "it's distracting. It feels weird when Sana isn't here. Things don't feel very funny. Or cute, y'know? I feel like a standup act missing the lead comic relief."

"Are you saying I'm not hilarious and entertaining?"

"I think you're funny, but." She munches happily on some spring onions. "Not intentionally, not usually."

"So why are you getting soup all over my desk?"

"You're pouty for one, all sad-like," Momo says, swallowing. "And you're supposed to be coming up with this advertising pitch and the only thing written in that word doc was 'hey guys'."

"First draft's the hardest," you recite automatically. "I'll figure it out."

"But not anytime soon," Momo drawls.

You slump your shoulders. "But not anytime soon, no."

"If you miss her, just call her," Momo urges, with all the delicacy of an elephant on stilts. "I'm sure she's bored and horny. Like, wicked horny."

Momo is both direct and filthy - there's another difference. Sana's a layer cake: whip it into shape, top it off in pink icing, drizzle white syrup on top; she looks good and acts good and you can swallow her whole, every inch of her tasting sugary, syrupy sweet. Momo doesn't hide that she's the filthiest mess in a five-mile radius; the complete opposite of Sana - well, sorta.

"I heard you dropped a load inside her, earlier." She laughs out loud, true to form. "What the fuck are you thinking? I mean, serious talk: that shit will also rewrite your brain-chemistry. And the farther Sana is from us, the more your neurons are going to start feeling like they're fucking dying, so don't give me your stupid bullshit and tell me you're 'fine' when you're like, a total wreck."

"Can you fucking keep it down?" You rub a hand over your face. "Also wasn't it you who called us 'all-or-nothing?'"

"That was like a month ago. The whole being-casual-and-making-it-work shtick seemed neat and I wanted in. Also it's February 14th, you jackass. I think you two skipped past normal the second you could get into each other's pants." Momo slurps the broth. "Totally unhealthy."

"Also not fucking true." You exhale. "What am I gonna do?"

She gives you an are you stupid? look. "Text her," she enunciates slowly, like you're hearing her wrong. "Call her, I dunno. Romance is all about grand gestures and unreliable narration. Or at least she reads enough trashy Nancy-Meyers-movies-adapted-into-books-style romance to try and extrapolate something. Go out, and find some flowers." The next bite of her noodles is overly enthusiastic. "Make the girl feel special or something."

"Right, she's gonna love that."

"That's what all the books say."

You purse your lips. "So basically all the books have lied, but Sana loves them anyway because they make her cum with how badly they're written, and now you want me to act like they're an instruction manual on fucking courtship. Am I missing any other steps? Like, does this take into account the fact that I'm also really not that romantically inclined-"

"I think you have to do something nice, put some effort in," Momo interrupts, sagely. "Y'know, the gesture's important. A little creative thought. Something better than you've got going on in that empty husk of an advertising pitch. She doesn't actually care about flowers, but it means you think of her."

You slide further into your seat. Momo grins at the glare you give her, too-friendly. The girl is the only person on the premises who can call you out on your bullshit with any actual weight and expect to get away with it. She doesn't technically even work with your department - has more or less established herself as some combination of A-lister, sex icon, social darling - all rolled into the body of a curvaceous woman barely dressed. And everyone's just sorta charmed by it.

If you were a slightly-less-rational person you'd probably try to date her, too.

"Did you know that St. Valentine was actually beaten to death with clubs before getting decapitated?"

It's an aside question, because the only thing worse than arguing a point with Momo is when she happens to be right.

"Where are you pulling this shit from?" Momo wonders, deadpan, wiping her chin. "Why would you tell me that?"

"Thought it might be relevant." You swirl a plastic spoon in the bowl. "Do you have anything else for me, O great and venerated sage of modern womankind?"

Momo snickers at the sarcasm. "Sure," she says. "Tell me your current thoughts on Paris."

You drag a breath through your teeth. "City's a shithole if you aren't rich, famous and absolutely beautiful. In which case, the city exists solely to bask and dote upon your presence. What was the question?"

"Stop checking the travel sites."

"I'm not."

"Are to."

"Don't."

"Do," Momo replies, primly, and waves her hand dismissively. You are very, very mature. This is your professional space. "Keep it simple." She adds, casually: "Or something."

-

Far, far away and farther still, a girl ducks into a hired car, takes her heels off and turns up the air conditioning, wiggling her toes in relief. 

She ends up slipping out of her clothes, taking a hot shower, changing into sweatpants. A private meal is offered to her; she turns down a glass of champagne, instead requesting iced coffee with an obscene amount of espresso shots - pours a ridiculous amount of milk in until the contents are a creamy beige, not even close to being a light-roast.

Later, much later, after a scented candle is extinguished and a notebook is closed shut, the night sky still dark and unchanging, the time zones shift, and then a single, glowing notification flashes across the screen - 4.42 am, her phone says. She's drifting in and out of sleep, dreaming in monochromatic pixels.

It's a mundane, totally insignificant message: nothing fancy, nothing new. A quick update - something along the lines of where are you, what are you doing, are you safe and happy, thinking of you. But it's punctuated with an exclamation point and followed by a pair of hearts - which is something new - like you're thirteen and she's just given you her home-room assignment list on a slip of paper and made you promise to exchange homework with her in the morning.

"How cute," she breathes, softly, and feels warm.

-

Here are the three rules about falling. Another anecdote; another wish-wash of creative editorializing, again: you really hate that you're quoting Momo on literally any of this, but unfortunately Momo has a lot of practical advice in the form of shitty armchair-psychology.

You know because you have a literal book full of the worst pithy maxims, delivered by her in varying states of drunkenness and hysteria and grudges borne of much heavier drama, all edited to her personal taste. It's a different thread, but also all part of the story: she and Sana are best friends. Take it or leave it.

Anyway: the rules,

1.) Grand gestures. Unreliable Narrations. Know that the idea is romantic, but the process is totally horrifying.

There aren't really any guidelines or requirements, not an exact science, anyway: there are softer, slower and easier ways to love than an impulse transcontinental flight; it comes in different forms, with much fewer headaches, far, far less red tape.

Try a knee nudge in a cab, a smoke-flavored kiss on the back porch, a text me when you get home, murmured in between yawns, the click of heels coming into the house after work - maybe, outside her apartment, making out against a wall of bricks like it's all you'll get, breathless and laughing under streetlights; if Sana were any less captivating (a loaded word if there ever was one) there'd be no good reason to think or to dwell on the semantics.

2.) Bending at the knees makes you less likely to get a concussion when you lose your balance. It's still risky, still a shot in the dark: in physics, there's a certain amount of grace under pressure - Sana's adored not by men, not by people, but by the universe itself. 

It feels like: she's too loved, too known. The number of followers she has is, frankly, abhorrent to your sensibilities.

3.) An object at rest remains at rest: it is up to someone else to try and change its trajectory.

For all practical intents, purpose and reasonable application: forget them.

The only lesson that counts is 4.) Fuck logic, and that goes in the book.

-

February 14th.

Presently, we're flying at an altitude of twenty-eight-thousand feet as we begin our descent into Charles de Gaulle Airport. I'd like to ask you to please fasten your seatbelts, place all tray-tables and upright seats in their fully-vertical positions and power off all personal electronic devices. The local temperature at the landing strip is eleven-degrees celsius or about fifty-two degrees Fahrenheit. The forecast for the rest of the afternoon predicts clear blue skies, and we would like to thank you for flying Air France. Please have your passports and immigration documents handy for quick and efficient processing.

Then the same message in French, you're guessing. Welcome then, to the City of Light.

-

Your cell service pings back to life as you navigate through customs. Her texts and voice-mails are short, clipped, inane: news bulletins of random things she's heard of, things that catch her attention, new designs, newly-founded associations, this gallery and that gallery, this statue, that museum - all without her own commentary or editorializing.

The deluge of information almost makes her seem impersonal, disconnected from her own thoughts, like you're getting everything secondhand. Like it's accidental.

9:00 AM - Sana: oh btw just saw the 80's hairdressing revival special in studio e. 7000 times worse than the 70's one. nothing. nada. not a single ounce of cool. not like, at ALL.

Sana: never in my life will I EVER, in the history of fashion, agree with it.

Sana: photo attached

The photo is honest-to-god terrible. You have no idea what she's referencing.

11:30 AM - Sana: idk how it happened or why, but there's this tennis match thing i guess i'm supposed to be at

Sana: im honestly too zoned-out to tell whether i actually like this game lol

Sana: how tf does everyone know the rules. what is for-de-all? is that just a made-up thing people scream when a serve bounces into the net???

Sana: we'll see how it ends

Sana: ok the pro in the white suit is kinda hot and like, sosososo talented

Sana: he hits hard and his returns are perfect

Sana: how have i gone so long without knowing how deep i could get into the sports of men in fitted shorts??

There are countless more: small-talk, casual banter, lighthearted teasing, all going at her own speed of 5000 centimeters per second. You skim through, not sure how to parse the implications: she seems at best half-focused, unengaged, probably tired - maybe high on local-jet-lag, more interested in telling you she misses you and that her hotel room bed feels massive than telling you about her afternoons wandering art museums in a designer dress; oh, the magazines are frothing over her.

For reasons you don't feel entirely ready or qualified to address, you're reading between the lines to all sorts of things.

3:00 PM - Sana: could i call you? it'd just be like 5 minutes, i'm not busy or anything but idk if youre busy. not sure if you'll reply to this right away.

Sana: sorry don't mean to disturb you (´;︵;`)

Sana: well tbh i actually kinda do mean to interrupt.

She sends an obnoxiously bright, cloyingly pink 'V-Day' Gif in place of the last text and then doesn't answer. And suddenly, in a way you hadn't considered before - you think you're losing your goddamn mind, trying to construct an actual picture from fragments, assembling all the puzzle-pieces back into a single, discernible whole. She hasn't so much as signed off her text, let alone give you anything concrete to follow up on; this whole chain reads like the equivalent of sending her a lunch break meme, asking what her day looks like.

Inconveniently: it's the 14th of February, and Sana is the kind of person you'd get chocolates for - would tear open a Valentine's Day card and sign the message and seal it off with a stamp. It'd be tacky, and overly sappy and gaudily, horribly romantic - like a suitor from the Renaissance. You've always suspected she was something like an antique, in this very modern kind of way. It's how she looks best, all draped in antique jewels, chiffon and damask, dripping pearl and lace and silver threads, all in expensive, cosmopolitan aesthetic that makes sense within itself: something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.

The insanity is that it's making perfect sense right now. You have been ruined in ways unimaginable, and you have not, as Momo kindly warned you, even known.

You are not, in fact, alright - or casual about the situation.

You need flowers, urgently: this is a gift-giving crisis.

-

It's funny - this winter fling, as ill-fated as they come, a few months in: time seems to pass fast. Too fast, to the point where it starts to slip away in longer and longer increments, faster and faster, further and further intervals - like shadows stretching inexorably towards dusk.

There's no flowers, no cards, no nothing - and that is sort of the nature of it, the romance of the everyday.

You're in the metro so you can't even use your data, can't send her a quick selfie of your charming visage, with the background blurring like you're getting real poetic about it. No moon, no stars, no gaslight illuminating the dark. Just plain-ass subway tracks, a near-soviet expression of concrete, and some stupid ads for full-body waxes. The trains clear the station at 8:57 PM local time. That's Paris's time, Paris's city, her backdrop. The frame of this portrait.

So, in other words: you are not poetic, at all. You've probably got nothing in your hair except dust, dirt, and a bit of airfare grime. You've still got yesterday's cologne and nothing worth sending her except an afterthought.

No photos, no video, no cards, no ring; no pearls or lace, no gold and silk - and this is total luck, by the way; serendipity must still like her more - you look across the platform and watch the lights of another train arrive: the girl stepping off is stunning. 

And even further in terms of non-comparisons: she's the type who laughs too hard at your jokes and wipes away the smeared tears on her cheeks afterwards, who will drop a dirty joke at every moment, who lets you see her mouth open in a perfect, dripping-wet gape, who will sink into the mattress after a good, rough fuck, the headboard creaking; a girl who will tell you your coffee is too bitter and when you ask, sweet enough? - she'll still say no; not yet; no; don't; harder, don't you dare stop - that type of girl, is the one inching off the metro, glancing down at the watch on her slender wrist.

The trains start again and the girl is left standing on her own. In another five seconds, someone will probably say, mademoiselle? - which, also: there's a class on language you have not passed; you'll pay that back later - and in response, she'll sigh deeply, stretch her arms out. Tilt her head upwards for some fresh air.

You blink once, twice: and no - that really is her, on the other end. Sana Minatozaki - somehow inexplicably, for no reason you're privy to - has materialized as though she just decided on a whim to visit her home planet again.

You call out across the chasm, like a man possessed, and it is incredibly loud, incredibly embarrassing, incredibly out of character. You hardly notice.

Your voice catches on the draft of the tunnels; it must've echoed. She spins around to see who's calling her.

When she spots you, her face glows.

-

"Holy fuck," she rasps, trying to catch her breath, putting her forehead to your shoulder. "Jesus christ. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"We were in the same city," you respond, hoarse and almost panting, palms flat against her skin. Your muscles have that third-rail electricity running through the tendons and straight on through, too; Sana feels like pure tension, just burning off. There's something vaguely buzz-high about you. "Couldn't resist. I was gonna call eventually-"

She hits your shoulder like she's mad, but her face has more or less melted in pleasure, her mouth parted into a wide smile, all sharp edges and incisors. Her hair's almost a disaster: you can see the barrette slipping out, the edges of it, the glittery accents; you think about getting your hand all knotted up in the up-do and pulling - just to watch her spill off the end of the spool, tightly wound, twining around you like ribbon, sinking in and refusing to leave.

The doorman tried to ask for your coats before you fell on each other - in the middle of the lobby, if that's possible - and it's not like he even really saw anything, you were sure: just saw her smile when you pressed the tip of your fingers up under her chin, just your thumb grazing her lip before you bent your mouth to hers and didn't come up for air.

The doors of the elevator up shut close, and suddenly there's nowhere left for you to go: no further to climb, to hide, to disappear.

"You," she begins, biting off the end of the sentence in exasperation, settling instead for letting the word trail away. Her lips ghost across the hollow of your throat, the curve of your jaw, the little dip between the column and your ear, pressing hard and insistent - marking her territory.

"Do you just, y'know, pop up in fucking New York once in a while, too, for like a spot of breakfast and then, yeah, I'm good." Her voice sounds tired, worn. It's kinda cute. "No plans to stay, nothing booked, just passing through, huh?" She taps your shoulder, pulling away to run her fingers through your hair. "Idiot," she breathes, in that saccharine way of hers, smiling; you are helpless; you are done for, fully done-for: she can take as many digs at you as she wants. "Also what the fuck, you didn't answer my texts," her face crumples a little when you grab her, haul her against you - holding on, tight. It's an intoxicating rush, seeing Sana falter like that. 

She's as stunning off-kilter as she is put together: more real than any human being should be allowed.

"Well," you say, not apologetic at all. "It's a holiday."

"You're making it really hard to be angry right now," she replies, lifting herself in her pumps and slotting her lips over yours. This time, the kiss lingers. It is the point of departure, a threshold of arrival: who knows whether or not she can feel you melting beneath the heat of her fingertips. You want her to take as many soft, easy-going kisses as possible - a stack, a row, a wall. If she keeps leaning into you like that, you'll do just about anything. "Not just to make a boner joke, either," Sana whispers, fingers gripping onto your shoulders for balance. "I wanna go slow for once. Real gentle."

"Say that again?" You hum, unable to leave well enough alone.

"Something slow?" She lilts.

"A boner joke."

"God," she groans. "Would it kill you, you massive fucking prick, to have a modicum of compassion and not act like you're five?"

And look - there's not enough elevator for the whole story, let alone the novel it would be to properly explain everything there is to know about Sana; how the sky goes dusky-hued when the streetlights come on; how she always fiddles with her hands in her pockets when she's bored, the impatient flex of fingers, pulling at the loose threads. How you'd kiss her knuckles to calm her - how she was annoyed that she let you in the first place.

The story of the two of you would take, well - it'd take a few months.

"Actually," you counter, "it would. Probably kill me dead. Obituary, a single photo of a smirking ass in a dress suit. Very sad."

"Christ. I've put up with way too many assholes today," she huffs, shaking her head, "for you to be the way that you are."

"Oh, trust me. It's not my favorite either." You lean back, can't quite help it: she's not at all ruffled - only curious, only teasing. You pull her hips tighter towards you. She kisses you, sighs a little: her neck smells like orange-blossoms. You had no idea that could be as sensual as it is. "You'll just have to deal," you murmur.

"Like always," she complains.

"It is pretty rough."

Sana meets your grin. Her hand cups your face - it feels oddly tender.

"How," she says, slowly, the words very carefully enunciated - "the hell did you think this would turn out?"

You open your mouth: this is what you are capable of.

-

Sana never actually gets around to telling you the things she meant to say: the confession of a valentine, all sappy and serious, almost candid, with gravitas - a five-paragraph essay, four pages long.

It's a messy affair - you've got a fistful of hair and the other's shoved down the front of her skirt. She's been wanting to be here all day, it seems - you've seen the text-book spread of supermodels and old-money socialites and she's wanted a moment's escape from them all, has been pining for someone, anyone (most certainly you); waiting in her pretty dress and her high heels, a set of pearl earrings, the starlet curls of her hair - the clutch she left on the floor by the door because you shoved your hand underneath the fabric, said: I'll eat you out right fucking here.

So there's a common thread, if nothing else: you and Sana are verifiably incapable of having anything resembling a serious conversation. There isn't a single point of departure: the entire thing starts out casual and remains, firmly, casual.

You are deeply unserious people; this is just how it is. So clear from your head the ideas of saviours, soulmates.

You stumble together into the sitting room of her hotel suite - the luxury is appalling, almost, the floor-to-ceiling windows opening onto a gorgeous balcony and overlooking the Seine - "It's fashion week,"  is her excuse, "all the good penthouses have been booked since last November," she apologizes, which you can't really wrap your mind around anyway. You nod like that's reasonable, the right answer, pull at her lip with your teeth, and she melts right into the open palm of your other hand - oh, she'll fit well here. It's where she belongs: soft, sweet, yielding to you.

"Don't need your pity," she pants, breaking the contact to speak, to drag her tongue up your collar and up to the hinge of your jaw, grinding her hips down so that you hiss and close your fist tighter in her hair, give her that sudden tug, that sweet little rush: that thing she doesn't need, wants anyway.

Her expression flicks something in you - the eyes, the mouth; the trademark Sana-sneer. And suddenly you need to pin her to the wall, the floor, hold her still for the taste. You look up to get your bearings and find the world gone monochrome: night, cold, grey, grey-on-grey, black, dark - and that's fitting somehow. Sana tilts her head away to observe you back - you have a feeling she's observing how fucked-up you are over her already, and for some reason, you can't give her the satisfaction, not quite yet: can't admit the defeat of how you can't ever take your eyes off her, the thick swell of her legs and the smooth curves of her calves. Can't lay out what you'll do to her.

Though that's about when the storybook romance vanishes, and in its place - a more familiar arrangement; the reality you'd built with her over the past half year, the awful, easy rhythm you're going to settle back into with little ceremony: all playful affection, no sentiment. Zero pressure to pretend - or to pretend anything differently.

(Which brings you to this.)

"Sana," you drawl, grabbing her chin, making her twist in the direction of your touch. "Is that your dildo stuck to the coffee table?"

Because in the middle of all this, that's what she left lying out in plain sight: a some-odd inch silicon cock, unabashedly translucent, obscenely clear; with a ridiculously realistic head, veined shaft, balls - she had gotten her vibrator out of one suitcase and forgot the rest. It's literally sitting right next to the complimentary drinks; so obviously out-of-place, it's impossible that someone could mistake it for anything.

"Oh god," is the only reply, mortified. "Please, dont. I didn't think I'd be-"

"Should I be offended?" You are doing a truly appalling job at sounding seductive. You are, in fact, kind of choking down a laugh.

Sana takes a hand through her half-disassembled hair. Tosses the bobby-pin holding up her bangs: there. Full dishevelment - the effect is startling. You can almost trace the silhouette of a girl so very badly kept together; frayed ends, straying strands, half-gossamer and half-permanent dye.

"It's a toy," Sana explains, like you hadn't pieced together that much. She shrugs off a strap of her dress, the other. "It's just plastic and stuff." She looks at it. You can see the wheels turning, trying to figure out if it's worth salvaging. Then: "Here, c'mon - don't think. Don't," she tries, unconvincingly: "think too much about this."

You raise an eyebrow.

"I was planning to fuck myself senseless, maybe because somebody wasn't answering their texts," she adds, glibly. It is absolutely stunning, watching Sana Minatozaki shamefaced, pouting - trying and failing, failing miserably - to look even a little apologetic. "Just lemme - if you're into it, y'know, we could. Use. It. Or something."

"Or something." 

It's too late: you're cracking up.

"This is really what you use on your off hours? On yourself?" You pick it up: it's heavier than you expect, mostly because the thing is made of clear jelly, probably some kind of latex-powdery-water concoction - just the sheer thought is bizarre, foreign to you. The base suction cups to...any surface, you suppose, to provide stability. It's not altogether very practical, now that you're getting a closer look. "Is this," and you hush conspiratorially, "Is this Jean-Pierre?"

Sana smacks the side of your arm, flushing. "Shut the fuck up," she responds, laughing. A beat later, her lips tilt. "His name's Woody."

"That sounds like a conversation starter."

"I shouldn't have to explain the reference."

"You're sure it's a he?"

"It's got testicles don't it?"

"Oh yeah," you say, weighing the toy in your hand. "Look at that."

"Would you just, like," Sana coughs delicately, looks around the room for something interesting. "-put it somewhere."

"Phrasing," you can't help but point out. "Jesus you moved the mirror in here, too."

And you'd caught the moment originally, when the blush had filled her cheeks, her forehead, her nose, all the way on to her ears. She had known. "Maybe you really did corrupt me," she counters, turning her head pointedly away. "Wiped away the good girl veneer and turned me into a degenerate pervert."

"Which is basically how you started," you remind her - and you catch her in your arms. She relaxes almost instantly; you sink a palm down the small of her back to rest in the dip of her spine. You've learned a little: Sana prefers closeness, intimacy, touch. No questions, no fanfare, no gimmicks, just the simple offer of body warmth. She'll curl into your chest and stay quiet, almost content; an ineffable smile leaking up the back of her throat as your nose tickles the side of her neck, mouth open and warm and pressed into her skin.

