#i feel like my body and a large part of me has died and i've metamorphosed jesus i'm a phoenix bitch rising from the ashes

[heyitsmemel]

...... mehhhh personal complaining in the tags (tw illness)

[simpjaes]

ONE OF THE DAMNED GIRLS PT.1 (P.SH)

Moving to a city with wild nights and charming days felt like the perfect choice in your head upon finishing college. Hours away from home, you accept a job at a local museum ironically placed dead between a large historic cathedral and a booming gothic nightclub. You were meant to curate the art, not be curated yourself by a local priest who found you with buckled knees outside of said goth club. ― part two here!! | MINORS DNI

PAIRING ― vampire park sunghoon x afab reader  

WORDCOUNT ― 20.4k

CONTENT ―  modern vampire sunghoon, cathedral/chapel settings, blasphemous behavior, false holy facades, the main vampire trope i use is the act of drinking blood, luring, and living forever, heavy manipulation and toxic behaviors, mentions of reader being alt/goth

SIDE CHARACTERS―  jungwon as your very very best friend who has an installation at the museum (you guys are attached at the hip), jay as the hot bisexual bartender at the goth club, some goth guy named balor 

!WARNINGS! ― dubious consent (due to the act of mind manipulation), hunting and playing victim, a lot of blood: blood sucking, wounds/puncturing, menstruation in a sexual light, manipulation, near-death experiences, fainting, talk of death, acts of mind control/luring 

NOTE ― here is part one of the first vampire fic i've ever felt compelled to write in my life. shout out to me, myself, and i for being entirely deranged and coming up with on a whim based on a song a lovely anon sent to me. this is semi-proof read, and does require two parts to get the full story.

tags under cut

smut tags [ these tags refer to both parts of the fic] ― big meat sunghoon, biting, A LOT OF BLOOD, sucking and drinking of blood obv, pussy eating (once while reader is menstruating, and another time where she isn’t), deep penetration, rough sex, unprotected sex bc like…he’s dead so lmfao, missionary, scratching, dirty talk, body worship, praise, jungwon is involved in a bit of an erotic situation but there is not smut involving him, 

other tags [ these tags refer to both parts of the fic]― depictions of death, anti-religious language, the act of dying including intense descriptions of the feeling, mentions of pimping and human trafficking, corrupt government, dead nuns, funerals

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Upon moving to this city, all you have in your mind is the future. Of what could possibly come of you here? The museum is truly beautiful, propped in the center of the historic district, a mere ten or so blocks from your newly renovated apartment. 

Years worth of study has led you here and honestly you’re sure you never would have found this city as lovable as it is if it weren’t for those credit hours you poured into art history and architecture. Truly, you feel at home here. Especially working within the historic district at that beautiful museum. 

The rest of the city is quite modern. A bit boring to look at if you’re being honest but, thankfully, your place of work offers much for the eye to devour. The museum itself is quite victorian, with rococo styling throughout. Many could call this an eye sore, but you find yourself loving every inch of the place. You feel like a willow wisp in the clutches of that museum, and honestly you’re more than excited to grow bored of seeing such beauty on a day to day basis. 

Across the street sits another old building, also victorian in style. The large and tacky sign glowing with neon lights that reads “AFTER LIFE” goes to show that it’s very clearly a club. And the attire of those who go to and fro through the doors only further proves that it’s more than just that. It’s a goth club. 

Which, arguably, high-school you would’ve died to be able to attend. Thankfully, that little goth girl inside of you still lives strong and surely the club will be a place you’ll frequent during your free time. It’s not too hard to dress the part considering you are an art loser. The majority of your clothing consists of black, colored hair, and wild make up anyway. All you gotta do is forego the ratty coveralls or the typical business quirky you go for at work and you’re good to go. 

Last but not least regarding the charm of the historic district, your favorite site. One that is so profound to you and likely everyone else who visits this town mostly because, well, there isn’t much mention of it on any website regarding the city. In fact, you weren’t aware that such a place existed here until the day you came to view your apartment for the first time. 

Seeing it loom from the apartment window very nearly had you sign the lease without so much as looking at the cabinet space or the bathroom setup. 

No, nothing in that historic district, absolutely nothing in this city, rivals that of the cathedral that towers above both the club and museum. 

There, parked just three blocks down from your place of work, sits the cathedral. Clearly old but well maintained, you can just tell that the building has seen more than enough through the passing decades. The arches are pointed and towering, and the flying buttresses only further your heart to beat with love and admiration for what men could build at one point in time. 