Her eyes crease. She feels more real, a little less ethereally divine.

"How could you?" she asks, faux-affronted. You can feel how she breaks character, the laughter reverberating against your fingertips. "I'm, like, so fucking demure."

It takes everything to resist kissing her until she moans: which is the danger. You do anyway, but at least the damage has already been done.

She locks her wrists loosely behind your neck. Kisses you slow. Heavy. Giggling - you've been demoted to giggles in the end, it seems, a slip from seductress back to child-like delight. "Seriously," Sana sighs, rolling her shoulders out and circling her hips slowly. Your heart drops. Your entire face turns hot; you're really fucking gone for this girl. "Wanna watch me ride it?"

-

The thing is, a bed-time story would have paper-hearts, and candles, and maybe a field of birds; an open space, a plush meadow, a wide, beautiful, clean canvas for this little romance to run wild across, uncontained.

Sana instead, reaches for a bottle of personal-lubricant, glances back with a smile; your breath catches - you think it's a momentary trip, a chemical reaction.

You realize it's the lighting instead, the frame of this moment. The simple concept of art, how the hues of the dark deepen, saturate into something a shade off - purples and blues; something to capture and press into paper, inked forever.

She holds the bottle above the end of the toy, pours generously. As you can already tell - no lack of initiative, imagination: she takes both her legs to the edge of the table, stretches them outward - makes a pretty little show of herself, arches her back off the glossy wood - and sets the tip just against the inner junction of her thighs. Sana pushes, tilts: gasps aloud, sharply inhaling, watching you watch her with heavy-lidded eyes. Her shoulders relax and the rest of her muscles follow the tension - easing in a slow, languid circle, hips grinding down. She sighs at the cool feel of it, before pulling it back to rest the edge just in-between her lips, a teasing movement, right where you would reach - two fingers inside, hook up and outwards and open, stretch her wide to fill.

The girl looks like sin, looks like decadence; near-saintly: holy and sacrosanct. You think they've beatified less.

Sana reaches with her free hand for the front of your shirt.

"You," she whispers, and your hands flex involuntarily.

"Yeah," you reply, soft, even-keeled. "Me."

(Romance me, she'd said, only half-sarcastic. Sweep me off my feet and ruin me. Then I'll show you just how obsessed I am with you.)

-

There's always the itch, the impulse: to undo and dismantle everything around her, take everything to pieces; reduce her to tears until all she knows is your hands and your voice. To stop treating her like a masterwork and treat her more like something you're carving out of a block of stone. Maybe she'd lose that divine edge; she'd fall from that angelic grace into something mortal, and it wouldn't be anyone's fault. Not really.

Well - until now; because this is all you.

"Oh, Sana," you murmur, watching her tear up like it's killing her. "God, look at you."

You’ve got your fingers running through her honey-blonde tresses, got her wet lips slipping down the length of your cock, got the cutest little whimpers coming from her chest when you push a little too far, force yourself a little too deep - got the prettiest girl on her knees, working your cock to the back of her throat and letting her hips grind a few more inches of silicon inside her. The visual isn’t even in competition, in comparison - her huge amber eyes all innocent and glassy, those flawlessly plush red lips - you really shouldn't do it; if she hates something it's being mussed up, but here she is, anyway, because if there's anything she hates more, it's not getting a full serving of exactly what she wants - and she's swallowing your dick down her tight little throat without asking anything in return.

"You love this, don't you, baby," and when she bobs up - sinks back down - your next breath drags through your teeth.

The mirror's behind her; you don't need the nod for confirmation. 

You can see it clear as day: her pussy creaming, glistening as she takes it even deeper, leaving a white, glistening trail from the base to the tip of the silicon shaft - how far she's gone; how far she'll still go.

"You love having my cock down your throat," you keep talking, and you curl your fingers gently in her hair, not enough to guide or press, but Sana - bless her - takes it like an indication and does the work for you; she nods anyway.

The waterline of her big doe-eyes is swimming, nearly spilling over - and if this doesn't prove it, then nothing will, certainly not anything she could say herself.

But, really - you can't get over her face, and she must know that. 

Prada, Fendi, Chanel, Dior - they've got similar ideas, sure; straight to the gutter, only if they could see how you're replicating their vision - her eyes: too huge, too shimmery, too imploring; her hair spills from your fists in loose, glossy coils; that magazine-cover-ready look all flushed, mascara-thick lashes wet from the strain, jaw a little slack to accommodate the size of you - you're not too much easier to take than the dildo stretching her cunt wide right now, either. 

Oh, she's filled up on both accounts.

"Mmnhph," is how Sana hums around you, tongue working obscenely over the head. Her mouth feels velvety-tight on the upstroke.

It doesn't take much to forget her mouth's playing second-fiddle to the work her cunt's doing, and her free hand's curling tight around your thigh, a steadying mechanism - which, isn't that the very root of the matter: the first time you'd cum in her tight little pussy, hadn't it been just like that, where all the pieces slotted right back into place, a certain order to the chaos? The desperate cling of her pretty-fingernailed hand. 

Eyes wet and blinking: trust, don't let me down.

And you'll indulge her like tomorrow's the end of the world. Work her through it; watch her fine eyebrows pinch tight together; note how her high-strung breathing sounds muffled in her nose. How she lets you slide to the edge of the chair to fuck her face, lifting your hips and knocking into the slightest gag-reflex possible. She gets progressively filthier, tongue lathing the underside of you, sucking the head with the tight seam of her lips whenever you pull back to give her a second to breathe. 

"Jesus." Your fingers loosen in her hair, combing her wild bangs from her flushed face. It's suddenly delicate. Gentle. Doting. Sana's pretty little forehead deserves a kiss for how fast, how deep, she's taking your cock in the softest part of her throat.

"There we go - just relax, sweetheart," you tell her, the very same girl who is making herself cum in the full-length mirror: pussy stretched and pulsing wet around the toy. "Catch your breath."

She doesn't even flinch when you touch your thumb to her cheekbone, carefully pulling her face back, feeling the wet press of her tongue at the crown. But her lips pull into a pout like she's sad you're stopping her. "No more?"

You inhale, deeply, and try not to laugh out loud. Her cheeks have flushed this adorable rose color. "Baby," your voice trails off with a click, and it's entirely your fault for teasing her; you might not get out of this room for the rest of the night, after all. So much for red wine and valentine's on the Seine - the perfect, the picturesque-

"I can't help it," Sana cuts in. She doesn't even hesitate. If anyone can redefine perfection, well. She's wearing that look: her mouth an utterly sinful pucker and her tongue skimming pink up the wet mess her throat's made of you. Her big, heavy-lashed eyes gazing at at you, and her pupils - well, that's no doubt what happens when something hits too hard, and it's the last thing you should notice, really, in this moment.

Her tongue is flat, stuck out. Very pink. She slaps your cock against it. Jesus christ, you think.

But: who can blame you, when the gorgeous, nude, marble-perfect woman on her knees is riding her toy with no qualms whatsoever, gazing straight into your soul?

"The faces you're making are really fucking hot and it's valentines day and you, like, taste and smell so fucking good-"

"Okay." You're twitching in her hands, and it's making her give you the most awful bedroom eyes in the world. "Okay, baby, slow down-"

She doesn't, but she can't do much worse; Sana presses her plush, swollen bottom lip to the crown of your cock, makes a show of licking the precum beading from your slit - licks her lips like it's a present, like she'd flown halfway around the world just for that, and it's an ambrosia she'd rather savor than spill.

"Sana," and your laughter falls out in a gasp, because, fuck - she's got a tight grip on your thigh and the most selfish desire for your orgasm you've ever seen; her other hand is already set, too, the one rubbing away at her own dripping pussy, wrist working just underneath her, catching her clit. "You're going to make me cum like that."

"Okay," she tells you, all round-eyes and wet-mouth; she's so fucking insatiable. "Then cum."

You're not sure how a goddess who worships your cock ends up like this: propped up the hotel-furniture, sinking down a thick, gleaming dildo and the slightest hitch in her breath a fucking non-sequitur. "Fucking hell," you gasp. "Princess-"

And, well - it's not like you really protest; her mouth's already at the tip of you and she's working it there, in and out, with a teasing wetness.

She sighs, heavy, but also blissful; sinks lower in one, rolling agonizing movement; meets your eyes when you go heavy-lidded and biting your lip - like it's a competition for who can end up the worse wreck. She swallows, slowly, so slowly. Lets her nails lightly dig into the sensitive skin behind your balls, drags them back up with her tongue and her throat constricting.

It's her expert mouth, that's the thing. You close your eyes because you think you might cum right then; right down the back of her pretty, porcelain throat. You can hear her humming like she's enjoying it more than you - can hear the clicking sound in her throat when she bobs her head, fucks herself deeper. Can hear the slick, filthy slaps of her pussy taking the cock fastened to the coffee table under her. And, you think, opening your eyes just a crack: when your girl's making a mess of the expensive hardwood with the cream spilling from her needy cunt - that's worth giving into. That's an image so good and perfect and god-damned filthy that you'd bet, when you cum, all the devil will want is a deal for a replica, for a pact to possess every woman out there who fits the mold: this one's yours.

You're fucking her mouth so hard, she's drooling.

"Jesus- ah, fuck. I'm going to fucking cum, Sana," and, not that she listens, “down your fucking throat, honey- I'm, oh," - not that she cares, really - you've just managed to grit your teeth - to arch your back up like that could pull you out from the sensation: it doesn't.

She does moan around you, then. Pulls the vibration deep and uses her tongue, works the pink, slender muscle right down to where you're half-gagging her, making her eyes water.

It's easy to knot your fingers back in the locks of her hair, pull tight. 

Easier still, her face is framed with your thighs and the effect's immediate - it feels as hot and wet and tight as a vice and your voice shakes along with the rest of your neurons, firing, collapsing, keening - and, of course: when your hand fisted in her hair tries to pull her hot mouth off your cock, well.

There's a few more inches of sloppy-wet friction and slippery-tight drag you hadn't really budgeted for.

You're cumming all over her face, not that you had much of a choice - it's just one wave and another, your thighs tensing and the breath going out of you in stilted, long, stuttering moans - Sana looks up, when your brain has unscrambled enough to register her name and the light of the world and the absolutely perverted expression she's got: there's a shot of cum that streaks across her closed eyelid and another string making a sticky-white mess out of her button-nose and, god-

You don't mean to cum in her hair, but-

"Fuck," your teeth clatter around a biting-gasp, "Sana, oh fuck," but - as expected, she does have your cock gripped tight at the base, her lashes clumped with the mess, her cheeks sticky-messy. 

Sana's looking up with the innocent sort of mischief only she could ever get away with, you figure, cum-covered and beautiful: the good girl with her good girl mouth, all the evil inside of her.

She lets your cock fall out of her hand, down, with an obscene, wet thud, right where she can press it against her face - press it against those sharp cheekbones - and those doe-eyes, and those lips: the ones she draws across the dripping tip, pulls at them with a sultry sort of sigh. Sinking the curve of her nose down the belly side of your cock as you paint her, gasping for air; and it gets worse - when her tongue catches between your balls, when her lips are pouting right around the soft skin there and her soft moans make you pump the white-hot ropes of cum until it's a mess in her hairline, in the silky locks that fall to the crests of her ears and down to where they rest over her tits, hiding the flush of her hard, puffy nipples, her tiny little pink clit-

"Messy," Sana croons, without much of an inflection; one eyelid flutters open and a milky-stream runs down the curve of her cheek; the other seems hopelessly stuck.

Oh, she's usually such a wet blanket about getting anything in her hair (which is more often just an excuse to ride you brainless on the shower bench, but it doesn't come without her grumbling on the way), and even then she's lifting up off her heels and resting her chin on your thigh to make sure you can watch when she spreads the mess along her slender throat and back behind her ear, almost shy, drawing strands of cum into her mouth with her long-lashed eyes locked onto yours.

"It really hasn't been that long," and she says it with some exasperation, with a bubbly little bout of laughter that has the same weight as her pecking kisses along the muscles of your abs, cleaning her cum-hand against the patchy wetness across the flat plane. "Geez - you must've been so pent up -" and she stops for breath, for another suckle to your shaft; your cock twitches in her grip, the sensation too much, but it makes Sana give the most self-satisfied smile. It'd be unbearably irritating if she wasn't your entire universe - she is, so you try not to move as she steadies herself on your thighs; presses her messy face into the side of your throat and mewls. "All mine," Sana decides, sounding quite content about it. "Do you need a few minutes?"

She asks this like she isn't pumping you still, using her delicate fist to keep you upright for her while she speaks into the line of your jaw.

"Um," you say, before anything else. Before thinking about her clinging, wet heat around you. Before anything else: "yeah."

She purses her lips. Presses her free hand to your chest with a needy arch of her body. Pants for you, lashes falling shut - and, there's the problem, she's so much more fuckable like that. She's painted red from her cheeks all the way down her tits and you're just realizing how much drool fell off her chin, how much of a mess is between her tits, how much she revels in it - getting her face-fucked until neither of you can survive the fallout.

"How about," she huffs against you, all breath and the curve of a whine, "I clean this up," her hand's still tight at the base, where your nerves are singing with all sorts of new sensory input - "and god, your heart," she whispers, and her chin hooks over your thigh. She's looking up at you, ruined, flushed and dewy. "-is beating so fast for me -" she says, almost wistful.

That's the point, probably. It's the entire problem: she has a few ideas of how beautiful she is, the kind of destruction she wreaks.

Her breath catches in her chest when her hips shift back and that thick, fake cock pops out of her cunt; it sounds fucking filthy, and the softest of keening moans escapes her - it has the weight of your existence and she probably knows it; her amber gaze fluttering shut as she doesn't move for a second.

You don't either, can't really; Sana sliding up your body as graceful as ever, even naked and used-looking, leaves you barely functional and running on over-stim. "I mean," she starts, like the two words just tumbled out of her cunt with the rest of the mess and that's a great explanation; Sana's moving around in your lap anyway, dropping that nice, hard dildo on the seat beside you, still dripping. "I can't let you cum in my pussy," she says, all gentle matter-of-fact, while her mouth opens across the arch of your jaw and she gets cum down her wrist. "Well," she amends, "-not yet anyway, not right now," and she does look guilty, for some reason.

It makes your smile twist wry and unattractive, probably. "I'm good at controlling myself," you manage.

"Liar," says Sana, which is a reasonable reply. You'd laugh, but her cunt's wet and hot against you, already sinking, settling, just an inch deep into her cunt. It's easy to take in hand - you grip her hips, thumb her little pink clit.

Sana's response is to rut against it, rubbing all over where the swollen head of your cock rests between her thighs. Her smile goes a little blissed out, dreamy.

"There's another place," she's saying, while her hair spills down your arm, between you, sticking in the space between her tits, "that would be a perfect home for this thick, gorgeous cock."

"I think you should let Woody and I sort that out," and, shit, that doesn't make her stop moving, dragging her soaked slit over your shaft. "Maybe he'll be your valentine after all, huh, babe?"

Sana narrows her eyes, tilting her head forward in her best attempt at threatening. It's cute, almost, if your dick wasn't trapped between the wet heat of her body and your belly. You pick her up so, so easily. And that's hot, you think: your strength, her whole lithe-waisted petite-tits everything.

"Hey," her lips part against yours, a protest there - until you move her by the hips, pushing up and watching her spread for it.

And if that doesn't go straight to your ego.

Sana huffs, playing aloof, petulant - a character you draw out when she's really hoping and praying you'll fold her up and show her what the good parts of worship mean. "You think you can share?" she's asking you, voice already growing rough. She's trying to fuck back, take her hips again, but you still her with your palms, fingers sinking tighter and her ass spilling out between your knuckles.

"Get your knees back on the table for me, pretty girl," and you lift her as she squirms; set her down, until her body is arched forward, tits pressed punishingly to the hardwood. 

You think you're maybe spending next-century's savings on a wet-dream made real; maybe being too rough, too mean about your hand twisting through that mess of golden-strawberry curls at the base of her spine and making her spine curve deep as she breathes out a heavy, messy curse.

"Give me what I deserve, then," and she can't reach under her body and tug at your cock, but she gets the words out. The order. "I'm aching, it's sore and empty and, it's so fucking tight," and that's not a demand but a whine. She wants you, that's the real point. "You know, I want," and she doesn't finish that, but: 

She's blinking at her reflection in the glass, watching it. You really fucked up that pretty painting, and she's appraising the art, tilting her chin just a bit to appreciate the effort: how she's made to be wrecked. 

You grab Woody, attach it to the table without thinking; the weight's warm, solid; he's hard-used and wet enough from her body that it's not an issue; there's enough lube leftover to slide your palm once or twice over and drag it wet across Sana's ass, around your length, even over Sana's pink cunt, wet and swollen and bunched with the toy she'd used, stretched deep as you'd seen. She whimpers out the softest sound, then, and you think: what a miracle, and maybe she does too because her hips arch into it like she's begging for praise, for your touch, anything; there's a few seconds of pressure, just enough time for you both to realize what's happened.

"This'll get messy, you know," you tell her, which isn't fair. "It won't feel the same in there," because your baby needs her explanations.

"Want to feel you both in my guts," is what she offers instead, and- yeah, it's so not fair for her to say stuff like that either.

You touch the silicone head to her puffy folds, ease him up and down - just how you would for her, only taking care to feel where she's pinkest. Where's the pressure on your fingers? There, probably, but there, too. Where does she gasp the softest when she's full and tensing in anticipation? Oh.

Her cunt is so slicked she sinks on it, opening fast and beautiful and dirty.

The sound Sana makes is unreal; no way to measure her reaction otherwise. You don't know whether it's good or bad; all you see is the way her reflection dips into nothing, into pain, but: her head jerks up in time to watch and she moans like she's begging - loud and pretty and shocked, eyes fluttering. Her hair falls like curtains around her face, a wildfire behind her. She's stunning; of course you think it.

"See that," she says, through clenched teeth, "the pretty way it pushes out of me-"

"Makes room for me," because yeah, fuck, okay. You know it too.

She's perfect for this: a body like she's the centerfold in a dirty magazine and then a disposition that says yes, you do want me like that. Or, she's asking for a pounding. That's the least you can do - straddle the surface with her, line your cockhead up, push just barely to the resistance - force Sana's hips down until Woody's bottomed and her legs shake for the first time.

"You good, baby?"

"You can," and-

Oh, man. "Let me do it," you tell her, sliding your hand up her back to grab her hair, winding it between the thick of your knuckles. "I'll take care of you, I promise-"

That's another shot in your veins: her lips bitten red, her expression ruined; the way her face falls for you like she's meeting you in that elevator for the very first time, the straw of her iced coffee between her lips, her nose wrinkling for the cliché.

She blinks at you again, nods and keens and oh-

Your cock works in that next fraction of an inch, just the head spreading Sana open.

"Holy-" but she chokes it back, so you'll keep doing this, making her think, fuck- "oh my-fuck-okay," is what she gives you, breathing in pants; what her expression tells you, the lines cutting over her brows and between her nose.

"Sana," is as far as you get, and Sana's grinding, gasping. She'll sob. She'll get loud. You can see from your angle; just feel how much it burns, the way Woody's working inside her, splitting her to the core.

You watch the line of her back work, tense, clench - where it's just that simple and base and human. 

And the mirror's got the full story: it all comes up with the same obscene details - Sana's mouth a deep open pink, her eyes rolling closed as she swallows thickly - as she's wetting the air down and relaxing her whole body for it: her toes curling. She sinks another inch onto the toy, you figure, and she makes this fucked-up mewling noise, half-cry, half-begging. Your cum is tacky all over her front, drying sweaty; her makeup's runny. She's a disaster and so pornographically stunning.

You sink deeper, and she bucks, takes her time riding. "Feels- fucking incredible, doll, I'm going to start fucking you, ok?" and you groan; you are. You pull back, seeing where her cunt is creamed out and ruined, where there's the ghostly wet lube smeared on your cock, all sticky like her.

Sana nods, looking back - she finds your face, doesn't falter; she'll see her tits spilling against the table; the dark shade of her nipples. Her cunt's sliding over the toy in a rush; she's shimmying her whole body, impatient. You let go of her hair and touch between her shoulder blades to the base of her spine, marvel in the stretch of it, the pretty flush you're fucking into over and over.

"It feels-" Sana's talking, her forehead bowed against the table, her mouth hanging loose, "feels-good. Good. Amazing. Feels-" and she can't breathe, you know, but fuck, neither can you- "so. Full. Full."

You nod; know. She knows.

She's saying it for herself, in a slur, the words on the edge of a gasp: "I'm-holy-"

Your fingers pinch her ass, just gentle; enough to spread her, catch a view of her stretched asshole. Her teeth knock together - she's trembling for this. She'll cum.

"Trying to kill me," you tease, but fuck- it's good; so fucking good. 

You've been brushing your cock to the back of this girl's throat and it's still the hottest thing you think you'll ever see; her personal toy buried to the hilt beneath you, just the tight little opening of her pussy fucked-out and slicked-up, raw and red and utterly ruined-

"Shh, sweetheart," you manage, burying yourself in as far as possible, leaning over. You move the hair falling into Sana's face and trace her features with the tip of your index finger, smudging a fingerprint of eyeliner. You're kissing her hair, her skin, tasting salt, sweat, cum: "Such a slut, taking that big fat toy all in you, opening you up-" and the last you get out isn't her name, it's a murmur- "look what a whore you're being," and her cunt is fucking throbbing-

You lean back, catch a sight of it; her thighs trembling and pinkish and oh, fuck, no. She's got one of her hands worked back and on her clit, stroking it feverishly-

"Baby-"

"I need you," is what she cries out; not an explanation. "So," and it's something mangled- "God, please. Come on."

She tells you twice; she can't help herself. Sana's ass is unbelievably tight. So pretty; so the little fucked-out cocksleeve you always needed. All her eyeliner's fucked to hell and her hair's still a knotted disaster; you've got all your inches inside her, she's pressing the heel of her hand to her clit and drawing patterns over her face with her fingers like she can't remember-

"My pussy, jesus-fucking-christ." Her mouth is falling slack again. "God. God. Harder, it feels too good, don't stop-"

"Such a good fucking girl," and there's this picture-perfect moment-

She cums. You're all up in her guts, spilling to the tight space, that she's fucked beyond the stretch and that's got to burn, paradoxically making her go all crazy with this feeling. Your cock's making space - you'd hate not fucking her until she's overfull and all those slick muscles are clenched and bruised-

"Does my princess need something?" you ask her, while your palm teases the flare of her hips. It's teasing; she won't stop; she'll cum again. You're pounding her ass and that toy's still there, buried to her cervix, her pussy's a mess and it's almost an itchy pleasure, too much stimulation, too sensitive; she's slick, sodden.

Sana is nodding furiously. One hand's doing it again, and the other's got the thumb trapped in her mouth; she's trying for silence; it won't last. Her throat's loud and filthy and you've always probably known, since the very beginning, that Sana loves taking you in whatever gorgeous, wet, tight hole she can.

"Please," she manages. Her hand's moving quicker- "Let me. Let me." And she's grinding against you, taking in every inch you have for her, arching her back; her clit is raw and throbbing and she's a fucking genius. A natural at begging. She deserves the win. She's being good. She's letting you fill her with cum.

You're not even fucking her into particularly fast, particularly deep, just grinding, using the tight ring of muscle, the heavy, bruising press.

"Tell me," and she can't focus- "Tell me when you're going to cum, princess. Can't wait to feel you-".

Oh. And, then-

You want it to last.

Her feet are tapping, toes curling into the hardwood, and it's over: she's tightening her grip against the table and making sure to keep the vibrations direct, her cheek pressed to the wood, drool drenching the corner of her lips. You've seen enough dirty shit, done enough kinky stuff. This - this might actually have you dumbfounded: watching her convulse; watching her bring her hand away, just touching. Her cunt's all milky and soft.

"Stay still, sweetheart," you're saying; as if she can move. You're holding her steady by her hips. You're massaging lightly; taking all the rest you can. "That's it, come here, you're so-" and your cock's easing its way out- "fucking."

She gasps when you slip all the way free; your cum slides back down. Sana's languid and fluid, skin sweating, hair everywhere. She's not crying, but it's the closest she's been in ages; the closest, most pure you can get a girl: your cum spilling out and all over you, and you're telling her it's alright, telling her she's gorgeous; saying it's okay she's already stretched herself so thin, exhaustion pooling, seeping out of her mouth, the line of her thighs and-

"Thank you." It's that genuine, melodic cadence, the honesty - it's that the first time she's looking down and she's blinking tears- "Want you to- right here," and she's moving forward, slowly.

You're cupping Sana's thighs before you can even think; lifting, bending them to her chest, her lips bitten, kiss-swollen. Her tongue darts to the corner of her mouth: Sana knows where this is going.

You can taste her. You can taste your own sins - the vanity, the hubris, the glutton, the greed - taste how wet, how flushed. She's putting that expert mouth to good use and keeping quiet again: a pant, a whine, an ahhhh, a whimpered half-curse. Her chest is flushed the prettiest, sweetest, lightest shade of red.

It's too intimate. You could lie in it, keep her warm like this until the very earth rotted. All the rough, dirty things you could do to her; it's almost sacrilegious that this is what brings the closest feeling of bliss, peace.

You don't realize how still everything is, all stilled, until Sana's small, quivering legs hook your shoulders; until the end of her toe brushes the shell of your ear, presses. Her spine arches into your mouth and the scent of her cunt - the taste. You could stay here, in your hands, and take, and - and give it right back: take, take, and take.

You eat her cunt until her voice is wrecked raw, your tongue dragging across her ass, over your lower lip, smearing her slickness, tasting her from your fingertips. She doesn't beg and she doesn't tell you what to do, she just spreads her pussy and rides her clit against your lips, moaning unashamedly as she rocks herself on your face, coming on your tongue in two, three hard, heavy pulses.

"Good fucking-"

"-God," you finish for her, and it's all the most sacred kind of silent. Your face buried back in between her thighs, just breathing. Just loving her, and holding her steady, because aftercare's a bigger part of the game than either of you let on, and you know she's ready and safe in your arms by now.

Sana pants and heaves, eyes shut. Bites her lips red as she smiles. 

The lines of her face relax as if you're soothing her, tucking her in: good job, I've got you. When she isn't such a tender wreck, it'll happen all over again.

-

"You know," you say conversationally to Sana, who's lying in the fetal position at the foot of the bed, "you look cute right now."

It's another day, same time-zone, different house, same game. You've never stopped in your pursuit of what exactly a muse looks like: perfect, empty, caught in the bright white exposure of her hotel room lamp; all hard black-and-white, tonal range; in the scratch of the pen and the haze of the film developing, on the translucent material of the photo you'll print. There's the image, there's her breathing-

(There's all the ones you don't even know you'll find: her belly growing large, skin smoothing with child, a birth, a growth, a transformation; the dreams.)

-she's told you as much, but you can never know for certain if she really, truly- 

"I'm dying," she grumbles. "You fucked me to death."

"You're bad for my ego." You plop down next to her and rub a hand between her shoulder blades. The curve of her back makes your fingers ache and your throat close up. "How do you feel, really."

Sana takes a moment before she replies.

"Hurt," she finally murmurs, quietly. You hum back a soothing noise. "But good. The best. Everything I've always wanted." She pauses. "Also: dead."

"You said that already." You're rolling your eyes, fondly.

She doesn't reply, just pushes herself up, legs crossing, one hip propped up. She's in a hotel bathrobe and she's supposed to be at a runway in an hour. "Hey."

"Yeah?" you're already tilting your head. She's sitting in the middle of the bed now, legs crossed under her; this is definitely a hotel robe, you've never been around her this long. "What's up?"

Sana just tucks her hair back, bares her shoulders and moves the fabric down the curve of her side.

"I told you," she starts, and her teeth snag on her bottom lip, "I think you're good," and she's suddenly shy: this little fuck-off of yours, of yours. "For me."

"You-" you start, and there's a way that things are and you have the gut instinct, the conviction of it, but-

(Then again, a girl with hair the color of a caramel confection and eyes you could be lost in for eons told you the other day without having to say it, eyes widening in the haze and light and gloss, that she could love you forever.)

"Yes," she answers, because it's your question, that slow smile making her features draw inward, the wrinkle of her nose: yes, it's your decision. That she's telling you the truth. "Exactly."

-

Actually, to frame this right, you probably ought to have started with her, at the girl with idyllic, copper-spun hair and a thousand-watt smile. It reads main-character energy from fifty feet away: you should've pulled the curtain back and simply said, meet Minatozaki Sana.

Your significant other, sorta - few people on earth know that, for a lot of reasons, and depending on the day, you can't be entirely sure if she wants it that way or if she'd rather scream it from the rooftops; Sana is - well, it's tricky. She's beautiful in a way you never got to conceptualize before, that nobody probably does. She's magnetic. It's effortless. It's gravity, and it's only natural that you'd always want to pull yourself back to her, to orbit her; she'd ask and you'd die, right? 

She assumes you'll ask to marry her, someday - you're starting to suspect she's probably right.

And there's a pattern of nuance to how you know her, all the definitions of her - you bring her fresh-cut flowers, you call her princess, you fuck her until she begs, you hold her while she rinses her hair in the shower. You run your mouth, you eat her cunt until she can't walk straight. It's a big role, a broad palette to capture.

Sana, in the morning for example: 

Can't drink her coffee black; steals sugar packets from cafes and slips them into her pocket; sleeps so still and so quietly that sometimes it almost scares you, worrying that she’s slipped off into a coma. She likes being doted on, likes getting compliments, likes melting under someone’s full attention as if she's waited for that from you her whole life. She says it directly: listen, okay, don't laugh at me, I get needy.

Or, beneath starlight:

Flitting across hotel balconies, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you into open bars.

She'll buy you a drink and loves when you buy her another, her glass never half-empty. She climbs on top of you and presses her mouth to your ear, sings the song in her head for the next five minutes, hips jolting when she sways a bit too far - a light bulb over a diner counter. Tips the waiter extravagantly, rolls her eyes when you lecture her for spending your money. Smiles at you anyway and takes your hand in hers on the way out the door.

Sana Minatozaki, on herself:

A nightmare. I don’t even know. Seriously. An absolute mess. Completely nuts. (You said you were a 'total fucking catch.') Oh, yeah. I guess that's true too.

-

(Or maybe, Sana, on you:

Well, when you ask on the flight out, she says something sweetly innocuous. When you press her again, she blushes. When she might be feeling especially adoring, she'll look at you and say, with utmost certainty and uncharacteristic lack of sarcasm, 'I mean, it's you. What more can I say?')

[cuteandhughesy]

Baby That’s What Friends Are For…| Luke Hughes (Headcanons)

summary: being friends with benefits with luke hughes (umich!luke x reader)

[word count] 1.7k

warnings: NSFW! university au | friends with benefits | fluff | kissing | non-descriptive smut | suggestive dialogue | read at your own discretion

a/n: trying something a lil different so let me know what you think of the headconons — as well, lmk if you want to see headconons for ur fav hockey man 😛

🎵 I would, would you? by kelsea ballerini

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ღ fwb! luke hughes who is so obsessed with you—even if he keeps that secret hidden deep down. he remembers meeting you through his friend ethan, and instantly he became enamoured by you. you were the complete opposite of him—bubbly, outgoing, a lil ditzy, and extremely sweet. you had luke wanting to be more like you! which, if his friends knew that, they would be floored.

you found comfort in his calm persona and seemingly nonchalant attitude—you were drawn to him and you quickly became fast friends. hanging at parties and sitting together in the classes you had together—luke was always looking for you, and you for him.

ღ fwb! luke hughes who’s friendship with you soon turns more intimate, and everything between you shifts. after a night out with everyone at the local bar, you’re both just tipsy enough to feel care-free, but not drunk enough to loose awareness.

luke suggests you stay the night at the hockey house, up in his room with him. giggly and warm, you easily agree—which sends luke’s obsession into overdrive.

ღ fwb! luke hughes who almost died on the spot when you made the first move, watching through hazy hooded eyelids as he sat up against his headboard—eyeing you as you climb onto his lap, pressing your underwear covered core against his hardening length.

a hard on he’d desperately tried to hide before things escalated—one he couldn’t help after seeing your panties peeking out from underneath his oversized hockey shirt as you slipped into his bed—a dopey smile on your face.

ღ fwb! luke hughes who takes that as a signal, and leans in to connect your lips together. it’s messy, and heated and all together hot. he quickly shifts you, pushing your back into the mattress as he kisses you rough and hard—leaving you whining and withering against him.

ღ fwb! luke hughes who is totally focused on touching you—pleasing you—before he even thinks about himself. luke is drunk on your pussy, diving into you like his life depends on it—fuck, his life practically does. he goes and goes, licking and sucking your arousal until your cumming, twice, shuttering and grinding against his face like you can’t control your movements.

ღ fwb! luke hughes who practically whimpers the first time he pushes his length into your entrance—it’s better than he could’ve ever dreamed. the sound of your staggered gasps and mewls only push him further, slamming into you until his tip is brushing against your most sensitive areas. it’s ethereal.

ღ fwb! luke hughes who almost cums on the spot at the feeling of your nails digging into his growing biceps, gripping the strong muscles to ground yourself from his heavenly thrusts. your hands are all over him, feeling his muscles flex under the pads of your fingers. your walls flutter around his length instinctively, and it has him practically shaking—holding himself above you like he’s been doing it forever.

ღ fwb! luke hughes who wants you to cum first—wants to bask in the feeling of your gummy, warm walls spasming around his cock. the feeling of your orgasm has him stilling inside you, a low groan vibrating in his chest. his warm forehead and tousled curls fall into the crook of your neck, where he licks and sucks against your pulse point—feeling it jump under his tongue.

ღ fwb! luke hughes who cums inside you, painting your walls with his release after you’d begged him to. he knows he’s ruined for anybody else after finally being inside you—and you too are ruined for any man ever.

ღ fwb! luke hughes who after that first time having sex, becomes extremely protective over you—without meaning to, or being aware of it. during parties, he’s always tucked by your side, making sure you’re content and safe. he walks you from classes, and back to your place (if you’re not coming back to his for a late afternoon quickie).

and you eat it up—allowing luke to treat you like a princess outside of the bedroom, and treat you like a whore inside the bedroom.

ღ fwb! luke hughes who’s love language is physical touch—but only when it comes to you. in public, he’s constantly got his hands on you in some capacity, whether his fingers brush your hand, or his hand stays steady on your lower back while he guides you through campus.

nothing too possessive, because he knows he’s not your boyfriend—but he also wants any potential man that’s possibly looking for your affection, to get the hint. you’re his.

ღ fwb! luke hughes who also understands your love language is acts of service, and makes sure you feel seen and appreciated, even with the unspoken relationship between you.

not that luke minded doing things for you—scratch that, he loved it. he’d bring you flowers and snacks anytime he felt that you needed them (which ended up with him doing it all the time). he’d make sure your space was always clean if you didn’t have time to tidy the night before, and he’d always plug in your laptop if you’d forgotten to.

just taking care of you in general was luke’s forte.

ღ fwb! luke hughes who very quickly learns how to make you crumble under his finger tips, coaxing orgasm after orgasm from you—leaving you shaking and gasping for air. he’s touched you like no other man has, and you don’t think you’ll ever get enough of it.

ღ fwb! luke hughes who is such a freak, and thrives on the way it makes you squirm. if it wasn’t sending you dirty texts in front of all your friends, watching you blush and gulp as you take in the filthy words on your screen—it was the things he’d actually say, whispering into your ear while passing by.

ღ fwb! luke hughes who loves when you’re the one seeking him out for sex—nothing turns him on more than when you seek him out in a crowded room, arms wrapping around his hips with your chin resting between his pecks. blinking up at him slowly, your words whispered as you subtly hint about sneaking off.

and luke’s never going to say no—and you know that.

ღ fwb! luke hughes who stutters anytime someone asks what you two are. he’s never sure what to say—even though deep down he knows exactly what he wants to say. he blushes profusely, rubbing the back of his neck out of nervous habit. he claims you two are just messing around—good friends, but nobody buys that.

the same goes for when you’re both out—as simple as getting burgers late at night—and a worker mistakes you for a couple. luke doesn’t correct them, mostly because he doesn’t care to. and you don’t bother correcting them either.

ღ fwb! luke hughes who starts kissing you just because he wants to. if anything, he starts to prefer kissing you without the intent of going further, and sometimes all he wants is your lips in a fleet passing moment.

it’s started to become a natural thing between you. a kiss good morning and goodnight—as well as in hello and goodbye. during home games, luke would always find you in the tunnel, and press a kiss to your lips before continuing out to the ice. and as you delicately place your hands on his hips, pushing onto you toes to meet his height—a giddy smile blossoming on your face…well, luke’s never seen anything more beautiful.

ღ fwb! luke hughes who brings you your favourite coffee and/or tea when he doesn’t have an early class. he’ll stop at the local cafe, order and pay for your drink before making his way to wherever you are. whether you’re studying with friends in the library, or in class, or simply sitting in the cafeteria—he’s hand delivering that drink with a kiss to the side of your head.

ღ fwb! luke hughes who can’t help but smirk afterwards as he hears your friends and classmates coo and awe at the sight—telling you how amazing and cute your boyfriend is. his smirk deepens when you can only smile in response, mumbling your agreement.

ღ fwb! luke hughes who realizes he’s falling in love with you when ethan mentions how a couple guys on the team thought you were hot, and were asking around if you’re single.

even though luke knew he felt that way deep down, hearing that just solidified everything for him. you’re his girl—his best friend—and he doesn’t want anybody else to even think of you as anything but so.

ღ fwb! luke hughes who can’t hold in his feelings for you any longer, and as you lay in his bed, clad in his sweats after a long day of classes (and a trip to pound town bc you’re both horny teenagers), he gently says your name, pulling your attention from the movie playing on his laptop.

and as soon as your eyes lock and just spills—barley pausing to breathe as he confesses his love in a stuttering, flushed mess.

ღ fwb! luke hughes who’s words are cut off by your lips as you lean in and kiss him. it’s a bruising yet comforting pressure that has you both sighing pleasantly as your lips mold together like the perfect puzzle piece.

ღ fwb! luke hughes who’s breathless when you finally part, both your eyes fluttering open as you meet gazes once again. even though you’ve just kissed him, he’s panicked—worried he’s ruined everything with his confession.

but your thumb runs along his slick lip, and the gentle, warm smile that tugs at your mouth has his thoughts coming to a halt.

ღ fwb! luke hughes who has to pinch himself when you tell him you love him too. the shuttering breath that releases from him is almost embarrassing but he doesn’t even care.

he rushes to hug you, wrapping his arms around your body and tackling you to the bed. the sound of your gentle laughter is like music to his ears, filling the room with the angelic noises. luke presses quick kisses all over your face, too overwhelmed with love and joy to stay still.

ღ bf! luke hughes who just loves you so damn much.

[dumdogs]

into the spider-verse: nishinoya yuu

volume one, chapter two: calls

word count: 2.5k

masterlist | main masterlist | taglist

On the rooftop of the Flatiron Building, she leans back, and stares at the sky above her. She’s learned that looking down gives her vertigo, and if she’s lying down, she can pretend she’s not twenty-two stories off the ground.

Noya laughs at her, because he always does, but he still holds her hand, because he knows it makes her feel better. “I can’t believe you’re still afraid of heights.”

“I feel like this is a super reasonable fear to have.” She inches a little but further away from the edge as she speaks. She doesn’t even wanna be close to it. “Plummeting to my death isn’t like, a big priority for me right now.”

He squeezes her hand. “You know I’ll catch you if you fall.”

He would. She doesn’t even doubt that for a second. If right now she stood up and decided to take a swan dive off the side of the building, there would be nothing getting in between him and her, and Noya would have her safely in his arms before she hit the fifteenth floor.

But still. It fucking terrifies her.

“Okay, sorry my primal instinct does not recognize that you got bit by some weird science experiment spider and now you defy all laws of nature,” she rolls her eyes, still tightly holding onto his hand as he sits upright beside her. “I’ll work on that.”

Nishinoya leans over a lightly pinches the soft skin of her stomach under her t-shirt. She squeals. “Keep it up with the attitude and I’ll throw you off the side of this building myself.”

“Hmm, not very hero-like of you, Spider-Man.”

“You bring out the worst in me.”

She grins. “I’m going to have to write an article about this. ‘Spider-Man throws innocent journalist with fear of heights off Flatiron Building.’ Jameson will love it.”

Nishinoya scoffs. “Yeah, I’m sure he would. Too bad you’ll be busy being a sidewalk pancake.”

Her eyes find their intertwined hands. It’s always been natural, their friendship, everything that happens between them feels like it’s supposed to. The handholding and the couch-sharing and the arm over her shoulder. It’s always right, with Nishinoya. She doesn’t even have to think about it.

She watches his thumb as it brushes against her skin. “How’s it been out there lately?” she asks.

“Quiet,” Nishinoya replies. “Saving kittens from trees and helping old ladies across the street. Besides Sytsevich, everything’s been quiet since Osborn died. It’s kinda weird, y’know? Like eerie.”

“Yeah, I imagine waiting for the next disaster to strike can feel like that,” she comments, leaning back to stare up at the empty sky. You can’t ever see stars out here. “Hey, Noya?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think you’re gonna stay here forever?” she asks. “Just stick around and be Spider-Man for the rest of your life.”

He hums a bit. “I dunno. I think I’ll probably just go wherever you end up.”

🕸 ｡𖦹°‧✩｡🕷˚⋆｡

She’s sitting on the train, a hot cup of coffee in one hand, and her phone in the other. She’s looking down at an email from her favorite Yahoo user: If you don’t want the whole world to find out, do as I say.

It’s pretty explicit. It’s hard to misinterpret that kind of message, as much as she’s deliberately trying to. Her fingers tap against the paper cup, trying not to let panic work its way up her throat in the middle of this train cab, surrounded by bored commuters that wouldn’t flinch twice at any sort of breakdown she could have.

A heavy breath leaves her lung, and she pockets her phone, trying, with a tight feeling of desperation around her throat, not to think of it. If it’s not in her face, it’ll be marginally easier to pretend.

Yachi’s waiting for her at her desk when she gets into work. She slides into her chair, and Yachi skips the greeting. “Jameson’s pissed,” Yachi says, tapping a pencil against her desk.

“Yeah? What’d Spider-Man do now?” she questions, typing her password in. She mistypes it, and curses slightly under her breath.

“The PI he hired to find out his identity quit,” Yachi laughs. “Apparently there wasn’t enough for him to go off, and the guy got tired of Jameson raising his blood pressure at him for forty minutes a day.”

She snorts. Noya’s told her about private investigators before. Everyone touts that they’re going to be the one to unmask Spider-Man, but it’s kinda tricky trailing a man with superhuman sixth sense and the ability to basically fly through the city. “I give it another three months before he tries this one again.”

“I give it one,” Yachi counters.

Her desktop loads up, and she is immediately hit with a barrage of emails, looking like they’re coming in all at once, all in caps lock. “Fuck, looks like he’s taking it out on me again.”

Email after email, the subject lines varying from things like, “This piece is crap!” to “How are you still employed here?”

Yachi leans forward to get a better at her screen. “Oh, that’s bad. I’ll leave you to that.”

And it’s just that Yachi gives her a sharp grin and two-finger salute that another email pops up. No subject line, just a simple: Wait for my instruction.

🕸 ｡𖦹°‧✩｡🕷˚⋆｡

Harry Osborn looks smarmy on the television screen, a thin layer of sweat shining on his forehead and slick smile that looks a little bit too pleased for his father’s funeral. She knocks her knee into Noya’s leg underneath the blanket they share. “That guy’s such a piece of shit,” she comments, jerking her chin forward towards the younger Osborn.

Noya knocks his leg back into hers. “My guy looks like he just won the lottery,” he remarks, eyes not leaving the screen. There’s a bit of history between Spider-Man and the Osborn family, mainly consisting of Norman committing acts of domestic terrorism from the vantage point of a hoverboard, dressed like a fucking goblin.

“Yeah, well he basically did,” she snarks. “Imagine inheriting Oscorp before you’re twenty-five. Basically guarantees you a fucking thirty under thirty spot.”

He snorts. “I’d rather not have anything to do with Oscorp. I’d rather be broke.”

"Oh, you mean the company that basically sponsored the lizard-ification of Dr. Connors? I can't imagine why." She lops her head to the side to look at him. “And anyway, I’m broke. You’re a freeloader.”

Nishinoya waves her off. “Same difference.”

She snorts, turning to face the television again to see they’re playing old footage of Norman Osborn in a lab (coat and everything), explaining the mission statement of Oscorp. To build a better future.