You’ll never understand why the preferred style these days consists of primary shapes, anyway. Boxes, cones, spheres. Never twisting hallways or nooks and crannies to hide in. You miss the depth of which buildings used to be. Inside practically a maze, outside a wondrous presentation of knife-sharp features. So intricate, so many lines to trace.

What a shame to find yourself living in a space that’s a mish-mash of perfect boxes, but it’s not so bad when the window offers a daydream, at least. 

You’re in love each time you gaze upon the building, actually. It’s a forever reminder that no human being on this earth could make you feel such excitement. Perhaps you’re just a nerd for gothic architecture though. Honestly, it’s a shame that this cathedral seems to be a forgotten gem despite how it’s blatantly visible at almost any view point in the city. 

Fortunately for you, this only goes to show that the historic district is just that. There for those who admire, and not for those who gawk. There seems to be rarely any stray humans making their way down this street without at least an inkling of interest in the ancient life that’s been breathed here. 

If anything, the streets are filled with what you can assume to be open-minded individuals. Your first day at work showed that much. Tattooed bodies, pierced faces, wild hair, even wilder attire. Yes, you feel right at home. 

And despite the excitement of living in a new city where you seem to fit like a puzzle piece, life can still grow boring after a certain amount of time has passed. For you, it’s taken about three weeks of training, well-slept nights, and cozy days. 

Even through the summer, the nights still have a chill in the air. Which is nice but even your night-time walks have become an auto-pilot task that offers nothing new to your forever hungry brain. So, with the weekend fast approaching, you figure there’s no better time than now to dust off those hot platform boots you bought on a whim years ago and have yet to wear. 

You’re going to the booming “after life”. 

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Well.

“After life” is certainly a perfect name for the club if the intensity of the drinks alone is anything to go by. Inside is adorned with stark black walls and silver trim, loads upon loads of purple and red curtains, women and men near-nude wrapped in straps and chains. 

It only took two drinks to see the black painted walls as a beautiful void in space with wonderful dancing bodies falling into it. You can’t stop smiling through the warmth in your cheeks and dancing to deep bass with husky voiced music. Your arms stay in the air as you dance, and you welcome any dancing partner up until your third drink. 

God, the drinks are strong. Or perhaps it’s just the specific drink you’ve grown partial to. One they call “Red Death”, which according to the handsome bartender, was quite popular in the 90s. You see exactly why it was so popular, considering it basically hit you like a fucking truck in the middle of this club and has you stumbling out the front door without so much as remembering why your feet are moving in the first place. 

Unsure of how much time has passed since you got here, you nearly forget the extra five inches under your feet as you stumble your way through the heavy doors in front of the club. A kind bouncer with the whites of his eyes tattooed helps you with your balance as you step out, chuckling and noting that you’re definitely new here.

His strong hold on you is kind and gentle compared to the bouncers outside of the clubs back home, and despite how drunk you are, you still feel as safe as you do inside of your own apartment when he gives you a small “woah there.”

Thankfully, he keeps to himself after helping you regain balance, once again unlike most bouncers at clubs. You’re left to your own drunken plans now as you wobble around the building in search of a bench to sit on and sober up. Thankfully, that very bench is found sitting lonely on the backside of the building. You can still hear the muffled music from inside, but you’re currently spinning and able to hear just about anything, you think. 

You hear your ass thump to the ground when you try to take a seat, missing the bench completely and falling a full two feet with your head hitting the bricked wall behind you. 

Honestly, all you can do is laugh at yourself as you hold your head. The fall didn’t hurt, and thank fuck no one is around to have witnessed that from you. To think your senses are enhanced at this moment is quite a feat, considering you were so focused on hearing everything that you completely forgot to determine which of the two benches in your drunken vision was the real one.

And as you accept your seat on the ground as the space you’ll sober up in, your senses prove yet again to at least be slightly more amplified than usual. 

A heavy scent of cinnamon wafts through your nose as you breathe in the brisk summer air and immediately you try to adjust your eyes to whatever the scent is coming from. Or, whoever.

Then, a cold hand on your shoulder. You didn’t even see him before smelling or feeling him, but somehow, your vision adjusts immediately as if you’re not drunk at all.

In fact, looking at the man is entirely sobering. 

“Child, temptation has you by the throat.”

“I’m no child.” You scoff at the voice reaching your ears, frustrated as you try to chase the fizzling drunk feeling. A waste of money, you could say, to lose the dizzy feeling so fucking fast. 