There were rumors about Norman, post-mortem. Details floating around about how he was driven mad in his final year. That the Osborn curse had infected him beyond hope, and his mind had began to decay, along with his body. Some people think he’s been dead for much longer. Some people think a group of investors had been secretly running Oscorp for years while Norman received private care upstate. Some people even suspect him of being the Goblin.

She wonders if that was the better future he had envisioned.

Noya shifts uncomfortably in his seat. She reaches over and grabs his hand, squeezing it tightly in hers. She’s sure he’s wishing the son will be better than his father. She’s hoping too.

His thumb traces circles over her knuckle. He doesn’t look in her direction. She tries to focus on the news and enjoy the way his hand feels in hers before there’s some police broadcast or distant siren or whatever to call him back to duty.

🕸 ｡𖦹°‧✩｡🕷˚⋆｡

Meet me @ 300 W 57th St tomorrow at 8am. Or I tell everyone about him.

She sits at her desk, biting down on the end of a pencil, and weighing her options.

One: she could tell Noya.

There’s not even a chance he would let her go. Not even if he were there. No matter the argument she would present. Nishinoya would sooner web her to the couch than let her go meet up with some mystery blackmailer. She also knows that this threat would do little to sway him. If she tells Noya, the most likely outcome is him, masked up and aggravated, showing up to fight.

Which would result in ijs99ETJfdhsg@yahoo.com telling everyone.

Two: she could do nothing.

There’s really been no hard proof presented to her that shows that Yahoo user ijs99ETJfdhsg knows what he claims he knows. This could all very well be a big misunderstanding on her end. And so what? Even if he does know what he claims to, it’s not like the world would so easily believe that Nishinoya Yuu, random unemployed man, is Spider-Man. Random liars claim to be Spider-Man every day. Noya could easily blend in with random liars.

The consequence of doing nothing though is, of course, him telling everyone. And still, the possibility that the masses believe him or that Yahoo user ijs99ETJfdhsg does have some hard evidence on his side gnaw away at her. She can’t shoulder that.

Three: she could show up.

She could put some pepper spray in her bag and give Noya the address just in case something happens, and she could go and meet with this mystery blackmailer to see exactly what the fuck it is he wants.

And then, he wouldn’t tell anyone.

The thought of it puts knots in her stomach, and those knots are worsened by the acknowledgement that it’s probably her best course of action.

She sighs, using her cursor to highlight the address he provided and plopping it back into search bar. She’s envisioning some deserted alley, an abandoned storefront or someplace that would leave no witnesses if she were to be kidnapped and/or murdered.

What she wasn’t expecting was fucking Oscorp.

🕸 ｡𖦹°‧✩｡🕷˚⋆｡

Harry Osborn’s office is neat. Almost empty, save for a few hard-drives and a stack of unopened newspapers at his desk. The wall to ceiling windows provide a view of the city she’s never seen before, and standing in the middle of it, she feels so starkly out of place. She looks behind her, just to see the assistant that led her up here closing the door behind him.

She feels trapped, at once.

Harry himself is leaning against a window, and as if operating on a que, he turns on his heel, a sickly grin plastered on his face, and, if she squints, she can almost see a greenish sort of hue in the undertones of his skin. “There’s my favorite journalist,” he greets, arms extended out as if he was going to hug her.

She steps back. “Erm, yeah,” she responds, head turning slightly to eye the closed door behind her. There’s something off in the air of room, something off-putting in the way Harry is looking at her. “Is there a reason you summoned me here through cryptic emails, or did you just wanna like, hang out?”

He stops, and lets his arms drop back down to his side, stuffing his hands in his pant pockets. “Straight to the point. I like that. I like that quality.”

It’s strange to be in the same room as him, New York City’s prodigal son. She’s seen his face on the cover of magazines and on news segments and she’s written articles about him. Harry Osborn has almost always been some kind of mythic figure in her head. An untouchable prince. Nothing she could get away with printing in the Bugle would ever have any impact on him.

But here before her, he does not look mythic, or untouchable, he looks like a very sick man. His hair falls flatly on his forehead, and he uses the back of sleeve to wipe off droplets of sweat. The longer she looks at him, the greener he seems, like his whole body is lightly stained.

Harry takes another step towards her. She steps back again.

“Y’know,” he drawls, and moves to stand behind the large desk that takes up most of the room; she watches him carefully, eyes trained on his every movement, “one of the most underrated parts of a power acquisition in a company like Oscorp, is that you suddenly have a lot more information at your disposal. A lot of information that money can’t buy.”

There’s something about the way he talks that is starkly unnatural. The PR training bleeds out of every word, and though he looks young, but the way he carries himself is eerily like his father. It makes goosebumps rise on the back of her neck. She looks over her shoulder, back at the door behind her. “O-okay.”

Harry takes a seat, like he’s unbothered by her presence. His hand lingers over one of the hard drives. “Did you know that, back in the early two-thousands, this company poured millions into researched on genetically enhanced spiders. They were supposed to be this miracle cure. A magic spider that could cure any illness. Until, of course, the head scientist died in some accident, and they had to kill off the whole project, including all the spiders they bred. Y’know, today, I think we only have one thing to show for that project.”

Her face is hot, and her ears feel like they’re stuffed with cotton. This all suddenly feels like a mistake, like she’s in over her head and she never should’ve come here without Noya. Her tongue is dry when she tries to speak. “Is this, is this on the record, or…?”

Harry leans forward in her chair, and sneers. It chills her blood, that expression, cold and gnarled. “I’m not interested in going on the record with some second-rate journalist at a trash paper. I’m interested in this.”

Harry Osborn grabs the newspaper on his desk and slams it forward. She takes a step forward to get a better look and knows immediately what it is. It’s the Daily Bugle, with Spider-Man on the front page and her name printed on the bottom.

The First-Ever On-The-Record Interview with the One and Only Spider-Man!

Her hands are shaking. She looks up to see Harry grinning at her. “It’s funny, actually, how someone right out of school, with no credentials and no reputation to go off, could get this kind of interview.”

She can hear her heartbeat, and all she can think of is how unbelievably, colossally fucked she is.

Harry Osborn stands and makes his way to stand directly in front of her. The closer he is, the more of him she can see. The green tint of his skin, the almost scaly quality, the point of his teeth. “I want you to find Spider-Man, and I want you to get him to give me his blood.”

🕸 ｡𖦹°‧✩｡🕷˚⋆｡

On the busy street beneath the Oscorp building, her fingers tremble as she dials Noya’s number. He answers after the first ring. “Hey, what’s up? I’m just dropping this bodega thief off at the station-“

“Noya,” she cuts him off, trying to hold back the sob in her voice. “I fucked up.”

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[wasteofbandagesxx]

I wanna live

{Dazai x reader}

warning: toxic relationship, suicide, forced suicide, lack of communication, pressure, Dazai losing his sanity

"Dazai your not listening to me!"

"Shut the fuck up. I'm tired of listening to people telling me that there's hope in life, and things are gonna be ok."

The relationship has been complicated these past few weeks, almost a few months. You were dating one of the port mafia executives and of course, your dating the demon prodigy himself. Dazai Osamu, his charms never failed to amaze you, but it's his humor and personality that attracted you.

His sweet words pulled strings to your heart, you couldn't help but fall for the devilish man. He had a demons tongue, almost like the master of seducing woman. He was a womanizer after all, until he met you. Something about you just made him interested, wanting to know more about you. You weren't like any other woman he's ever dated. You were genuinely sweet, carefree, and resilient.

Now the relationship has gone down hill, after 3 years of dating, everything has changed. The death of friends and the constant missions be affecting their relationship. It didn't cause any fights, just less time together, but ever since Oda died, things completely changed. Dazai did nothing but drink his sorrows away and slightly take his anger out on you. You do your best to comfort him, let him know that he's not alone. On the top of the mafia base, you two were having a little date, until Dazai lost his shit. His day was bad, but he pretty much reached his breaking point. You tried talking to him, but he just pushes you away.

"Dazai, there's more to life than just suicide. You know I can't handle the negativity no matter how hard I try. You pressure it into me and it scares me! I constantly worry about you and check on you because I care about my boyfriend. My own boyfriend can't even acknowledge the fact that someone is there for him, that I'm there for him! Am I not enough for you to live?" You sobbed, pouring your heart out and all Dazai could do is stand there speechless.

"Y/n, Darling....there's nothing for me here. This place is s hell hole. It's not like I-"

"....Dazai?"

Dazai stood frozen, a crazy smile slowly formed onto his face before he even looks directly at you, as if he came up with an idea.

"Let's commit double suicide, for real this time." He said, the desperation in his voice was obvious. You got scared, as much as you wanted to run off you still wanted to try and support your boyfriend, even though Dazai will never listen or seek for your comfort in a time like this. "Dazai, I've told you this 100 times. I'm not doing it." The anger in your voice was very clear that you didn't want to have this conversation again. He's tried convincing you multiple times, even when your at your worst. Despite all that, you were never broken enough to take your own life. "Dazai, please-"

"Let's go to the afterlife together! We won't have to worry about anything. Belladonna, we can rest in piece and live the way we want in the afterlife!" He grabs you by the hand and pulls you close in excitement but you weren't having it. You quickly pulled away and shoved him back. "Your fucking insane."

"Only for you, and death!" Dazai laughs it off like a kid at a comedy show, he knew that wasn't right to say but he doesn't think before he says something.

"Dance with me Y/n! Let's dance our way into the afterlife, and rest in peace like forever lovers." He grabs your hand again and drags you to the edge of the roof, u tried hardening your foot on the ground but he kept dragging you until you both were on the very edge. The air blows against your face, you were too focused on trying to stay alive and Dazai couldn't care less as he admired the view of the city that he will no longer see. You screamed and yelled, trashed and tried to punch at him but it was no use, his strength was too much for you to overpower and there was nothing you can do. Nobody can hear your cries of help because you were too high in the air for them to hear. You didn't want this. "Ready my love?"

He slowly leans forward over the edge, and that's when you found the strength to save yourself.

"I wanna live!!"

You forced your strength against him with your back and made him tumble backwards, he hit his head on the hard concrete as he groaned in pain. You immediately got away from him and stood up with tears streaming down your face and your eyes showing fear. Dazai sits up and takes a good look at you, but he couldn't bring himself to say something as he spotted the tears running down your face. The fear in your eyes made him finally get the hit, he understood, you didn't want to die with him. He was too much in his delusional fantasies to be thinking about what you want, how you felt about all this. Regret written all over his face, you had to sit down when your legs were trembling so you wouldn't fall and hurt yourself. You were too busy processing what just happened while Dazai was processing his mistake. He couldn't force you, not when you don't want it. It's not love, it's forced . He felt bad, he looks at you again to apologize but couldn't find the words when he witnessed the fear in your eyes gotten worse. How could he mess up this badly?

"I wanna live."

[berriweb]

╰┈➤ ❝ out of this world ❞

: ̗̀➛ ft. miles morales x reader

: ̗̀➛ warnings. none

: ̗̀➛ part one / part three

: ̗̀➛ a/n. i just be writing anything fr, this wasn’t supposed to have another part but now i can’t stop writing, I’ll write a part three when i feel like it and this once against isn’t proof read so if you see a typo no you don’t :)

Miles screwed up.

As he swung from building to building, taking a moment to stop and perch on a street lamp as his head tilted to the side, his eyes were trained on Gwen but his mind seemed to be elsewhere.

Well, that wasn’t the right word for it. It was everywhere. Between trying to find out what was up with Gwen, knowing he was in deep shit with his parents and the fact that he was on bad terms with you, he didn’t know what to worry about more. Before Spider-Man had been an escape from his own life when he didn’t want to deal with it, but now in some sick sense of irony his secret persona only seemed to be making his life worse.

Miles picked up the pace to catch up with Gwen as she swung through the city, but just as she turned a corner he recognized the street they were on. It was where you lived, in fact he could see your building from there. For just a moment he caught himself in a dilemma, slowing down just enough to stick to the wall and climb towards the window he knew was connected to your bedroom. The window was closed, strange considering he knew you had a habit of leaving it cracked even on cold nights due to how stuffy the air in there could get. When he attempted to peak through the small cracks in the blinds, your room looked empty.

Shouldn’t you have been home by now?

Miles let out a sigh and backed up from the window. On one hand, he could’ve stayed to confront you when you got home, assuming you weren’t just in another part of the house, and hopefully resolved the unavoidable conflict you two had. But on the other hand…

He turned back to the streets, seeing Gwen had gained distance in the few seconds he had stopped, almost just out of sight. If he stopped now he’d never get answers. He’d never know what she was really here for or why she’d have to leave, he might never see another Spider-Man again.

The mask hid the guilty expression he wore as he jumped from the wall, swinging from building to building while promising himself that he’d give you all of his attention as soon as he was done figuring this all out before landing at the crime scene of what he’d soon realize would be the consequence of one of his own screw ups.

Surprises weren’t always a good thing.

Between the multitudes of flashing colors and scenes, the exhilarating yet terrifying sensation of never ending falling that seemed to take forever, and the blood rushing to your head, you couldn’t even begin to make out what was happening for you. For a moment, the idea that you must’ve died and were going to the afterlife crossed your mind in the few seconds that felt like hours flew by.

Maybe I tripped and hit my head on the way home? Maybe there was something in the juice and I’m hallucinating? Maybe this is all a dream?

As much as you wanted to believe any of those possibilities, they were all crushed by the realization that you couldn’t have been making this all up when in the midst of falling, you noticed what seemed like a dirty surface getting close and closer. Luckily for you, it seemed like the constant falling did have a destination. Unluckily for you, there was nothing to cushion the fall as you hit the ground with a loud thud and a gut wrenching crunch.

Pain shot across your right side as you laid there, looking up just in time to see the same warping pattern that initially pulled you in shrinking and disappearing before your eyes. ‘What the fuck?’

As aching as your body was, you knew you couldn’t just lay in that spot forever, opting to roll over onto the side that wasn’t throbbing in pain and push yourself into a sitting position. The pain in your side returned and you reached to hold your side, face twisting in pain as you winced. You’d probably broken something, a rib maybe? The adrenaline rushing through you likely being the only thing keeping you from rolling around in agony. Forcing yourself on your feet, you nearly doubled over, taking deep, slow breathes to keep yourself from freaking out and making things worse. Taking a quick look around, it seemed as if you’d been left in a dimly alleyway, garbage cans and bags lining either side. The walls looked old and past due for a pressure wash, but you weren’t too quick to judge, you’d seen worse.

Thankfully, you hadn’t managed to drop your bag and reached to fish out your phone, your other hand glued to your side to manage the pain in your abdomen. Your first thought was the open your contacts, taking a moment to decide who to call before ultimately deciding on attempting to call your mom/dad, but the call only flashed on screen for a second before your phone alerted you to the fact that you had zero service.

How is that possible?

Cursing under your breathe, you shoved it back in your back before sucking it up when you realized you’d likely just have to walk home, assuming you were even near it.

You slowly walked out of the alleyway, the smell of smoke and a rotting stench filling your nostrils that made you scrunch your nose out of disgust. Looking around, you took note of the street sign and thankfully recognized the name. You must’ve still been in Brooklyn.

You were able to map out the way home from where you were, hurriedly making your way there while also pacing your steps to aid your side. There had to be an explanation for all of this. Maybe you had secret superpowers? It’s not exactly out of the question considering all of the heroes and villains you’ve seen on the news. Teleportation, maybe? Or could it be that someone else with powers attacked you?

When you arrived at your home you settled on the fact that the portal must have been time travel, because where your apartment building should’ve been, a massive pile of left over debris and no building was in its place.

“This can’t be right…” you trailed off, looking back to double check you were on the right street. You were, same sign, same letters, but as you took a final look you finally began to notice all of the big and small inconsistencies you’d written off as misremembering things, beginning to wander down the streets. Signs weren’t the same colors as you remembered them to be, shops you visited on the daily were either gone or in the wrong spot, across the street from where they’d been before hand or worse. It wasn’t a perfect city to begin with, but now? Brooklyn looked a mess, and the state of the city left you on guard and suddenly way more concerned that you were out here with no one you knew at night.

What the hell is going on?

Stepping into a convenience store, you glanced around to take in its appearance as the bell jingled and the cashier muttered out a greeting that showed he was clearly uninterested in anyone entering his store. You were going to search for a pay phone, too rattled to bother trying to ask the man where it was. Brands had different names, items were different colors and you could just sense that something was extremely wrong. Finding a phone screwed into the wall, you fished out a few quarters to dial a number as you heard the bell ring again, only to be disappointed when the automated voice informed you that your parent’s number was somehow invalid.

Sighing in defeat, you set the phone back and took the loss of the few coins, dragging your feet as you headed for the exit, but as you reached the door you couldn’t help but freeze in your spot when you recognized the face the cashier was talking to.

“Yeah man, he’s doin’ good. We got some business to take care of later but feel free to swing by tomorrow if you want, I’ll make time,” he chuckled, taking his chance and shoving it in his pocket as he looped the plastic bag around his wrist, dapping up the clerk before heading out the door.

You had ducked into another aisle, kneeling down to avoid being seen with a hand over your mouth as you breathed heavily.

Uncle Aaron?

You were almost certain you had died now. Or at least you wanted to be, but you weren’t dumb enough to believe that. It had to be something more.

As an act of bravery, or maybe stupidity, you decided to follow him. You had no idea what would come of it, but if you couldn’t find your house or your family, making your way back to Miles was your best bet. Oh god, what would Miles think?

You trailed behind down the blocks, keeping your distance and making sure to slow your already unsteady pace to avoid being seen. It was hard to believe the man you were sure had died was now casually walking in front of you, but you didn’t know anything about your situation to be able to make an accurate guess as to what was going on, so you opted to avoid assuming anything.

It seemed like Miles place remained in the same place and in tact, as that’s where you ended up, watching him climb the steps and eventually disappear through the door. Watching from the ground below, you eyed the building before deciding to climb the fire escape. You had no clue how anyone would react to you just walking up and knocking on the door and asking for Miles, as one: for all you knew it could potentially be dangerous, if everything else changed was it possible that your relationships had too? And two: you weren’t exactly on good terms with Miles either. Making it up to the fire escape, you peered into one of the windows, getting a clear view of the living room. Aaron was greeting Miles’ mother, who seemed normal for the most part, albeit a bit more tired.

You couldn’t tell what exactly they were saying, but she had a somber look on her face and Aaron’s seemed devoid of any sort of emotion. It was unlike him, back when he was alive anyway. Shortly after, Aaron left the apartment again and you caught a glimpse of him going upstairs. You took one last look at Mrs.Morales before quickly and quietly following him, catching up just as he got on the roof and peeking up from where you stood on the steps.

He was on the phone, and the few bits of conversation you caught were all talk about some sort of plan and him reminding whoever was on the other end to be on time before chuckling.

“-yeah yeah, your mom just got back home too.” Your mom? Is that- “See you in a few.”

He hung up, and if your mind wasn’t already scrambled enough, hearing that only made it ten times worse. You wanted nothing more than for someone to sit you down and explain what was going on, but that wasn’t going to happen. Maybe if you pinched yourself hard enough you’d wake up from this nightmare. You’d be at home, laying in bed and none of this would’ve ever happened. You never would’ve scolded Miles, you wouldn’t be worrying about your relationship and you for sure wouldn’t be here.

You watched as Aaron seemed to mess around with some rusted device, it being far too complicated for you to know what it was, but he was clearly skilled at fixing it. The air suddenly became tense and you felt something tying a knot in your gut. Call it survival instincts or just a gut feeling, either way you didn’t like it, but it proved to be helpful as just after the feeling passed Aaron’s attention turned from the device to directly where you stood. Your heart sank down to the pit of your stomach.

He knows I’m here.

He rose to his feet and you instinctively jumped back, only to lose your footing on the step you were on and trip, thankfully not falling off but instead stumbling until you hit the railing, a painful reminder of the injury you’d been trying not to focus on.

“Shit!” The pain shot up your side once more, seemingly far more unbearable now that the initial shock had worn off and you gripped the railing.

“Y/N?”

A distorted voice from behind made you jolt and turn your head, holding onto your side and you made eye contact, or what you assumed was eye contact, with a black mask and jagged, glowing white eyes. The person was wearing a combination of purple and black clothing with a seemingly spray painted logo on the front of the shirt, donning gloves with pointed fingers you could only hope weren’t going to get used on you.

You took a staggered step back and bit your lip, suddenly feeling far more lightheaded. You wanted to ask who the figure was. Why were they talking to you- no, more importantly, how they knew who you were, and if they knew what was going on, but now of all times is when your injuries finally decided you were down for the count. Your head felt full of air and your vision went white, the last thing you saw being a clawed hand reaching out to stop you from toppling over the railing as you lost consciousness and fell.

Amazed at the sight of hundreds if not thousands of other Spider-people, Miles marveled at the sight and excitedly greeting most who passed by. He could’ve spent forever reveling in the warm feeling that overcame him that moment, but that was cut short by his spidey sense when he suddenly froze and a cold feeling washed over him.

Something was wrong.

Stuck in place, he glanced around and nothing seemed to be out of place or threatening, but he couldn’t shake the sense that something bad was happening and he was somehow involved.

“Miles, you catching up or what?” Gwen called out from the small distance he’d created.

He smiled and shook his shoulder, giving an affirmative nod as he jogged to catch up with the rest of the group. Was it possible for a spider sense to give a false alarm? Miles wasn’t sure, but he was hoping on it.

╰┈➤ ❝ tag-list ❞

— @go-to-sleep-salem, @justmare, @itzmeme, @zeyzeys-stuff, @luvaline, @chasing-liberosis, @justanerd1, @lilacsandamethysts, @j-natsuka, @planetliaa

if you want to be tagged in the next part just lmk in the replies or my askbox <3

[lily-alphonse]

So I finally finished watching ATLA (the animated series) all the way through, for the first time. Here's my final reaction post! You can see the others at the first tag listed below (#lily's atla reactions)

I had always known it was a good show from what little I saw of it. Im not a big TV watcher because a lot of it gets too intense for me. I can’t separate reality from fiction and get so stressed I would actually die watching something like Game of Thrones lol. So I’ve started going through series from my childhood and of course I was going to start with this classic.

(Im cutting this in case you are like me and took forever to watch this and dont want spoilers)

I unsurprisingly love this series. My boy Zuko stays on top, I love his emo ass. Uncle Iroh is a close second, I know, based lol. I was very pleasantly surprised by the Earth King, an unexpected little side character fave that I latched onto and WILL be writing for.