The man stands in front of you, clad in black, offering a gentle smile. 

You can imagine you look a mess, sitting on the ground outside of a night club, but that should be expected you’d think. 

“It’s a figure of speech.” The man shrugs with a chuckle. “Now, now. Allow me to help you, my dear, you are in no shape to be left to your own devices.”

You look up at him, noting that the man appears to be a priest. What kind of priest wanders around goth clubs this time of the night? 

Then again, you don’t even know what time it is. What you do know is that you’re nearly entirely sober now for some fucking reason, and you absolutely can be left to your own devices. 

“No, I’m fine. I don’t live too far.” You shake your head at him, but he pulls you up anyway. 

Oh, a rush of woozy nausea. Your ankles buckle immediately upon trying to stand and the man simply keeps his smile aimed at you. 

“My conscience will not allow me to leave you be.” He says, taking your arm and leading you further down the street.

You’re unsure as to why you don’t fight him on it now. There’s a feeling in your body that tells you to go with him, and who are you to fight it? 

Strangely enough, your eyes sparkle as he leads you straight to that very cathedral that floods your thoughts on most weekdays during work. So big, so beautiful, so otherworldly to see so closely. 

You stare up at the towering building even as he helps you through the doors, and then your eyes immediately adjust to the vaulted ceilings and darkened stained glass windows with only the moonlight shining through. 

God, it’s more beautiful inside. 

You’re entirely mesmerized by the building, blinking up at every inch of the walls and ceiling. It’s pristine inside compared to the outside, and the floors shine so beautifully even in the low-light. Your boots stomp with each step against the well-maintained floors, to the point you can feel the vibrations running from your toes to the top of your head. 

You can feel your skin tighten at the viewing experience, every hair on your body raising in euphoria, pupils growing wide and dark. You smile, feeling your face flush as if you’ve got a man between your legs. There is no man though though, no. Just big arches and echoed footsteps.

It’s simply too beautiful to comprehend with a semi-drunken brain for the first time. 

The man saunters through the building with you in tow a bit too quickly than you’d prefer though. You try to soak in the image of the main chapel before he leads you away from it, and thankfully you caught a decent look at the gold and silver adornments surrounding a centered altar. The figure within the altar didn’t quite get more than a glance, but you could have sworn it was no religious figure that you know the name of. 

And then, within three blinks, you’re in a corridor where whispering nuns look on. Their voices sound high-pitched even in a whisper but it slows your heart rate down to that of near sleep. Drowsiness overtakes you as you blink out of sync, barely able to comprehend that you should be at home rather than in this wondrous and magnificent building with a strange priest. 

Still, even as the corridor grows less and less extravagant, where the stomping of your boots on the floor turns to that of breaking up dust and weighing down creaking wood, you find it all the more beautiful behind your heavy-lidded eyes.

The deeper into the cathedral you go, the older it becomes. Where electricity turns to candles, and then candles turn to pure moonlight shining through stained glass windows. 

Even up the spiraling concrete stairs, you feel your feet carry you more than the priest with his back turned to you. He wouldn’t need to lead you through this building at all, as the feeling in your gut would likely have you explore the place inch by inch if you were given the permission. 

Still, even while your mind is sober but your body is drunk, you find it hard to believe that people still reside here. Never once seeing anyone come from the cathedral since being in this city. And trust, you have honestly stared at it day after day during work. 

That means nothing to you now though, considering you’re inside the building, being led to a small room for sleep where your sleepy eyes devour the small bed against the wall.

The man who led you here lends no more words or thoughts to you as he steps inside, presents the room to you, and then quickly leaves with that same smile he gave you outside of the club. 

A nun replaces him with light and silent footsteps, running past you to fluff the flattened pillow on the bed. Another came in behind her with a small bowl of crackers and a glass of water. She holds out the bowl and glass, urging you to take them from her. 

Naturally, you do. Popping a cracker into your mouth and instantly feeling it soak up any saliva in your mouth, leaving it feeling dry and sore before you sip the water. And with a nod from the two nuns, they leave you be. 

This room appears to be that for refuge, surely for those the church takes in when they’re in need of a warm bed and some food. 

You smile, saying nothing as you sit down on the bed and place the glass and bowl on the small ledge by the window. There, you take off your boots and flop back without so much as sinking under the thin covers, and you fall asleep as if there’s nowhere else on this earth you’d rather be. 