Honorable mention also to Appa. I adore Appa. His episode broke me. Absolutely broke my heart to see him lose his trust in people, and then when Suki found him OH MY GOD 😭 I was so relieved. (Which, btw, did not expect her to be such a big part of the series that was nice)

Speaking of animals though, the hardest I cried was for Roku dying with his dragon. When the dragon just jumped back in to the flames to die with his master I fucking lost it bro. It reminded me of how Aang and Appa nearly died together, and how Aang’s instinct with his dying breath was to protect them BOTH in that ball of ice BRO I SOBBED ALOUD.

Oh as far as characters I also have to mention the explodey eye guy. I love action and he was SO menacing I was always on the edge of my seat when he was around.

In general I love the scenery, I love pretty scenery and colors and I was so well fed. I am worried that if I continue on to LOK I won't like it as much, considering the time jump to the industrial era. I'm a renaissance faire girlie lol.

I love the heavy messages they didn't shy away from. I think the show probably helped conceptualize a lot of really heavy subjects for kids, and I'm grateful to it for that. How revenge hurts everyone, how mistakes don't define you, how grief works.

I love the friendship and found family, the Zuko adventures episodes were probably my favorite. I can see where everyone is coming from with their various Zuko ships, I'm hearing all of you. If I had to choose one, though, I might actually be pro Zuko/Aang? Which is kind of wild and unexpected because Aang isn't my favorite, but I honestly felt like their characters complemented each other the best. It's funny because I share Zukka art all the time and the only fic Ive read was a Zukka fic lol. They're hot together what can I say? I do like Sokka and Suki together though! I think the show really did them justice as a couple.

There were a couple of really cool moments in the ending. Toph falling onto the metal door and metalbending herself armor? SO badass. And Sokka's boomerang coming in clutch again. I love clever moments in action like that.

Overall, unfortunately... I did not love the ending. I wish I had more of a reaction for you, but I found myself being too critical in it, and that is not how I want to contribute to the fandom. I recognize it is a kid's show and I am an adult, and probably wouldn't have anything to say that hasn't been hammered into the ground over the years since it aired.

I loved the show, expect to see an Earth King fic from me someday (and maybe other ships? who knows). I might watch Gravity Falls next since I can't handle adult television lol. We shall seeeee

[scribblestatic]

...So I thought of something kinda cute, sad, and crack all at the same time. I'm sure someone else has thought of it, too.

Like, canonically, we all know the Lamb is, like, grown enough to handle the stuff (kinda, sorta, I don't think there's any age you can handle all'a that). The "Lamb" is just, you know, cause of all the lambs and stuff in cultural things.

But what if...hear me out...

The Lamb was literally just a lamb.

Like, Narinder feels when the last sheep dies and he cackles, knowing this is the one that will fulfill the prophecy and release him. So he summons their body and soul so he can tell them what they must do.

He sees them, off in the distance, and waits.

And waits...

...For some reason, whoever this is seems to be moving quite slowly.

And as they get closer, more visible through the fog...

It's a fucking baby.

"Aaaaababababa..."

It's walking on its lil feet, hands to its sides as it tries to balance itself. It took so long to get closer because it's literally just learning how to walk. Narinder is still, staring. Aym and Baal's eyes are wide open.

The little Lamb falls on its butt. Aym jolts forward just a bit before remembering himself.

However, the Lamb doesn't cry. It just leans forward, gets all four of its little chubby limbs underneath itself, and pushes back up onto two legs.

It huffs, almost managing to look proud, and then it gets back to walking, baby babbling all the way til it falls against Narinder's clothes. The One Who Waits stiffens, both because he hasn't been touched by someone else in a long time, and because his cloak is made of the sheer and blood of all the little lamb's murdered ancestors.

However, the Lamb either doesn't recognize the smell of lanolin or isn't focused on what he's wearing. Hell, does the little one even have a concept of what clothes are made of?

Instead, the Lamb looks up at Narinder, opens its little mouth, and bleats.

Narinder shuts his eyes tightly.

...This is the last lamb. This is the only lamb able to somehow release him from captivity. Because the lamb is otherwise dead, it will not grow quickly, if at all. If he doesn't have this lamb go back into the world, somehow start a cult, and kill his siblings to release the chains, he's stuck in this place forever.

...He is not cruel. The Lamb is simply a pawn. Nothing more or less. He can use it, like his followers, as he pleases. There's nothing cruel about doing so.

He chants that in his head several times until he can manage to open his eyes.

When he sees those beady eyes full of curiosity and love staring back at him, he has to close his eyes again and chant what he thought a few more times. The chant is interrupted briefly with another little bleat from the one using him to balance itself before he continues.

Aym and Baal watch as the baby eventually sits, clinging onto Narinder's cloak, and stuffs its little thumb in its mouth, waiting patiently.

...Ridiculous.

Steeling himself, Narinder leans down, staring at the infant. It can't speak, so he reads its mind.

"You. Do you want to live?"

'Biiiig...!'

"...That is not what I asked."

'Big safe. Big. Safe! Soft.'

Narinder has to spend another few moments with his eyes shut tightly.

After trying and failing to get the little one to understand several times, Narinder takes a different approach.

He simply takes his crown off, putting it on the ground in front of the Lamb.

Its eyes are on it immediately, growing wide with curiosity. It doesn't let go of Narinder's cloak, but it gets on its other hand and knees and crawls forward until it's right in front of the Red Crown. It grabs the crown, coos at it, and puts one of the top ends in its mouth.

Narinder clears his throat, and the Lamb looks up.

He mimes pulling the crown out of his own mouth and putting it on his head.

The Lamb, merely a baby, follows suit, putting the drool-covered crown on its head.

It blinks, eyes turning red with eldritch power and knowledge no infant should have.

Up above, the Lamb resurrects, awakening underground. It doesn't have to breathe, so it's okay. It just digs its way out, the crown instinctively becoming grasping claws. It pops up out the ground like a sprout before pulling the rest of its body out.

It looks left, then right, then below itself. It can sense the hundreds of thousands of bodies in the mass graves, merely fertilizer for the earth now.

...It's dark. It would be nice to be somewhere with more light!

Cooing softly, the Lamb wobbles its way forward, going toward the exit to the land of the Old Faith on tiny legs, a Red Crown on a tiny head with little horns grown onto it entirely too early.

Baby shenanigans ensue.

[lxinesux]

when i sink my teeth, (your skins not so tough)

Relationship: Peter Parker x Green Goblin!Super Solider!Reader

Summary: Peter reacts poorly to your attempted sacrifice. He seeks to let you know just how much you mean to him.

Warnings: Panic Attack, guns, PTSD, gore, violence, blood, and implied torture. Slight dubcon kissing that becomes very con lol Frottage, love confessions.

A/N: *screech* this has been rotting in my google docs for WEEKS and i’ve been editing it ova and ova and it’s still not up to par, to me. So I give lol. I really love this reader so- you may see her again. ONWARD!!

Peter very gently sets you on your shaky feet, trying to keep hold of your waist while he maneuvers out of the window.

You're already bleeding through the layers of webbing he used instead of a bandage and it’s soaking through the spandex of your costume. The wound itself doesn’t hurt, the adrenaline making sure of that, but you’re hot and cold and shaking and are pretty sure you're gonna vomit-

You tear the mask off your face, grunting as a few stray hairs are ripped from your scalp. You’re coated in sweat and grime but you’re freezing.

“I can’t believe you did that,” Peter says from some faraway place.

You press against the wound just under your ribs, shuffling to the cluttered couch in the far corner of the living room. You fall onto it and shut your eyes.

There’s that pain from earlier. It’s hot, white lightning in your stomach. It makes you mean. “Fuck off-“

“Let me see it!”

“No, fuck off Pete!”

“You just want me to let you bleed out on the couch!?”

“Yes!”

Talking is too much right now. You can hear Peter’s mask drop onto the cluttered living room floor. Hear the soft thack thack thack that means he’s crawling on the ceiling.

Away from you, thank fuck.

You press your cheek against the jersey couch cover and try to ground yourself while your wound gains a heartbeat.

You really should’ve just let him get hit. Asshole. Truthfully, you’d rather die right here than have to explain why exactly you took a literal bullet for him.

It was all so embarrassing.

His back was turned, his reflexes delayed while he dealt with the rest of the villains of the week’s goons. You were too far away to get the gun away, and you could just tell, from the aim-

It might’ve killed him. Gotten into his spine. Paralyzed him in a way his dumb healing factor couldn’t fix.

Yes, he’d been shot before. Yes, he’d gone through worse. But what if this was the one time he wouldn’t heal? This split second, the moment the bullet left the chamber and burrowed under his skin-his life over, forever.

You couldn’t risk that.

So you jumped in the way.

His life was more important than yours, anyway. Everything Spiderman represented: hope, justice, protection, was worth more than anything you could do. That wasn’t the entire reason.

You couldn’t risk losing Peter. He was the only thing you had left, the only good thing. He was the only person in your life who didn’t think you were a freak or a monster.

He taught you how to be good. And if he were gone, your source of goodness would be gone with him.

At least if you died, it’d be martyrdom.

You can hear the thack, thack, thack return. It reverberates in your wound and between your ears. Pain, heat, pain.

He drops down in front of you, you can feel it through the cool air his descent leaves. He’s on his knees.

“Please,” he says.

“Can’t-”

He sighs, “Okay. This might hurt though. I’m gonna cut off this webbing, okay? It might peel off some skin so just-”

“Get on with it.”

Peter oh so gently peels your tacky, bloodied hands away from the wound. You’re locked in a fetal position from the pain, your knees up to your chest. You can feel the blood clotting though, a sign your much slower healing process is beginning.

Thank you, Goblin Formula.

It’s less painful and more irritating. The skin around the wound is tender and angry. Peter lets out a tense intake of air. It must look awful but you’re not gonna peek. You can handle blood and gore, just not your own.

“I’m cleaning the area now. It might sting,” You hate how his voice sounds so soft, so sweet, “You’ve stopped bleeding, but you’re gonna need stitches.”

You let out a pathetic whimper the moment the anti-septic touches your skin. You nearly arch up in pain. Fresh tears prick at your eyes.

“That hurts!” You squirm, trying to get away from the source of the agony.

“I told you it would! Hold still!”

“Stop!”

You try to jerk away, but he holds your wrist. You open your eyes then, to glare at him. But he’s looking up at you, his brows furrowed and those hazel eyes are shimmering with unshed tears.

The tenseness of his jaw says he’s angry. You’re familiar with his anger. But not the sadness. Not the fear that his eyes are showing you. You want to shut your eyes again, to get away from the onslaught of overwhelming emotions directed toward you.

His eyes move swiftly back to his work, “Just…just hold still okay? Stop squirming…”

And you do hold still. You make eye contact with the streetlight through the window. Because it’s easier than looking at him.

“I’m gonna sew you up now. You might want to hold onto a pillow or something. I promise…I’m not trying to hurt you. I’ll put on some numbing cream but you might still feel it…”

You nod stiffly. His hands are gentle on the flesh around the gash. You’ve thought about his hands a lot. How shapely they are. Beautifully made. And strong. You’ve felt them on your body before, but never in the way you envision. It almost hurts; this is how he touches you, only when you’re wounded.

The numbing cream doesn’t stop the feeling of your skin getting pulled. He’s pulling your skin together as if he made you. Like you’re a stuffed toy or his suit after it rips. At this you whimper, you squirm at the unnatural feeling. He waits for you to stop moving before he starts again.

This feels too intimate. Your blood is on him, the blood you lost trying to protect him. He’s putting you back together, taking care of you. His breath is on your skin, his warmth near you.

Life is unfair.

If you weren’t so broken, if you were softer, if you were more like the girls at the Bugle-maybe he would touch you when you weren’t bleeding out. Maybe he would look at you with something that wasn’t fear and anger.

You both sit in silence as he bandages the fresh stitches. He swallows.

“Do you…do you want me to wipe you down?”

“…Just bring me a washcloth.”

“…Y/N..”

“Please, just…don’t. Not right now.”

He brings the washcloth, a bowl of warm water, as well as your favorite pajama pants and one of his shirts. He’s brought you a pillow too, and some clean sheets.

He knows you. He knows you and it sickens you to your core.

Ultimately, it means nothing. Of course, he’s seen your behavior. He’s lived with you for months now.

But it still makes your heart stutter in your chest that he knows which pair to fish out of the pile on the bathroom floor. Understands without saying, you need to be alone.

“Yell if you need anything,” He says.

You nod stiffly. God, would he just leave you to suffer this embarrassment alone? You needed to stew in your bitter juices.

He looks at you one last time. And you know him just as he knows you. You can see on his face, the tenseness of his jaw, he wants to refuse.

You want him to stay.

He goes to the bedroom. Your gunshot wound isn’t the only thing aching.

-

You dream of him.

Those dark eyes on your body, his hands on your skin.

His pretty, soft lips on the ugly scarred parts of you. He makes them beautiful, makes them almost worth the pain that put them there if he just keeps lavishing them with kisses.

You can only imagine what his kisses feel like. What his hands feel like in your hair.

You love him. Fuck, you love him. You can admit that here, in the comfort of your brain. Here, you can press your fingertips into his shoulder blades. Feel the warmth of him pressed against your naked body.

You’ve thought about his cock often. You’ve felt it against you more than once. In the mornings, you felt it press aggressively, almost pleadingly, against your ass in that tiny twin bed you share. In the evenings, you imagined it in the grey sweats he wore around the house.

He thrusts in and out of you, slow and deep. His tongue swipes up your jaw and swirls around your ear.

“I love you,” He pants, “I love you so fucking much.”

He would never love you if he knew all that you’d done. You couldn’t even remember how many lives you took, how much blood you spilled.

You were a weapon. You were never taught lust or love. You never felt them, or their lack.

You’d never even thought about sex until you moved into his apartment and started sharing his bed. All you craved was skin, heat, and the soft intimacy of just holding each other. Then those urges gained an edge. A hunger grew in you that frightened you. It would gnaw its way through you if you’d let it.

You can’t say it back, but you don’t need to. He knows. In this reality, he knows. He knows and you know and all that matters is that you’re together. It’s safe and warm here.

Here is a bloodless place. A woundless place.

There’s no pull of stitches as he contorts your body into the position he needs you in. You’re so close. He has you on your knees, back arched. He reaches between your legs, rubbing at your clit in slow circles.

You make noises that you’d never make in real life. Your body betrays itself, and surrenders to the blinding pleasure.

You're gone, your knees locking, your head thrown back, and then-

-

It hurts. Dear fucking god, it hurts.

How the fuck did you manage to roll off the couch? During your sex dream, no less. And landed perfectly on your fresh wound.

“Ow.”

Your pride is what hurts the most. But the new irritation on your stitching sends waves of nausea through you. You lay on your back, staring up at the ceiling for a few moments. Allow yourself a few deep breaths.

You force yourself upwards and immediately regret it. It’s dizzying and fills your mouth with the runny vile you swallow.

So sexy. Very en vogue of you.

You move Peter’s shirt out of the way. Your flesh is irritated, and bright red from your unexpected trip to the floor. But the stitches held. Peter had stellar handiwork.

The morning sun peaks its head across the Brooklyn skyline. The only nice thing about this shit-hole apartment was the bay windows. It allowed for perfect post-patrol viewing, right on the floor.

You feel gross, despite your bird bath last night. You wonder where Peter is. You take a moment, more breathing, to rest against the couch leg.

You need a proper shower. Your hair is heavy with sweat and smells like soot.

At Oscorp, they would’ve laughed at your complaint. Correction, you would’ve never complained. You and your filthy hair were simply meant to serve a greater purpose. They’d give you a public shower with a sad, pale, foamy bar of generic soap and no hot water.

Figure it out yourself, Asset.

You weren’t an Asset anymore. You very gently touch your stitches again. Wince at the tenderness of the wound. You never felt anything before Peter. No pain, discomfort, hunger, or thirst.

After him, you are Human. Unfortunately, repugnantly, aggressively human. With limitations, with discomforts.

You miss the days of numbness. Peter brought out feelings you never wanted and were better off without.

You would give this man anything he wanted. You would do whatever he asked, no matter the price. It terrified you, this deep loyalty. It was as though your programming flipped, from the Osbournes and your handlers to Peter Parker and Spiderman.

You stand up on shaky legs. Finally, it seemed like the pain was abetting. Your stomach gurgling stabilized. Your feet pad across the hardwood, using autopilot.

You turn your head briefly. The bathroom was attached to the tiny bedroom you shared. The only small blessing that brought was confirming Peter was home, he was still bunched up under the covers. Judging by how early it was, he’d probably be asleep for another few hours.

You shut the door, careful to move it along its fickle framework. You slide your shirt off, gently place a waterproof bandage over your gash, and start the water.

-

Of course, you’d decide to make as much noise as possible right when he was getting to sleep.

He groaned, half-heartedly throwing his arm over his eyes.

You were okay though. You were alive. 

Holy fuck. 

Holy fuck, you almost died last night. 

It all comes back to him, the memories stabbing into his brain like a million knives. God, you were being stupid, and reckless, like you didn’t care if you lived or died-

But you were okay now. You were alive, alive, alive. He could go into the bathroom right now, and you would be there. 

It’s too late.

His body trembles. He bites down on his lower lip, trying not to cry out. He squeezes his eyes shut, but hot tears still burn down his cheeks. Shit, shit, shit. Waking up in a panic attack was common but not something he would ever get used to. 

He digs the palms of his into his eyelids. His flesh was going against him, muscles tensing, chest tightening. His burning, screaming lungs weren’t getting any air. He just kept seeing your blood. On his hands, on the concrete, on your costume. 

You could’ve died. You could’ve wound up in the ground. Just like his parents. Uncle Ben. 

Gwen. 

“Hey.” 

His ears are filled with cotton. His hands are pried away from his eyes. Under the sheen of tears, he can see your blurry outline.  

“Hey.” You repeat, pulling him toward you. Your skin is wet, your hair dripping onto his bare shoulder. “I’m here. I’m here, Pete. I got you.”

His hand finds its way into your wet hair, the other gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. His heart beats painfully against his ribs. If you weren’t a mutant, he would’ve crushed you instantly. He had forgotten his strength. 

“Don’t do that again,” he pants into your hair, “I swear to God. I’m not worth that. I’m not-I can’t handle more blood on my hands, more sacrifices-” 

“Peter, I’m not-” 

“You’re all I have, it’s my job to protect you.” 

You want to say that it’s the opposite, that it’s the least you can do, protect him. 

You rub his back, trying to help soothe him through the episode. You did this. You started this. You gave him this episode because of your stupidity. 

What feels like hours pass before calms fully. His body goes limp in your arms. He trusts you so much. He’s so vulnerable. It makes your stomach flip. It’s more than you deserve. 

“Does it hurt?” 

“Hm?” 

“Your gunshot wound?” 

“Oh. I fell on it this morning,” God, how embarrassing to admit that, “But it’s fine now. It’s starting to heal. Might need to take the stitches out early.” 

His face stays pressed against your neck, his warm breath against your jugular.

You feel something press against your neck. Soft, unsure. Then again, a little more urgent, harder. Then again, moving up toward your ear. Leaving small, but not unpleasant tingles in their wake. 

It takes your brain a moment to realize what’s happening. You freeze, every molecule in your body standing at attention. 

When you’d heard the telltale whimpering coming from the doorway, you’d thrown on his bathrobe. It hadn’t occurred to you until this moment that you were very, very naked underneath. 

He moves away from you when your body tenses. 

“Christ, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing…”

“Adrenaline.” You say. Do you want to believe that? No. You want to believe that Peter was kissing your neck because he desired you. But that wasn’t rational. “You were having an adrenaline rush, your mind was seeking comfort and I’m the closest warm body-“

“Do you think I see you that way? A warm body?”

His eyes are boring holes into yours. He knows you won’t answer truthfully, so you don’t waste your time answering. 

It was how you were programmed to think. It was useless to fully go against your programming. 

“If I lost you last night, I would’ve never forgiven myself.”

“That’s because it goes against your code of ethics. You want to protect humanity-“

He looks as though you’ve slapped him in the face, “Do you know why I wouldn’t let you go into SHIELD custody?”

You don’t. 

“I could make up a lie and tell you it’s because you wouldn’t have been safe. I don’t trust SHIELD nor the Avengers but they would’ve kept you safe. I could say that I think you may be able to secure more information about my parents, but I don’t think I’ll ever really know all the answers. I’m not even sure if I want them anymore.” 

“Stop, stop, don’t go any further-“

You don’t want to give yourself hope of what he might say. Of what he might do. Of any sort of future that would be dashed before your eyes once he knew what you were. 

He grabs your wrists, “You are all I have. You’re all I want-“

“You don’t know what you’re asking for!” 

He pins you down with your gathered wrists, his legs on either side of yours to keep you there. You’re belly up, your brain screaming to right yourself-your heart beats hard against your chest. He’s stronger than you, but only just barely. The bones in your wrist pop as you squirm. 

“Get off me.” 

“I love you.”

“No,” You hiss, “I won’t let you. I won’t allow it-“ 

His teeth hit your bottom lip, then scrape against your enamel, before his tongue unceremoniously slides into your mouth. 

And you bite him.

Not hard enough to draw blood, but a warning nonetheless. It’s enough to startle him, enough for you to subdue him. For you to get him on his back, both of you panting hard. 

Your robe is open far too much, your wound is stinging from exertion, but your mind is still in combat mode. Watching him watching you. 

His eye lock on yours. The skin underneath them purple and still puffy. You can see the tackiness of dried tears on his cheek. The faint hint of a bruise on his hairline from the night before. His beard tentatively trying to grow back before he shaves it again.

That hunger is trying to stir again. You want to kill it. But it’s already made its way down. You’re pressed tightly against him. 

You know he can feel you getting wet. 

Your lip twitches. This was supposed to remain in your head. He wasn’t supposed to know anything. You were trying to protect him again. And again you were failing. 

His cock gets semi hard underneath you and it really doesn’t help. A moan claws its way up your throat before you can cut it off. 

“Fuck,” Peter says. 

You don’t know how to initiate anything further. The soldier in you is confused. This goes against programming. Your body gets hot like the after effects of your wet dreams. Functionally, you know how this works. You know it feels good. But this is reality, not a dream. 

It feels so much better than a dream.

You want to move. Not away, but toward. So you put your hands on Peter’s chest and move your hips, slightly, minutely. 

“Oh m’god,” He breathes. His hands, his perfect hands, move to your hips. He’s so careful not to touch your wound that it hurts a little anyway. Like it’s trying to remind you who you are. 

He guides you against his sweats, a little faster than your pace. Your clit is throbbing against this soft fabric and the hardness underneath it. 

You want to tell him about the mess going on your head right now. Your horny confused brain, the hunger it feels. How this is fucked up and you should just get off. Not get off but get off of him. Fuck.

But all that came out were tiny desperate, embarrassing noises. You weren’t being seductive. To yourself, you sounded like a squeaky toy.

His hands move from your hips in the rob to your back, to your ass. He presses you down even harder. The jolt of wetness makes your face burn. 

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Y…yes…”

Peter keeps you rooted there. You try to move again but he tsks, holds your sides again. 

“Pete…”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Your mind feels mushy. Your one singular goal moving out of reach. Your limbs suddenly feel too long, too shaky. Your cunt is throbbing, hole closing around nothing. There’s an ache, an emptiness so intense you think you might fall into it and die. 

“Peter, please…” You don’t sound like yourself. You can’t even hear yourself. Your head is too full of blood. 

You feel that firm pressure against your neck again. You lean into it instead. His arms wrap around you then and you feel so dizzy. 

Chest to chest now, the robe somehow made its way down to your waist. Your nipples brush against his skin and how are you meant to keep calm? It’s too much, it’s all too much. 

Your hips move without him telling you, without his help. Faster, sloppy, erratic. Your stomach hurts. There’s a tightness in your chest that needs release. 

“There you go, baby. Look at me. Look at me.”

He’s in your ear. Tears prick up behind your eyelids. If you look at him, you’ll lose your nerve. If you don’t, he might stop you again. 

You do look. His hand cups your face. His eyes are shimmering with the same hunger you feel. Only, his isn’t shameful. On him, it looks terrifying, but erotic. 

“Let me kiss you,” He groans, “Properly…let me. Please.” 

You nod frantically. You’d agree to anything, the depth of your desperation was so great. His tongue swipes against your lips. You’re mouth opens quickly. You don’t know how to kiss. You’ve only ever seen it in movies. You don’t think it’s supposed to feel like electricity is running frantic under your skin like your lungs are shriveling up. 

It’s not supposed to melt your brain, not supposed to turn your organs into liquid. Liquid that’s quickly running toward your pelvis. Fast, so fast. That ball in your chest unwinding with breakneck speed. 

You cling to Peter’s sweating back, your fingers marking pretty purple-red spots along his shoulders. Your head jerks away from his. 

Oh, God. Oh fucking, God. Too much. Too much. I can’t-

Peter presses back up against you. Your whole body quakes. You think you scream, you must scream. The force of your orgasm tears through you fast and without end. 

Your body is still trembling when you come back down. You slump against Peter. His hands move over your body, petting your hair, rubbing your back. 

“So good, baby. You did so good.” 

“‘m sticky…” 

He rumbles out a laugh, moving to lay you both on your sides. His sweats were a mess. 

“You came in your pants,” you observe. 

Another snort, “You were very hot. It would’ve been impossible not to.” He kisses you again, tongueless and sweet. 

Something warm and sweet settles into your bones. Love. The physical feelings of love, belonging. Peter's fingers are gentle as he moves hair out of your face. He’s smiling and it feels like sunlight pouring on your face. 

Maybe you do deserve this. Maybe it all doesn’t have to be rational. 

“You wanna finish showering with me?”

You nod. His fingers intertwine with yours as he helps you up.

Maybe this could be good.

[mistydeyes]

May you write hyacinth + ghost? :)

Thank you so much for requesting!! This one was too good! Forewarning, I am so sorry at how potentially tragic this is like MAN I WAS TEARING UP WHILE EDITING

link to the prompt list and 1k celebration!

prompt: hyacinth - they decide to interrupt the wedding just as you're about to say your vows

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader

warning: ANGST, swearing, canonical violence, ABSOLUTE PAIN AND MOURNING, no happy endings here for simon :(

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

Simon Riley was never a religious man but he said a silent prayer as he entered the small chapel. He settled in a pew towards the back right of the holy place, ignoring the gazes that fell upon him. His breath was heavy on his face mask as he briefly looked at the program. He felt confided in his grey dress shirt and could feel the palms of his hands begin to sweat. He wiped them on his rayon pants as he tried to calm his nerves. Soon the crowd hushed as the wedding procession entered. Simon's eyes flickered to the groomsmen and the accompanying bridesmaids. Violet. They were wearing violet, your favorite color and the one you always envisioned for your wedding.

"Si, look at these," you smiled as you showed him a photo on Pinterest. Simon looked at the violet silk wedding dresses that complimented a smiling group of bridesmaids with orchids in their hands. "Looks nice," he mumbled before returning to his phone. You let out a sigh before responding. "I think I want those for our wedding."

Eventually, the ethereal organ music began to play a different melody and the crowd stood in response. Simon quickly joined the smiling family and friends as their gaze was turned to the door. Nothing could have prepared him for that moment. You walked out onto the aisle looking like a fucking angel. Your ivory gown floated on the ground and in your delicate hands, you held a beautifully designed bouquet with orchids, chamomiles, and hydrangeas. You looked so happy and radiant at the moment. With the softest note of the organ, you descended the aisle to your husband-to-be. Simon's heart ached as he recognized the melody, So This is Love by Emile Pandolfi. As you walked, it was as if you only were in the room with your husband as he watched a fragile tear fall down your face. His gaze followed as you ascended, taking an elegant step on the altar.

Throughout the ceremony, Simon's nerves and anguish reached a fever pitch. He felt like he was drowning as the crowd sat and the priest began the ceremony. His ears rang as he barely registered the words, "If there is anyone present, who can show just cause why these two persons may not be joined in matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.” If you asked him this morning what his plans were, attending your wedding was not on the list. But something, maybe it was hope, or maybe foolishness had forced him to dress and drive to the rural estate. As the priest spoke on the solemnity of marriage, Simon couldn't help but muse over the last time he ever saw you.

"Do-do you know how long you'll be gone?" you whispered through tears as he held you in his arms. "They didn't specify," he replied. and you buried your head into his chest. It was 2006 before Simon Riley was a dead man walking. It was a time when he was just a soldier who had a life and the opportunity to love his family and his fiancée. "Remember what I told you, you keep this ring so I have a reason to come back," Simon whispered as he opened your palm and placed a thick gold band into it. "Please don't go, Simon," you cried as he tried to pull away and head out the door. "I'll be back in no time, love," he replied and gave you a soft kiss before exiting out of your life forever.

Since that moment, you had believed the man you loved was dead. Rumors circulated as you found out there had been some sightings before his family tragically died in a house fire, even allegations that he had been the one but you refused to believe it. For 10 years, you looked for him on the crowded Manchester streets but you never found him. However, you were here today with the man you loved and finally had the opportunity at a happy life. Simon knew this fact as well and he tragically continued through the ceremony until the vows were to be said. As your maid of honor handed you a piece of paper, he saw the familiar sheen of a ring on your finger. He knew that ring anywhere as he had bought it with his first paycheck from the service. What struck him more though was as you turned to face your husband, you held onto a gold ring on a necklace chain before you spoke. That was his ring. The ring he gave to you before he died.

"Elliott, poets say that love finds you when you need it most. In what I believe was poetic irony, you found me as I placed flowers on a grave and cynically commented on how the ones we love leave us too quickly," you began to say and Simon began to feel his eyes burn with the prickles of tears. "While we remember those lost, today I am here to celebrate the one who arrived on time, the one who stayed, the one who helped me through the roughest of moments and brought me back to life." That final sentence was all Simon needed to hear as he shuffled out the door and made his way to the exit. Your eyes fell towards the interruption and you felt faint as you could have sworn it was Simon. You met his gaze but the man ran out of the chapel and you could never be certain. Your husband put a reassuring hand on yours and you shakily continued, trying to rationalize the appearances of ghosts from your past rather than the individual being your Simon.

As Simon ran to his car, he let out an anguished cry at the empty field. At that moment, Simon had seen all the painful memories you endured flood back and your gaze filled with fear and uncertainty. He could never put you through that again. He lit a cigarette before driving away just as the wedding bells filled the spring air. Simon would forever be dead to you and you would have an opportunity at a life he could never offer.

[talesfromawannabewriter]

Do you remember Adam's rant before he dies, imagine that but with Lilith in Adam Dies

Lilith: NO! I refuse to let you people end this! I'm Lilith the first ever woman, (turns to Adam) YOU were my husband! you were supposed to be by my side forever. You should've loved me! Not that, that, SNAKE! (turns to the Hazbin group) And as for you! I started everything down here, all Hell's society was created by MY FUCKING HANDS!!! You all should be on your knees worshipping me! You ungrateful, disgusting, sinners! AAAGGHH!!!

a knife suddenly lodges through Lilith's neck causing the demon to fall onto the ground dead. Everyone sees' Nifty was the one who stabbed her, or well IS stabbing her causing the head to become decapitated.

[incompleteth0ts]

No more birthdays

Percy fucked up. Percy fucked up big time.

Percy threw himself behind one of the crumbling pillars that were still left standing in Olympus’ golden halls as one of his father's life-sized nude statues went flying and smashing against the floor where Percy was just standing.

The marble flooring crack beneath Percy's feet as his grandfathers laughter grew louder and closer.

“There is no point in hiding from me, grandson. As your 16th birthday creeps nearer, I begin to gain more power. You will die halfling. You and all those you hold dear,”

Percy screamed as Kronos swung backbiter down on him in a wide arc.

“No!”

Percy cursed as the top of his head hit the top bunk of his bed.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Are you ok, sweetie?”

Percy rubbed on the growing knot on his forehead. “Yeah, Mom I’m fine, just a bad dream. Sorry for waking you.”

Percy listened for the retreating sound of his mother's footsteps faintly hearing Paul on the other side of the door asking if he was alright. Percy felt a little bad for waking his stepfather (?) up, because he knew that his mom would be able to read between the lines and understand that the nightmares he was having weren’t the kind that could be explained and reasoned away, not that Percy and Sally both haven’t tried lying to themselves about the nightmares that always found their way to him.

He couldn’t tell Paul that he was having nightmares about his grandfather and not seem like a complete lunatic.

When he could hear the sound of his mom’s bedroom door closing, Percy climbed out of bed and opened his bedroom window to step outside and onto the fire escape. 

Percy stared at the moon that was washed out by light pollution and midnight clouds as he cursed his rotten luck.

Thalia.

The luckiest demigod Percy knew. She died and came back to life only to be granted immortality. Thalia was all the things Percy wished he was. Prophecy free.

The daughter of Zeus was…kind of disappointing to be around. She was bossy and liked to tell Percy what to do and get mad when he didn’t want to do it. He could see where Annabeth got it from.

Thalia had managed to avoid becoming the prophecy child. Another thing Percy envied about her. Thalia had found a loophole around it all.

She’ll never age, never turn sixteen, never have to fight Kronos, never have to die a second time.

Luckiest person ever.

Maybe Percy could convince his dad to turn him into a local flora. Maybe a Jasmine plant, his mom liked Jasmine or maybe a lily pad.

Percy climbed back into bed and dreamed of frogs and hot tea.

---

“You cannot hide from me forever, Perseus Jackson. I will find you, and when I do, I will handle you just as I handled your father,”

Percy watched in horror as the ground underneath him split open, revealing miles on miles of teeth. Percy tried to jump out of the way but was pushed forward into his awaiting doom.

Percy turned around and locked eyes with a frazzled blonde woman, turning the baby swaddled in her arms around so that it could watch him fall.

Percy gasped when his face connected with the carpet in his bedroom. Percy sat up to glare at the pillow he had shoved in between the bars of the top bunk of his bed and rubbed his bruising forehead. If this kept up, Percy would start to turn into an even bigger seaweed head.

Percy untangled his legs from his dark blue cover as he tuned into his mom’s and Paul’s conversation.

“I want to ask him this time. I don’t want him to think that I don’t care about him.”

“Percy knows you care, Paul, but he’d feel bad if he woke you up.”

“I know, but I’m worried too, Sally. This is the third time this week.”

Percy, unable to listen in on his mom and Paul's argument about him, decided to choose for them. “Paul is that you?” Percy giggled at the audible, flailing from the other side of the door.

“Y-yeah, buddy, it’s me. Are you feeling okay? I thought I heard something fall? Buddy? When have I ever called him that?”

“Everything’s fine. I just fell off my bed.”

Percy could hear his mom trying not to laugh at Paul's kind-hearted attempt at checking on him.

“Looks like Sally didn't tuck you in tight enough tonight. I'll leave her a one-star rating in the morning.”

Percy laughed at Paul's joke and collected himself from the floor.

“If everything's alright in there, then I'll leave you alone. Try and head back to sleep, Percy. After all, tomorrow's a special day.”

Percy froze from his spot on his bed.

Tomorrow was a special day?

Perch leaned over to check the time on his alarm clock.

12:03, August 17.

Tomorrow will be his 15th birthday, and today will be his last day as a 14-year-old.

Tomorrow will be his last year to live.

Percy felt ill.

He broke into a cold sweat and tried falling back asleep like Paul had said.

Six hours later, his mom came knocking on his door to wake him up from school.

___

“Goodnight Percy.”

Mom bent down so she could kiss the top of my head and twirl my hair in her fingers.

“Good night, Mom. Love you.”

Mom smiled at me like she was being reminded of all the reasons she loved me, too.

“I love you, too. Now go to sleep honey, tomorrow's a special day for my special little man.”

My mom looked at me as if I was aging right in front of her. She's been looking at me like that a lot recently.

“Sleep tight, Percy.”

“I will. Night Paul!”

“Goodnight Percy! Try not to fall out of bed again!”

“Paul Blofis, you think you are so funny!” Mom turned to me as if she couldn’t believe half the things that Paul said to us like he was the Greek anomaly.

“I'll see you in the morning, sweetheart.”

Mom closed the door behind her, and I turned to face my blinking alarm clock.

10:58, August 17.

Only a couple more hours until my birthday. Only a couple more hours until my final countdown.

I played with the edge of my blanket as I tried to fall asleep. I thought of the tips I was given at camp to help me fall asleep faster.

Slowing my breathing, sitting up straight, lifting, and lowering limbs. Nothing was working.

11:07, August 17.

This wasn't going to work.

I yanked the blankets off of me and threw them on the floor. Tip-toeing on them, I made my way to the fire escape.

Unlatching my window, I lifted the glass enough to slip out closed it behind me before the nightlife woke up Mom and Paul. I leaned against the safety rail and stared at the moonlace sprouting in Artemis’ glow.

It was a miracle that the flower had managed to survive this long. This single sprout will live longer than I ever will, and it'll be all Mom will have left of me.

I turned my back to the moonlace.

The thought of turning 15 made my stomach twist even more so than the thought of turning 16.

I wanted to get angry like I used to when I was 12. Since the day I was born, the world has been punishing me for all the bad stuff my dad has done, and now I'm doomed to be killed for all the bad my grandfather will do.

I paced the tight space available to me on the fire escape. I was starting to sound like a revenge-hungry lunatic.

I returned to my sulking position on the fire escape railing. I didn't want to grow old.

“It's rather late nephew, shouldn't young boys such as yourself be tucked away in bed.”

I nearly fell over the side of the railing. Two robed arms circle my waist and pull me back to safety.

I was pulled back into the chest of someone who should not be in front of my bedroom window.

“Be careful nephew; it would be a shame to have Thanatos claim you before me.”

I turned around, so I was face-to-face with the man holding me to their chest.

Standing in front of me in all his ten-foot glory was Lord Hades himself.

He was backed into the corner closet to my closed window and tall enough to curl around it. It was like looking at Batman before he launched and attacked.

I nervously looked down at the metal platform we were standing on. The metal didn't give a rickety squeal like it usually did when more than one person got on.

Hades looked assumed with my untrusting panic. He curled his massive body around, blocking my view from the alley and pressing me against the window pane.

I hoped Mom or Paul didn't try to check in on me like they've been doing lately.

“Scared that we'll fall, Perseus?”

Scared of a lot of things right now, falling is only one of them and by the look of things the least deadly.

“Yeah, just a little bit. What about you? When they were calculating the weight limit, I don’t think they took any Gods above the height of 7’3” into account.”

Hades seemed to take his height and non-existent weight into consideration before shrinking down to a more respectable height of 6’4”.

“I suppose you’re right. Humans lack diversity and possibility nowadays.”

“And answers to the unsaid, why are you here?” God or not, if he came here for a round two kidnapping of my mother, I would do more than slice the back of his heel.

I watched as my uncle traced abstract shapes in the glass of my window. On the other side, my alarm clock rode on a wave of shadows and pressed against the glass.

11:35, August 17.

“Your birthday brings me here. You will be a man soon. Your father sends me new souls every day in his grief.”

The shadows of my bedroom twirled and took the shape of a weeping man. All around him dozens of tiny people pleaded for their life only to be swept away by a wave of his hand.

“You will be 15 tomorrow, making you a year closer to being the prophecy child. To preserve or raze, Olympus will live on or fall by your hand nephew.”

I tried not to let my Uncle's words get to me, I already knew all this, the fate of the world sat on my shoulders and somehow it was heavier than the sky itself.

“So what? Did you come here to kill me? Give you guys some more time to plan before Kronos regains his powers. Well, news flash, but your brother has already tried that. Like twice!”

I tried to create some distance between us but all that seemed to do was bring us closer. And what did he mean I’ll, ‘ be a man soon’, with the way things are going I’ll never be a man, it was a miracle that I even lived long enough to become a tween.

Hades laughed and despite our rocky past, I could feel myself blush at the feel of his breath on me.

“Yes. I suppose my, fool, of a younger brother has tried to kill you, ‘like twice’, already and it can be argued that I have done the same, which is why I am here.”

I watched in wonder as the god of the underworld got on his knees and clasped my hands in his.

“My dear Persephone left me for the surface months ago. My days and nights grow lonely without her, for years I've suffered from withdrawals, but you can help me Perseus, and I can help you.”

I felt the air get knocked out of me once I started to become aware of just how badly things were turning. I tried to pull my hands from his but he pulled me back into him.

“Asked me for sanctuary. I’ll protect you.”

The sky split apart with thunder lighting up the alley. Hades looked at me with crazed eyes. Here he was offering me ‘sanctuary’ from the war at the cost of…

“Stay with me Perseus. You are a child of summer, stay with me when my wife is away, become a god, and avoid this war tucked beneath the earth. Allow someone else to take this burden.”

“Nico is next in line Uncle, if I don't do this, he will have to.”

Hades squinted at me, seeing something that I wasn't. He opened his mouth as though he was going to say something but another flash of lightning came around.

“Nico is training to become stronger. By the time he is 16, he will be ready.”

I had a hard time believing him. It was hard to look at Nico and not envision the once naive and hopeful ten-year-old boy that he once was.

“I swear to you, so long as you seek my protection it will be given. All you need to do is indulge in my sacred fruit.”

From the shadows at my feet, Hades pulled out half a pomegranate, the juice was still running down its skin staining his bone-white hands a rusted purple. Some of the seeds were smashed and busted open like the fruit had been violently ripped apart. I imagined myself as the pomegranate, ripped in half and dripping in the palm of Kronos.

I allowed my Uncle to pull out six of the nicest seeds and press them to my lip.

“Eat nephew before it is too late.”

He had risen from his kneeling position and licked on the juices that dripped down my chin. His sticky hands clung to the fabric of my pajama shirt. Tilting my head back I opened my mouth to let the seeds roll down my tongue.

My mouth watered from the tart taste of the fruit and the crunch of the pits. I’ve never eaten a pomegranate before. I hadn't expected it to be so messy.

“Slow down nephew, I'd hate for you to choke.”

I felt even more like a child when Hades began to clean my face with a handkerchief.

“There, all done. I'm so very proud of you Perseus.”

My bedroom window began to violently shake against the elements surrounding us. If Mom hadn't been woken up earlier she would be now.

Hades opened my window and ushered me inside the safety of my bedroom.

“Go to sleep, Perseus enjoy this time with your family while you have it, come next spring you will be mine and the marriage will be official.”

Just as quietly as he came he left without so much as a shake on the fire escape.

“Percy? Are you alright honey?”

I watched my mom through the window reflection as she pulled her robe tight over her shoulders.

“I'm fine. The storm woke me up, I wonder what Uncle's mad about now.”

My mom looked around my room anxiously like she expected Zues to jump out of my closet and strike us down.

“Go to bed honey I'm sure everything is fine.”

Mom kissed me on the forehead and tucked me in ‘extra tight’ as suggested by Paul and closed the door just enough to leave a crack.

When I turned to face the blinking numbers on my clock I could almost feel the pomegranate seeds rise back up.

11:59, August 17.

Forever 14.

________

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Percy…”

Percy watched the candles with a blank face robotically blowing out the candles once the song ended and accepting the first slice of cake from his mother. He didn’t feel any different but his uncle made it sound like it would be a year-long process.

Looking around the room Percy imagined what his life would be like. Sally and Grover were sharing some of their favorite memories with Percy to Paul(most were embarrassing) but they looked tense. There was a shift in the atmosphere and they could feel it.

“There's the birthday boy.”

“Big Brother!”

Percy managed to push his piece of cake far enough to not have it squished in between his and Tyson's body when pulled into a bear hug.

“Tyson, you made it!”

From behind the counter, Percy can see Paul waving his hand at Tyson and his mom trying to explain that he didn’t come out of her too.

Percy watched as Posideon rounded the corner and froze when he saw Percy. The floor in the kitchen rumbled before his dad grabbed a hold of himself and walked the rest of the way in.

“Percy! I'm afraid I can't stay long. I just needed to drop off Tyson and your birthday gift.”

Before Percy could get up on his own Posideon snatched Percy out of his chair and dragged him to his bedroom.

“Percy I don’t know what it is that you've done, but it’s thrown our world out of line,” Poseidon grabbed Percy’s shoulders and brought him to face level. His eyes were manic. Percy saw years of storms, sailors' mangled bodies being broken against cliffs, and monsters waking from their slumber to feast on the unfortunate. Percy saw the description in his father's eyes. “Percy, what did you do?”

“...I’m sorry Dad.”

Percy broke out of his father's arms with strength that before last night he did not have. Returning to the party he told his mom and stepdad that his father had left through the fire escape. Digging into his flavorless cake Percy asked his mom if Tyson could stay the night, smiling when Tyson ran to the linen closet and began to pull out blankets and plans for a pillow fort.

__

I lay facing Tyson watching as he shook the picture on the wall with his snoring. It was a good thing that I wasn’t planning on sleeping tonight or I would never find peace.