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

The sun feels warm against your face when you stir from your slumber. Your eyes feel heavy though, so you simply lay here and breathe in the strange heavy air. Your eyebrows furrow at the feeling of the bed beneath you. Stiff, hard, uncomfortable. Clearly, you’re not at home. 

And, well, that’s when the happenings of last night dawn on you. You can barely comprehend what the helpful priest looked like, better yet how long it took for your feet to carry you to this room.

When you open your eyes and squint to look out of the stained window, most of the city is distorted through the tinted colors, but you can tell that you’re quite high up in the building. Then again, the throbbing in your feet could have probably told you that. 

Still, sitting in this bed now feels much more uncomfortable than it did when you initially laid down. Your head pounds as you pinch the bridge of your nose, squinting around the room and trying to grasp your memory. 

The only thing you remember is the cold hand that guided you here and every beautiful inch of the cathedral. Which can only mean, you have no fucking idea how to get out of here.

Oh, the horror and embarrassment of needing to search for someone to help you leave feels unfamiliar and uncomfortable. Surely, if you’re silent with your feet, you can search the halls until you manage to find a back door, right? At least the route would be scenic and interesting if you can manage it.

And, well, you do try. Searching for a staircase the moment you leave your room simply because you know that the only way home is down at least a hundred steps. Strangely enough, your instincts seem to know exactly where to go. 

Somehow.

Your socked feet carry you straight downstairs and to the main cathedral. You weren’t necessarily expecting to find a room full of people upon entering the space either. After all, if it were Sunday perhaps you’d have to drag your hungover ass past a crowd participating in Sunday mass. 

Despite never seeing a soul enter this cathedral save for yourself and that priest. 

Weird, there are a few people with bowed heads sitting in the pews of the main chapel. All appear to be clad in black and gold, one or two others with silver. Not entirely cloaked but still incredibly eerie from behind as you look on with each silent foot step. 

And suddenly, your body freezes. 

There, at the center of the altar stands a stoic man. Posture so straight you could argue he is nothing but an ancient statue. Behind him, you note that there is an actual statue of a figure standing much the same, far too distant to make out the face of. 

Only for a moment do you recall glancing at the statue from the night before, noting how it resembled no god nor deity that you’re aware of. It doesn’t even resemble a human the longer you stare at it, actually.

Ah. Yes. The vibes in this cathedral are off. From your feet somehow knowing the place as if it’s your own home to the silent chapel bowing their heads to an even more silent man standing frozen in the center. If at all, you feel like you’ve been caught in a photo, stuck with your feet on this single tile with the front doors just out of your reach. 

That is, until one of those whispering nuns makes her way to you, tapping your shoulder with a nod and a very quiet, “Shall I see you out?” 

And she does, opening the large doors for you and closing them behind you without so much as a sound. 

Strange, because you remember the echo of those doors closing from the night before. But whatever, you guess, as you’re assaulted with the bright afternoon sun forcing your eyes to tear up. 

You take a step through the flash-bang of summer air, slowly adjusting your eyesight to the very museum you work at. Bustling with your co-workers who are made to work this weekend, you try to avoid being seen. After all, as a new employee, the last thing you need is to be perceived as a hungover mess while walking out of that weird fucking cathedral with nothing more than socked feet and a pair of stompers held against your chest.

And so, you make the short trek home, thankful for the walkable city but entirely unthankful for the charming weather your realtor promised for this time of the year. It’s fresher than you’d like for it to be outside today, the warm sun keeping you at a perfect temperature while the cold breeze offers a shiver here and there. 

You’re not sure why it pisses you off. It’s probably the headache that only pounds harder and harder with each step you take. 

Finally, you make it to your apartment. You feel cold when you step inside the lobby and make your way up. Somehow you feel even colder when find yourself at the window, gazing at the same cathedral you just spent the night in, looking hazy in the afternoon sun. 

It looms there in the city, with its elder rooted walls and pointed arches. Still so beautiful, still so mysterious, still so fucking luring. 

Even after sleeping there, and even after you felt the vibrations inside skew your comfort, it stands out not only in the city, but in your brain. With the modern city only forcing it to stick out like a sore thumb, you can argue that the city could be just as old and still that cathedral would offer a shiver down your spine. 

Your head pulses at the sunlight shining through your window, forcing your eyes from the darkened haunt, and you’re quick to make your way to the kitchen to rummage for something to help with the headache. 

And by the time you flop down on your couch, you drift back to sleep, realizing that you’re not entirely sure if you slept at all the night before. Despite waking up, despite not remembering a thing from after you laid down, and despite feeling rejuvenated in every aspect aside from sleep. 