“It’s a wondrous thing that the Cyclops has yet to eat you. I hear that the babies are the hungriest.”

I watched as my uncle's silhouette circled Tyson’s fort before stopping at the ‘doorway’ which consisted of pillows tied together by the case corners. His shiny Italian loafers poked past the fabric and tapped at me impatiently.

I rose to my knees and took one last look at my and Tyson’s latest creation. I leaned over and pulled as much of him as I could into a hug. The night was beginning to feel like a final goodbye.

“You said that come next spring I would be staying with you.”

“Yes I did say that, but your father came to me today with some strongly choice words. I figured it would be best to speed some things up,” Hades raised his hand when I stepped forward to argue. “I’m not taking you home with me now, but it would be best to consummate the marriage while we still can, yes?”

“Consummate?”

The shadows in the living room rose to ceiling height before crashing on us like deadly waves. Just before I was washed in darkness I spotted the time flash on the microwave.

2:13.

August 18th.

______

FIRST FIC DONE🎉🥳

@hadesxpercy-events

[csprslvt]

you and i, and her. pt 3

Chapter two (see rest of the chapters for context)

Summary: Ellie comforts (or tries to) reader who is in misery from the loss of her past and her life before. Joel and Tommy go missing and Ellie watches her father figures life fall away. (Joels death)

Warnings: GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF JOELS DEATH, obvious spoilers, reader is depressed, TORTURE, THE GOLF CLUB SCENE, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, traumatized Ellie.

Overtime, routine took place, Ellie would come get you in the mornings when she wasn't patrolling, you'd visit the horses and didn't run into Dina again after the incident weeks prior. But still despite the fact that you had a friend again. Your heart ached with every thought of Abby.

You would lay in bed at night disconnected from reality, trying so hard to remember where she would be, how you came about to be bloody and lost in the woods, and why she hadn't come looking for you yet.

It was better for your aching chest to assume she had passed on rather than thinking she had truly left you behind and would never come back. And in the darkness of the night, all you wanted was to mourn but you couldn't seem to cry. It left bubbled up emotion in your chest that would take your mood for days at a time. Pretending to be okay was not reliable anymore. And one morning you had ignored Ellies calls. Figuring she would walk away.

But Ellie was oh so persistent.

Laying in bed, you seemed a mess, holding onto your locket and rubbing the cool metal. 

Ellie stormed in, kicking open the door with a hurried frenzy. 

You jumped.

“Ellie! What the fuck!”

“You asshole, you've been ignoring me! I've been knocking for like five minutes, I thought you died!” Ellie looked at you, clearly displeased. But upon seeing your empty, woeful eyes she softened and sat beside you.

“You gonna tell me what's up?”

“Nothing is up.”

“Nuh uh, don't lie to me. You haven't gotten up at all. You ignored me which, you never do, and you haven't been… yourself”

You sighed, pulling the covers over your head.

“ I can't tell you.”

“What? Why not? I'm a good listener!”

“ I know you are Ellie but there are certain things I'm not even sure about.”

“ You're worried about how you got here again.”

“Ellie-”

“y/n, I dont know what happened to you but I knew from the look on your face that it was bad. You were covered in blood and tired, I could've killed you and you didn't even seem fazed…but whatever happened, you're safe now. That's what matters”

You removed the covers and looked at Ellie, making eye contact.

“ I feel like…like I left something behind. Something important, and I can't shake it off! Every night im having these dreams and-”

“What dreams?”

You flushed,

Your nights were filled with Abby. Her hands, her touches, her words, her whispered ‘I love yous’ . But they were also filled with blood, fear and the smell of putrid death. They were filled with the intense feeling of abandonment, shame and loss.

“I just feel so empty.”

At this Ellie looked extremely concerned, she placed a hand on your back rubbing circles and she tried to comfort you as best as she knew how.

“Is there…are you empty because you're depressed or are you empty because you miss somebody?” Ellie questioned, she knew the feeling well, especially after Dina.

“I just, I remember being so happy despite everything, I remember little bits and pieces of the life I had and then at the same time, I left it behind and I can't figure out why and I hate myself for ruining it all.”

Ellie moves and goes to hold your hand.

“y/n, you must've left for a reason, you were covered in blood for god's sake, clearly you just need to rest and let yourself feel rather than hiding it all. I promise you, here you'll be safe and you can start another chance to be happy again. I understand things are hard, but you won't feel this way forever…It'll be okay.”

You held Ellies hand tightly as if she was your life line. Needing something to keep you grounded.

“I know”

Ellie signed, “I know I'm not the best at communicating but I'm so glad I have a friend around again. And I want you to be happy, I care about you. And you can always talk to me about what's on your mind.”

The thing is, I can't. I can't talk about Abby, I can't talk about the people I've killed and the nightmares I have about it.It's just too much.

“Okay.”

Ellie gazed at you one last time, clearly noticing you can't be soothed. You needed something she couldn't provide and what exactly that thing was, she was unsure. 

Ellie got up, letting go of your hand. “I’ll bring you something to eat”

You smiled a little. She was just trying to help you.

“Okay Ellie”

As she opened the door you spoke again,

“Ellie?”

“Yea?”

“Thank you.”

“Dont worry about it.” 

The girl then left your sight, closing the door behind her.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To say Ellie was worried was an understatement.

The moment she left your cabin, her face showed pure panic.

What if y/n leaves jackson? What if you look for whoever it was that you'd abandoned and never returned? What if, what if, what if….

Her mind was racing, sure, you being sad was concerning because she cared, she wanted your happiness, you were her only real friend. But it was also a concern of you leaving her alone. She couldn't.

For the better (or for the worst) Her thoughts were interrupted by Dina approaching her right as she stepped out of your cabin.

Fuck.

“Hey Ellie, I see you've gotten comfy with y/n, crawling out of her cabin like that”

“Dina, it's not like that. She's my friend, and we were just talking…” Ellie spoke with a high, nervous pitch

God Dammit now I seem suspicious 

“Sure, let me see her, I need to talk with her”

Ellies face changed with a confused stare.

“With y/n?”

“Yes. With y/n, that's whose house you're sneaking out of isn't it?”

“Oh my god Dina it isn't like that. Listen, she's having a hard time, leave her alone.”

“Why so hostile Ellie?”

Ellie tensed up.

“You know why.”

Dina sighed, her eyes softened, she reached out to grasp Ellies shoulder but the girl flinched away.

“Ellie, I'm sorry, it was for the better.”

“Don't give me that bullshit, we could've made it work”

Dina pinched the bridge of her nose.

“I don't have time for this.”

“What do you want to talk to y/n for”

“Listen, I've been patrolling and there's someone-”

“Ellie! Ellie!”

A frantic voice yells, running to Ellie pausing the conversation,

“Jesse? What's wrong”

“It's Joel and Tommy, they haven't come back.”

“What?” a cold sweat presperates across Ellie's brow. The hair on the back of her neck stood up with a deathly chill going up her spine.

Something in Jesse’s face led Ellie to believe something sinister had happened and without thinking, she ran to the stables and grabbed her gear.

She had been riding for a while, until she heard a scream. A loud, terrifying, blood curdling scream. 

“Joel.”

It repeated over and over again, until Ellie wanted to bash her head in to stop the noises but she continued, trying to find him. A crazed look on her face, she was hyperventilating, her chest tight and her heart crushing with only the worst thoughts coming to her, filling her mind, body and soul.

Please no.

She eventually stopped at a house and her stomach felt like it would drop at any second. 

She wandered into the building and the screams got louder. She knew it was him, she would recognize that voice anywhere.

The pained noises lead her to an ominous hallway. The shouting became gurgling almost as if someone was being waterboarded. Or drowning in their own blood.

Readying her weapon and slammed open the door. Joel was on the floor, beaten and bloody. A woman stood above him with a golf club in her hands.

A bloody golf club.

No. Please no.

She held up her gun but before she was given time to react her body fell to the floor, being attacked from the side. 

“Get off of me!”

“Tie her hands!”

“Get the fuck off of me!”

Ellie struggled against her attacker's hold. 

“Bitch.”

Two, maybe three kicks hit her stomach, hard, it felt like a deep intense pressure, strangling her insides in the worst way possible.The force of steel toe boots on her guts made her feel like she would vomit.

Another man came, restraining the person beating her relentlessly.

“You got her okay? You got her”

“Let go!”

Ellies throat filled with blood and she tasted its metallic drip falling from her nose.

“Youre gonna fucking die!”

“What's going on?” A tall built male walked towards Joel's abuser. Ellie is still struggling for release of the hold on her.

“Let him go!”

“Who is that?” a woman questioned obviously

“She snuck in…”

They spoke amongst themselves, and Ellie stared at them, wildly moving, trying, pleading, hoping she would muster up the strength to make them all pay.

“Why aren't you posted outside?”

“We didn't think anyone would show up”

“The hell did you expect?”

“We gotta get out of here before the whole town is on top of us”

The man turned to the woman, she was built like an Ox, tall, with a blond braid down her back.

“You're done.”

“You want what I want, right?”

“End it .Now”

The women turned towards Joel, a crumpled mess on the floor.

“Joel, get up”

He did nothing but blink.

“Joel, fucking get up.” Ellie begged, she felt like her world was ending with his life fading away. 

“Please stop!” Ellie was never one to say please but she was filled with desperation.

“Please don't do this..” The golf club raised

“Joel please get up!”

A sickening crunch played in Ellie's ears as the golf club bashed into Joel's head, at full strength.

“No!”

Sobs wracked through Ellies body. Her lungs filled with blood and her nose drenched in it. Snot ran down her lips.

“Burn in hell, pendejo” a kick.

Rage made its way to Ellie’s spine, the burning, crippling need for vengeance rang through her entirely. Beginning to consume her.

The man had taken a gun and pointed it to her.

All she could say was no

“Ill fucking kill you” she spoke, before the voices became muffled noises and consciousness left her. Unable to fight back.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Eventually, she awoke, and there you were, by her side. 

“I'm sorry Ellie.”

“Jesse, they're down here!”

Somehow you had ended up looking for Ellie when you started getting anxious about how you left off, Jesse had told you she had gone looking for Joel. And you being you, followed her.

You had heard screams but didn't make it in time. You only discovered the area had been evacuated with Ellies body on the floor. You gasped when your eyes fell on Joel. He was without a pulse.

He was gone.

“Oh Ellie I'm so sorry” you had whispered again and again, trying to wake her up.

Eventually she came too, weak and trembling, 

“No, no no no” She cried.

You'd taken her back, while Jesse carried the body of Joel, still warm but his heart had stopped.

You shielded her eyes from her body, trying to not traumatize her further with the site but she wouldn't stop staring. She was a shell. She would never be the same.

[mothguillotine]

Chapter 4:  Never Trust Elevators, Ever.

Main Masterlist

cw: swearing and violence

word count: 4.8k

Summary: After you gain a fear of elevators, you explore a basement from Hell.

You weren’t entirely sure when the elevator stopped. It felt like it went forever and with everyone screaming it was hard to ask anyone else so you screamed along with them. Not really out of terror, well actually yes, you are terrified, but you are also frustrated with yourself. You knew that something didn’t feel right and what did you do? Go inside the dangerous Russian elevator that is most likely only supposed to be used for transporting whatever the hell is in that container. 

“Shit!” Dustin yells and tries smashing the buttons once again, “Shit!” 

“We’re going down!” Steve yells hysterically and in any other situation you would have laughed but you get it.

“Yeah, no shit, Harrington!” Robin yells at him.

All of you are bracing onto the shelving or anything else to hold yourselves upright, “Fuck!” you yell as you slip off the shelf you were holding only to be caught by Robin who helps you stand back up.

“Why won’t these buttons work?!” Dustin screeches.

Erica runs over to him, “Press the button!”

“What do you think I’m doing?!” Dustin asks.

“Come on, press something!” Steve yells at him, “Just press the button!”

“Push it!” Erica yells at him but before he has the chance the elevator stops making you all slam into whatever you were holding onto. And in your case that happens to be Robin, who also falls, which makes you both land on the ground. The boxes that were sitting on the table fall off in the lurch and onto Steve. 

You hear him groan, “My groin. It fell on my groin.”

Robin moans in pain behind you so you stand up and help her stand as well.

“Stop talking about your di- groin.” you correct yourself remembering that Erica and Dustin are present.

“Dustin!” Steve yells, “Get this off of me!”

Dustin lifts the box off of Steve and places it back on the table, “I can’t move,” Steve says.

“Is everyone okay?” Robin asks.

“Yeah,” Steve says sarcastically, “I’m great, now that I know that Russians can’t design elevators!”

He then pushes Dustin out of the way of the button panel and proceeds to press them all over and over.

“I think we’ve clearly established that those buttons don’t work,” Robin tells him.

“They’re buttons,” Steve retorts, “They have to do something.”

“Yeah,” Robin says and gestures to the panel, “If we had a keycard.”

“A what?” he asks.

“You don’t know what a keycard is?” you ask him, furrowing your eyebrows.

Steve stays silent so Robin explains, “It’s an electronic lock. Same as the loading dock door. If we don’t have a keycard, it won’t operate meaning-,”

“We’re stuck in here,” Dustin finishes.

“Yeah,” Robin agrees.

“Just so nerds are aware,” Erica tells you all, “I’m supposed to be spending the night at Tina’s, and Tina always covers for me. But if I’m not home for Uncle Jack’s party tomorrow, and my mom finds out you four are responsible, she’s gonna hunt you down, one by one, and slit your throat. Probably starting with you since she knows where you live.”

“I didn’t even wanna get you involved in the first place!” you tell her.

Steve is fed up and slams his hands down on the box in front of him, “I don’t care about Tina! Or Uncle Jack’s party!” he yells at her, “Your mom’s not gonna be able to find us if we’re dead in a Russian elevator!

“Hey,” Dustin says pointing up, “What if we climbed out?”

All of you look up at the ceiling and see the hatch he is pointing at. Steve pushes over the table and Dustin jumps on top. He pushes open the hatch and climbs up with Steve close behind him. You, Robin, and Erica all stay inside the elevator instead of going up.

“Are you okay?” Robin asks you.

“I mean, not really,” you tell her, “What are we going to do? There is a literal child with us.”

“Honestly?” she asks and you nod, “I have no idea.”

You put your hands over your eyes, “This was such a fucking bad idea.”

“I know,” she says, “I- I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” you ask looking back at her, “Sorry for what?”

“For making you take this job and shit,” she says and sighs, “If you wouldn’t have ever come into Scoops that day we would have never met and you wouldn’t be in this situation, I just-”

“Let me stop you right there,” you tell her, grabbing her hand, “First of all you didn’t make me take the job, I wanted to work with you. And second of all, I would never wish I didn’t meet you. I l- I am lucky that I met you.”

You wish that you were alone right now, instead of Erica being in the same room. Maybe then you would have the balls to kiss her because as of this moment, it has moved up substantially on your list of things to do, all the way up to number one. Robin’s face is unreadable though, so you probably wouldn’t and won’t. Robin smiles in a way that doesn't quite reach her eyes and looks away.

Steve comes back down through the ceiling, “Yeah, there is no way to get out up there.”

“Damn it,” you say and lean back ready for a long night.

“What are we gonna do?” Erica asks.

“Nothing,” Steve says, jumping down from the ceiling.

“Nothing?” Erica asks.

“Nothing,” Steve reiterates.

“Why?” she asks.

“We have to wait until morning,” he tells her, “Then people will be awake.”

Dustin hops down after him and walks over to the button panel. Erica is sitting on the ground trying to rest the best she can.

“My mom is going to kill me,” you say out loud.

“Maybe she thinks you are at my house,” Robin offers.

“She wanted us all home tonight for a family dinner,” you tell her, “Tee has been gone the past few days and she wanted us all together.”

This catches Dustin's attention and he turns around, “Wait, your Tee’s sister?”

“Uh, yeah,” you tell him.

“I had no idea,” he says to you.

“Well, I mean I don’t just go around talking about my sister,” you tell him.

“Oh, she talks about you all the time,” he tells you, which you find hard to believe is true, “I only hung out with her for one day and she brought you up like ten times.”

“No, she did not,” you refute.

“Yes, she did,” he says, still focused on the panel, “Also why wouldn’t she? You are like super cool.”

“What?” you ask confused, “What exactly did she say?”

“I don’t know specifically,” Dustin tells you, “But the gist of it was that she thinks you are cool and after hanging out with you for a few days I agree.”

“Well, thanks,” you tell him.

“No problem,’ Dustin says.

“God that makes me feel like a bitch,” you say.

“What do you mean?” Robin asks you.

“It just puts mine and Tee’s argument in perspective,” you tell her, trying to hold back tears, “Like, if I die, then one of the last times I saw her was an argument.”

You look at the ceiling, willing the tears not to come out, and take a deep breath that sounds shaky. Everything feels like entirely too much all at once and you feel like curling up into a ball and crying your eyes out. Just when you are going to break down you feel Robin’s hand rest gently on your back. 

You let her pull you into a side hug, “I don’t wanna promise that everything is okay,” she tells you, “But at least you will go out of this world with Tee thinking you are a cool older sister, even though she never told you.”

You take a deep breath in, “Does anyone have a watch?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Dustin says.

“How much longer until the mall opens?” you ask him.

“Ah,” he says and looks down at his wrist, “About 12 hours.”

“Well, I’m going to sleep,” you tell them and walk to the side of the room. When you lay down and close your eyes you can only hope you sleep through the night.

Robin doesn’t know if she will survive this anymore. Sure she originally thought ‘What is the harm in trying to take down a bunch of Russian spies?’ but as she stepped onto the elevator, she knew she was in much deeper shit than that. Although at that point she didn’t know it was an elevator, just a room that was heavily guarded with guns.

As soon as she felt the ‘room’ move her only thought was making sure that you were okay and as much as she wanted to pretend that she was okay, she wasn’t. She was beyond terrified and looking between you and Erica it was a wonder that either of you were asleep. Robin has been surprised with how well Erica in particular has handled the situation, never crying even though she should have never been put in this situation.

All she kept trying to do before she went to sleep was try to provide solutions. Robin wanted to be like that, she is normally, but right now her mind is elsewhere. She couldn’t stop thinking about you, that was not uncommon, but no matter how much she tried she couldn't stop thinking about what you told her earlier. Repeating every word in her mind. You didn’t know how much she wanted you to say exactly that, but what Robin kept going back to was what you almost said, or what she thought you almost said. You love her? Robin just couldn’t believe it.

And you couldn’t believe that you almost said that to her, with Erica in the room, overhearing everything you say, that is a slippery slope. You tell her that you love her and then the next day half of Indiana would know. Although, in this case, it would be Russia eventually.

The floor is horribly uncomfortable to sleep on so you only get a few hours after that you just lay there hoping the hours will pass by quickly. At some point, Erica wakes up and starts talking to Robin, both of them talking about random shit. With them talking you decide to get up as well.

“Finally,” Robin says, “I thought you died or something.”

“Ha, ha,” you say sarcastically and then feel your stomach rumble, “God, I am so hungry.”

“I know right,” Robin says.

She is sitting at the edge of a table so you walk over and sit with her.

“I am gonna get like 55 burgers and 55 fries from the burger place,” you say dreamily, “With a whole bunch of mayo and ketchup.”

“Mm,” Robin says, “Stop, you are making me hungry.”

“I hope the slop is good in the gulag we are imprisoned in,” you say and Robin laughs.

“Oh god,” she says, “I hope they kill me on sight.”

“Well if you are going out,” you tell her, “Then I am going with you.”

Robin doesn’t know what to say, well actually she usually doesn't know what to say, especially to you. A million things she can think of to say right now but instead she elects to stay silent. Ever since the other night, you have been acting… different. Not in a bad way, actually the opposite which leaves Robin confused. 

Robin doesn’t know why exactly you are acting like this, she wonders if you do.

You hear a thumping noise behind you and when you turn around you see Dustin climbing on top of the table to get to the hatch again. Steve is quick to take notice and follow him.

“I’m just tired of waiting,” you tell her and then groan, “I wanna go home.”

You can both hear Dustin yelling into his radio, trying to get someone's attention.

“I can’t wait to get away from dingus one and two up there,” Robin tells you and you laugh.

“You’re not getting sick of me yet?” you ask her.

“I don’t think I could,” she tells you and puts her hand over yours on the table.

You can feel your cheeks start to warm up at the action and look away. Specifically at the wall and notice a patch of wall that is progressively getting wetter. Your face changes into disgust when you realize what it is.

Robin notices the change on your face, looks at the wall, and comes to the same realization that you have, “Can you redirect your stream, please?” she asks loudly and you both watch as the wall gets wet zig-zags across it.

“Ugh,” you and Robin both say at the same time.

Then you hear sharp banging coming from behind you, “Erica what are you doing?” you ask.

When you both turn you see her taking the tube of neon green substance and hitting it repeatedly on a metal barrel behind you.

“Hey, hey! Be careful,” Robin shouts, “We don't even know what that is.”

“Exactly,” Erica says to the both of you, “It could be useful.”

You and Robin both look at each other in bewilderment, “Useful how?” Robin asks her.

“We can survive a long time down here without food,” she explains, “But if the human body doesn’t get enough water, it will die.”

“I hate to break it to you,” Robin tells her, “But this is not water.”

“No,” Erica says, “But it’s a liquid, and if it comes down to drinking that shit or dying of thirst, I drink.”

Erica takes the container out of Robin’s hand and you watch as Robin goes over to the door, but your attention is still on Erica. 

“Erica, this literally looks like it will kill you,” you tell her and take it back from her.

“And?” she asks sarcastically, “So does Mountain Dew.”

“This isn’t Mountain Dew!” you tell her.

“Shh,” Robin tells you both and whispers, “They’re here.”

“Shit,” you say under your breath, “Let’s go up top.”

All three of you climb on top of the elevator and Robin carefully shuts the hatch behind her. You all gather around the ceiling grating and watch as two men open the door. They take some of the boxes and then hear them drive away in a vehicle.

Steve quickly hops down and props up the door with the container leaving only a foot of room to escape out of. Erica throws him her backpack and at the same time he is helping her under the door you go under the other side. Dustin crawls out right after you do then Robin rolls herself under closely followed by Steve. 

Right as he is passing under the door the canister starts to break and not a moment after he is through the door closes shattering it. You all watch as the liquid bubbles and then melts a hole through the floor.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve exclaims.

“Ooh!” Erica shouts.

You quickly turn to her and raise your finger to your lips, “Shh, we don’t know if anyone is around.”

“Look at it,” she tells you and walks closer.

You follow her to where the rest of them are investigating the hole in the floor, “Imagine if you drank that.”

“Yeah,” Robin adds, “You still wanna drink it?” 

Erica rolls her eyes at you both and leans in closer to look at the hole. You can’t help but join her out of curiosity leaning against Robin to peer into it.

“Holy mother of God,” you hear Dustin say from behind you.

When you turn around you see what looks like a never-ending hallway, “Oh, god.”

“Well,” Steve starts, “Hope you guys are in good shape.”

Then he walks past all of you into the hall. As he passes by Dustin he pats his chest, “Looking at you, roast beef.”

You all watch as Steve walks away, “Come on, let’s go,” Robin tells the three of you.

“Woah,” Dustin says, “Look at the supports, this place is awesome!”

You, Robin, and Erica watch as he runs to catch up with Steve who is further down the hall.

“Tell me why I think he is going to be annoying the entire time?” you ask them.

“When is he not?” Erica asks you.

“Probably,” Robin agrees with you, “But all I know is that me and him have very different definitions of awesome.”

“Well, he did just spend a whole month at a camp for science, so…” you say.

Robin yawns, “I should have slept last night instead like you guys,” she mumbles.

“Why didn’t you?” you ask her.

“She was up all night talking to Steve,” Erica teases her. 

Robin looks visibly uncomfortable, “Yeah, we were talking about how to open the door.”

“Uh huh,” Erica rolls her eyes and speeds up walking.

“We should have left the children up there,” Robin tells you.

“I know,” you say, “I grew up with my sister. I should have known not to get trapped with them.”

Both of you walk in silence for a minute until Robin breaks the silence.

“How long do you think this hallway is?” she asks you.

“I don’t know,” you tell her, “Forever?”

You were proven correct though, Dustin would not stop talking about the Russian basement that you all were currently trapped in.

“Look at all of the supports!” Dustin says enthusiastically.

“Yes, Dustin,” you tell him, “We’ve all seen the supports.”

“It’s just so cool,” he says to you.

“Ah, yes,” you say sarcastically, “So cool that we are trapped in a Russian secret base and no one knows where we are. And we don’t know how to get out.”

“I mean, you have to admit,” Dustin says, “That as a feat of engineering alone, this is impressive.”

“What are you talking about anyway?” Steve asks, “It’s a total fire hazard. There’s no stairs, there’s no exit, there’s just an elevator that drops you halfway to hell.”

“Their commies,” Erica says, “They don’t pay people, they cut corners.”

“To be fair to our Russian comrades,” Robin says, “I don’t think that this tunnel was designed for walking. Think about it, they designed the perfect system for transporting that cargo.”

“It all comes into the mall like any old delivery,” Dustin says.

“And then they load it up onto the trucks and nobody’s the wiser,” Robin says.

“Do you think that they built this whole mall so they could transport that green poison?” Steve asks.

“I mean it’s definitely possible,” you tell him, “But it’s just so weird to make it here, like, shouldn’t they be near the capital or something important.”

“I very seriously doubt that it’s something as boring as poison,” Dustin says, “It’s gotta be much more valuable, like promethium or something.”

“What the hell is promethium?” Steve asks.

“It’s what Victor Stone’s dad used to make Cyborg's bionic and cybernetic components,” Robin explains.

“You all are so nerdy,” Erica says and grabs her stomach, “It makes me physically ill.”

“No, no, no.” Steve denies, “Don’t lump me in with them. I’m not a nerd, all right?”

“Why so sensitive, Harrington?” Robin asks him, “Afraid of losing cool points to a ten-year-old child?”

“No, I’m just saying I don’t know jack shit about Prometheus,” he says.

“So what is it Steve?” you ask him, “Do her mean comments hurt your feelings that bad?”

“No,” Steve denies.

“Yeah, okay,” you tell him, rolling your eyes.

“All I’m saying is,” Dustin says, “It’s probably being used to make something.”

“Or power something,” Robin says.

“Like a nuclear weapon?” Dustin asks.

“Totally,” Robin says.

“Walking towards a nuclear weapon,” Steves says, “That’s great.”

“Do you wish you thought it was poison?” you ask him.

“If they are building something, why here?” Robin asks, “I mean, Hawkins. Seriously. Of all places.”

“That’s what I’m wondering,” you say, “Before I moved here I was not excited to be here.”

“Honestly, at the very best, we’re a toilet stop on your way to Disneyland,” Robin tells you, “Maybe that's it, we have the very best toilets.”

“What?” you ask her, “Robin, that makes zero goddamn sense.”

“I don’t know, maybe,” Robin says.

“Robin, be for real right now,” you say laughing and shaking your head, “No the fuck it's not.”

“You never know, they could-,” Robin stops talking and turns around, “I’m sorry, is there something you’d like to share with the class?”

When you turn you see Steve and Dustin both stop talking and then look at each other, obviously sharing a secret between the two of them. Unfortunately, before you can question them more you hear the radio pick up a signal, “Walkie,” they say in unison.

Erica kneels and puts her bag on the ground reaching in to grab the walkie. She hands it to Robin who pulls out the antenna all the way to better pick up the signal. The man speaks the same code you have listened to for the past few days.

“It’s the code,” Robin confirms with a smile.

“Wherever that broadcast is coming from-,” Dustin starts.

“It’s close,” Robin finishes, “And if there’s one thing we know about that signal…”

“It can reach the surface,” Dustin says.

“Let’s go,” Robin says and stands up to continue walking down the hall.

All of you stand up to follow after her down the hall, hopefully finding the long-awaited end. Unfortunately, as you draw closer you start to hear noise and at a certain point, you realize that the noises that you are hearing are the vehicles you saw earlier. As you turn a corner you see a few people in uniforms. Dustin and Erica run and hide behind a large metal crate, Robin pulls you into the small area followed closely by Steve.

All of you wait for a minute, listening for anyone who could have seen you. Steve peaks out and looks around making sure the coast is clear.

“Okay, clear,” Steve says and all of you follow him out, “Come on, let’s go.”

“Okay, that was close,” Robin says.

“Too close,” Dustin says.

“Relax,” Steve says, “All right? Relax, nobody saw…”

Steve stops in his tracks as he rounds a corner and when you see what he is looking at, you can’t help but have the same reaction. You see a whole bunch of people either in military uniforms or lab coats, and you even see radiation-proof gear. Which makes Robin’s idea of a nuclear bomb seem all that more real. More importantly, though, you see a mass amount of guns. All of you come to your senses and duck behind a wheeled cart. 

“Jesus!” Erica exclaims.

“Red Dawn,” Dustin says.

“I saw it,” Erica says, “First floor, northwest.”

“Saw what?” Steve asks.

“The comms room,” Erica tells him.

“You saw the comms room?” He asks.

“Correct,” Erica confirms.

“Are you sure?” Dustin asks.

“Positive,” Erica tells him, “The door was open for a second and I saw a bunch of lights and machines and shit in there.”

“That could be a hundred different things,” Steve tells her.

Robin looks back at you for a split second and then turns back to Steve, “I’ll take those odds.”

Steve sighs and shakes his head then looks in your direction, “And what about you?”

“I’m with her,” you tell him.

Steve shakes his head again and peers around the cart observing the Russians again which causes you all to look around the cart. The room, that Erica claims she knows is the comms room, is on the left of the hub probably 50 feet away. All of you move back behind the cart after a few moments.

“All right,” Steve says, “We’re gonna move fast, we’re gonna stay low. Okay?”

“Okay,” Robin says.

Steve crouches down and walks quickly to the crates a bit further down the hall, Robin follows closely after him with the children right behind her and you in the back. As soon as it’s clear Steve moves a bit further urging all of you to hurry. You all watch as one of the scientists opens the door and the five of you run into the room without alerting any of the Russians.

That is until you turn around and see a guard sitting in front of the comms table, who of course, notices you as soon as you all enter the room. He stands up and his face matches all of yours in the amount of surprise. 

Robin, in a moment of genius, or stupidity, starts speaking Russian to him and of course, you recognize the code right away. He reaches down slowly for his gun anyway and Robin steps forward with her hand out, trying presumably to calm him down. 

The man responds in Russian, which none of you are actually fluent in no matter how long of a week you had studying it. 

Robin, who must understand at least the basic idea of what he was trying to say, tells him in Russian, “Silver cat, silver cat.”

The man who still doesn’t look too convinced says something else which you don’t understand, Robin one last phrase which must make the guard realize that you guys really aren’t supposed to be there. But before he can aim his gun Steve lets out a bloodcurdling scream, rushes over, and tackles the man onto the panels. The Russian pushes Steve off of him onto another table and then swings at him, which Steve narrowly dodges. He then grabs Steve by his sailor's uniform and slams him onto a desk, Steve is able to get his bearings quickly, elbows him in the stomach, and then kicks him back. 

Steve moves over to the comms panel, picks up the receiver, then smashes the guard in the head which causes him to fall over and smash his forehead on the edge of the comms table, knocking him out. All of you are staring in shock at the events over the last 30 seconds all while Steve is still standing there as if he would wake back up at any second.

“Dude!” Dustin shouts, “You did it! You won a fight!”

Steve looks at him, then back down at the unconscious man, then back at Dustin and smiles. Dustin runs over to the guard and begins looting him. 

“What are you doing?” Erica asks him.

“Getting us our ticket out of here,” Dustin tells her.

“You want to walk all the way back?” Erica asks him.

“Well, Erica,” you say to her, “It’s either that or we wait here until the government comes and gets us. I’m gonna say it’s probably gonna be faster just to walk.”

“It took us hours to get down that hall,” she tells you.

“Yeah,” you say, “And the government isn’t exactly known for their response time,”

“While we are waiting why don’t we have a picnic, we can relax, and make nice with the Russians,” He tells her, “I’m sure they won’t just shoot us or torture us.”

“Have a picnic?” Erica says, ignoring the more concerning aspect of the conversation, “We came here for the radio.”

Behind the children bickering you see Robin climbing up a staircase, “Robin?” you call after her, “Where are you going?”

Instead of verbally answering you she reaches out her hand. You move to the stairs and take her hand in yours then make your way up the stairs. At the top, a faint blue light is emitted from beyond a glass door, as the two of you reach the top and look inside the room, you realize this is a lot more fucked than you could have possibly imagined. 

“Robin, what the fuck is that?” you ask her.

“I have no fucking clue,” she responds to you, gripping your hand a bit harder.

As the two of you descend the stairs you can hear Dustin and Erica arguing still, “Guys,” Robin says loud enough to get their attention and moves away from you, dropping your hand, “There’s something up there.”

“It’s, like, really freaky,” you tell them.

The three of them follow you up the stairs and go through the door into a room with glass windows. All of you look through the glass, astonished. Past the glass is a command room filled with scientists all working at a desk pressing various buttons or standing taking notes. Just past the last desk is a wall with floor-to-ceiling windows which reveal a large machine sitting in a cavern. 

The machine shoots out something that looks like lightning which is pointed at the cavern wall which is glowing orange with patterns that look almost like veins. But in the very center, a large crack is slowly growing. The likes of which you just don’t know how to describe. If you didn’t know any better you would almost say that the wall is coming to life.

Next Chapter

[roseofithaca]

Trapped (Part 2)

More torment for Silver (my oc). Turns out I'm not done. Mention of @idiotwithanipad 's oc Amy.

Robin is midway through laughing his arse off at the stand-up when his ears pick up at the sound. Guy on stage hadn't said anything funny, but how he was making an idiot of himself trying to make old-fashioned jokes that even a caveman like himself knew were past their prime, was rather hilarious. The others had grown tired of him or could no longer bear to cringe and watch him fail, and had departed up to whatever free rooms they would be sleeping in tonight.

By the time the clock strikes at eleven, it's only himself and a living woman who remains in the audience. And she's asleep, possibly soon to be dead too. Part of the reason he was hanging around was to see if she did go, and find out if they would have another ghost to join them or he'd get to see her move on.

That curiosity is superceded by the vibrations of the scream that tremble against his earlobe.

His nostrils flare. There's a strong scent of a particular salt on the wind. Human sweat.

Fear.

It's carried along with the scream.

Moonah Girl?

Robin flees from the ballroom and passes through the wall, taking the easy way down as opposed to the stairs. He hadn't quite mastered landing with the 'superhero pose' as his little friend had, one knee down, hand on the floor. Had he known there was such a cool way to land from such a height, he'd have been practising for the past six hundred years since the house was built. Instead he lands as he usually does, in an embarrassing collapse of fur and skin, colliding face first into the ground.

At least no one saw that, except for Moonah.

Wait....

Pushing himself up, Robin turned his gaze towards the sky. The rain was easing off but the clouds remained, blanketing the stars. But no Moonah. Shit.

How could he have forgotten?! He never forgot. He had one fucking job this night, every month, for nearly thirty years now. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Silver screams again. Louder now.

"Oh no, no..." If Mary were here, she'd kill him.

Never mind if he was already dead, she'd find a way to resurrect him, just to ensure he woke up on fire.

He jogs as quick as he can towards the woods. He's only a couple of hours late, it's not usually until midnight when the nightmares hit their peak. Must have began early. Maybe there was a greater disharmony between the earth and Moonah. Human science and understanding of time couldn't always be accurate.

Never before have her screams sounded this harrowing. More so than the night she died, when the growing seizures had silenced her as the pain intensified. It was as if there was something truly attacking her. Torturing her.

Not possible, he reminded himself with each pump of his foot as he picked up speed. He knew of no other ghost or entity in this land that could hurt her. He'd know, surely. That was his role, to protect and guard the tribe, forever. He'd know.

Just like he'd always remember to be with her on the night when Moonah was darkest?

"Me coming. Me coming." He promises with each breath. He'll wrap her up in his arms, he'll hold her, he'll sing the same lullaby as he had to his children when the demons came for them in their sleepy times.

As soon as he sets one fluffy boot in the woods, the screaming stops.

Robin holds his breath.

"Silver?" He calls, softly, ignoring that she shouldn't be able to answer.

Was she okay now? Had the terrors past?

He cautiously walks, briskly, through the dark woods, hearing nothing but the running of the shallow stream and the rustle of the leaves from the wind.

Then his eyes fall upon her bed.

Her empty bed.

Oh...

Gravity won the short battle, Robin collapsing forward onto his knees. He was too late. He'd been distracted by stupid unfunny man.

He'd missed the chance to say goodbye.

Just like with Mary. And Annie.

To be taken up on this night of all nights though...? People usually left at a moment of pure joy or peace or contementment, at least every time he'd been around to witness it. Silver had sounded as if a thousand wolves were tearing her limb from limb. Having heard one of his cousins die a similar fate, he could confirm that to be accurate.

Had the relief that had come once the terror had passed felt so euphoric that it allowed her to move on?

Sadness, regret, envy and happiness all swirled within him in an uneasy concoction. He should be glad for his Moonah girl. She was free now. Wherever she'd gone, hopefully she would no longer be bound by this sleeping curse. Moonah will it, she is now free to move and dance and speak without limitation, without the need to sleep unless desired.

He prays that she has found Mary, that the two are embracing among the stars. Hopefully she gets to meet some of the other awesome people he's known throughout the centuries. Maybe even his kids, she can tell them how dear old dad is getting on, how much he misses them.

She would do that, he believes. She was good and kind and brave and a little crazy but in the best way.

Robin sniffs, wiping the tears from his eyes as he looks over her bed again. Where once there had been only the blue of the cornflowers, they now mixed with violets and roses and lilies, all arranged by Alison, along with the mini statues of her Hellenic gods and (electric) black candles. And the plaque in the old oak tree at the head which read her name.

Louise Smith. 1985 - 2004

Known to her friends, who love her beyond life itself, as Silver Robyn Ravenstar.

May She party forever with the Goddesses and Gods. So mote it be.

Robin staggered to his feet. And bowed.

"Me will miss you. Sweet Moonah girl."

He'll have to tell the others.

Fuck. Kitty and Amy will be fast asleep. Should he wait until morning? Perhaps he'll tell everyone else, including Humphrey and Pat, and they can help break the news to the young women about their friend. He ignores the rapidly festering pain in his chest as he focuses on how this will devestate them, and the best things he can say or do to lessen that pain.

They can help him pick out her star. They can plan a memorial with Alison after she's told as well.

Move on. Carry on. Can't do this every time.

Shut out the pain, close the heart, onwards. Ever onwards, Rohr.

He should probably do a sweep of the grounds to make sure she's truly gone. Check every last nook and cranny. But he's sure that he would be able to smell her. That scent of sage and fungus that followed her every step. A lingering presence of it remained over her bed, but that was to be expected, given how often she laid there. Perhaps it would always smell of her. He hoped it would.

Straightening up, he took a deep breath, then turned his back to leave the wood.

From inside the tree, donned with the plaque which carried both her names, Silver watched her savior walk away.

Come back. Robin, please come back.

Can't call out. Can't cry. Can't move.

The creature's arms tighten around her, pungent drool falling from its fangs as its mouth lingers next to her ear. The saliva burns like acid as it hits her shoulder.

"Mine." It continues to taunt. Forever more, "Mine."

[multi-royalty-arc]

caroline is dead ,  how is krissy dealing with it ?  //  she’s inconsolable .  words of condolences don’t penetrate .  she’s a picture of cold ,  unmoving fortress even during caroline’s funeral .  anyone who seemed to be on their way to chambers would halt their approach upon witnessing dead eyes .  &  those who were brave enough ,  cooing to her with  ‘ i’m sorry for your loss .  i know she was very important to you .  ‘  would be met with a cruel ,  harsh huntress .  RAGE  being her primary source of energy ,  the thing that was fueling her to keep going at this point .  ❛  NO  ,  you have no fucking idea who she was to me .  so don’t act like you know anything .  ❜  &  it would be rinse  &  repeat .  more people ,  more unwanted apologies that she had no use for .  what was an i’m sorry going to do ?  it wouldn’t bring her back .   NOTHING COULD . it wouldn’t be until later that overwhelming grief would latch onto her lungs ,  render her so nauseous that if she’d eaten anything in days prior stomach contents would surely be emptied .  krissy enters her apartment ,  slowly closing the door only to lean against it .  head resting back ,  eyes closing as chest finally heaved .  breaths escalating in desperate pants ,  rising  &  falling hurriedly but it wasn’t enough .  krissy couldn’t bring herself to look at her home ,  one that not only provided her comfort but for caroline too .  it no longer felt like anything to her anymore .  there was no warmth ,  no sense of safety . . .  because there was no caroline .  &  there was no point in any of it .  ALONE ,  she was alone in the world again .  it wasn’t fucking fair .  ❛  you said forever ,  care .  ❜  krissy grits to the empty room .  lifeless .  everything looked too in order .  too pristine .  it reminded her of the vampire ,  but what else was new .  EVERYTHING REMINDED HER OF CAROLINE .  jaw jutted out as the first trails of tears decorated pained countenance in wet streaks ,  dripping off her chin as she dropped her bag to the ground .  scanning all of her belongings .  no ,  they belonged to the version of krissy who still had ties to this place .  ties with this town .  the version of krissy chambers that stood there  NOW  was merely a shell .  this place wasn’t hers .  not anymore .  ❛  i can’t do this .  ❜  words are whimpered ,  pitched higher as they left constricted throat .  she looked to her left ,  a picture of a random painting hanging on the wall .  quick fingers ripped it from its hook ,  bloodshot eyes skimming over it before impulsivity took over .  ❛  not without you .  i don’t want to .  ❜  then her arm gears back ,  &  with all of her might framed is smashed against the wall .  glass shattering  &  wood splintering .  a prominent dent left behind as she watches dismantled pieces clatter to the floor .  a switch is flipped ,  mind shuts down  &  EVERYTHING GOES BLACK . when she comes to krissy is in the midst of complete destruction that was once recognizable .  now every inch of the ground was covered in sharp shards  &  parts of herself .  room purged of everything that triggered any form of memory of miss mystic high ,  angel with whisps of blonde hair  &  cerulean eyes that  SAW  krissy chambers .  looked at her heart  &  still loved her .  her own ears barely process that ugly , graveled sobs are coming from her own throat .  form curling in on herself as  FINALLY she’s freed of dark ,  grueling anger that had been eating her  ALIVE .  in its wake leaving that horrid heaviness ,  that  HOLE  in her chest  that she would have to bear the weight of that only seemed to grow bigger as days went on .  shoulders shook  &  cracked as she lowered to the ground ,  not caring that smooth skin landed on razors ,  that sanguine now seeped onto the rug .  ❛  please ,  come back to me . . .  ❜

My muse is dead. Tell me how yours is dealing with it.

Death wasn't even the worst of it. She'd died countless times, meeting the darkness for a short while but she always came back, but when a vampire meets its end with a stake to the heart there is no redemption. Caroline's body had desiccated in the woods cold and alone but still, that wasn't the worst of it. Caroline's spirit passed to the other side, and that was the worst of it. She could see, hear and even feel everyone's emotions but none hurt quite as much as Krissy's.

The huntress who so unexpectedly had been the light of very many dark tunnels. When they'd first met, neither of the pair had expected to form a friendship like the one they had. It happened to fast, yet it was so natural. The coming together of two lost souls searching for their place to call home. Something Caroline certainly had found in Krissy.

The other side was cold, and grey. Yet she could see everything perfectly. Watching as the news was broken to the huntress had broken Caroline's own heart. Her best friend and soul mate completely shattered.

❛  you said forever ,  care .  ❜ 

❛  I'm still here Krissy ❜ 

Except she wasn't- and she would never be. Caroline had always talked about outliving Krissy, because that was the inevitable right? that the vampire would long surpass the lifetime of the human. WRONG.

Having to helplessly watch from the other side as her friend spiralled through grief felt like a punishment for the unfilled promise. ❛ I will always be here for you Krissy, no matter what. ❜ but where was she now? A lonely spirit cupping the cheeks her distraught friend. Pleading that she could feel it. That if Krissy looked up just at the right tome she'd see Caroline's pools of blue staring back at her, but instead she witnesses the destruction. Feeling the bouts of anger, rage and pure hurt that Krissy is going through. Her huntress, broken.

❛  please ,  come back to me . . .  ❜

❛  I never left . . .  ❜

At least.. she'd never meant to. All Caroline could do now was hope, by still walking at the side of her friend, one day she'd be able to send a sign. Or that there would be some kind of spell- something to bring her back. How long would life on the other side last? Is this where she would stay to watch as her friend aged.. alone.

It wasn't supposed to be like this, yet there was not way of setting things right.