That rejuvenation strangely drains you more as you drift to sleep, finding it so unnatural that you willingly slept in a maze filled with no face you can put a name to.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Making your first friend feels good. Weeks worth of pretending and hoping you and your co-workers would somehow become besties outside of the museum walls fell short, after all. Not that you don’t consider them friends, it’s more so just the fact that they’re all a bit too stoic and up-tight for you. 

You’re quite a bit younger as well. You can tell that they lost their spark for creating art years ago, if they ever even created it in the first place, anyway. It’s all just curating, curating, curating for them. An eye for beauty only, which is respected and appreciated but still, no eye for fun outside of these walls though. 

That’s where Jungwon comes in. A young artist with first-installation jitters dimpling his cheeks as he offers the smallest “hello” that you think you’ve ever heard from another person. 

He’s similar to you in the way he dresses. He works hard, amazing you with each piece of his collection that’s pulled from a tightly packed box, filled with bubble wrap and slammed with “FRAGILE” stickers. 

Arguably, you don’t need to be friends with your co-workers when you have artists like him coming in and out every few months. He’s quite lively, very excited, and almost clumsy in the way he carries himself. 

You were endeared with him the moment you met him and honestly just three days in, the two of you are practically attached at the hip as you push and work hard alongside him to set up the installation as perfectly as possible for the following weekend. 

And, well, the first showing went off without a hitch. His smiling face could have been seen for miles, you think, as you watch him mingle and blush at each compliment and critique of his work.

So bright. 

So full of life.

The exact person you’d want to be around. 

“Jungwon–” You elbow him in the side as he nods and shakes hands through each farewell while the museum comes to its close for the night. “It’s Friday.” You smile. 

He nods you off, paying close attention to each face that came to visit his work. And only when the halls are empty does he make his way back to you with a deep exhale and a loud, relieved groan. 

“Finally.” He huffs, blowing a strand of his hair up and into the air. “Just fifty nine more days to go.” 

You roll your eyes fondly at him already counting down until the two of you are scheduled to take down his work. 

“You do know you only need to be here for opening night, right?” You laugh.

“Well, yeah.” He shrugs. “But it’s my first installation, I worry some kid will come wipe his snotty nose all over my hard work.” 

You chuckle, he chuckles, and then you turn to face him. 

“So, it’s Friday.” 

He bounces on his feet. 

“Yeah, glad to see you seem to grasp the idea of fleeting time and whatnot.” He looks at you with a mischievous smile. “What about it?”

“We should go out. The club across the street has really strong drinks for half the price as most places.” 

You watch as Jungwon’s eyes shine when they flick behind you to glance out the window. Then his face falls, his eyebrow raises, and he tilts his head. 

“You do realize we’ve been here for like, eighteen hours straight, right?” 

You nod casually with a shrug.

“I live super close by, if we get tired, you can just crash on my couch.” 

He pretends like he thinks it over for more than two seconds before ultimately accepting the offer of fun. 

“Cool. Wanna meet me there in an hour? I should probably change and stuff first.” 

You eye over his outfit, and then give yourself a quick glance. 

“Good plan.” You smile, backing away and throwing your bag over your shoulder. “An hour. Be there.” 

You both nod in agreement and go your separate ways. Sleepy, but entirely willing to celebrate Jungwon’s huge accomplishment with drinks that have already proven to be too strong. 

The hour passes quickly, wearing that same pair of boots for a second time now that you have the perfect place and reason to stomp around in them. This time, you even go as far as darkening your lips and smearing your mascara just a smidge. After all, you’re definitely gonna get drunk and your makeup will be smeared by the end of the night regardless. 

You gasp upon seeing Jungwon’s chosen attire, offering him an “Ooooh” the second you walk up to him. He had been leaning against the front doors of the museum, as if he’s simply an on looker and not a working artist with a top-notch showcase within those walls. 

He lends you a matching “Ahhhh” upon seeing your chosen outfit. Both of you somehow match in a way that makes this appear more like a date night rather than friends getting drinks. Which is kind of cute and a welcomed idea if the two of you have one to many and accidentally start making out or something. 

It feels platonic enough to laugh off in the morning, anyway. And really, while his boots don’t lend him extra height, he stomps around in them much like you do your own. With his black knit sweater littered in frays and pulled yarn, and his hair intentionally messed up. 

“Wonnie,” You offer the nickname easily as you grab onto his arm and check the street for cars before beginning to cross. “I think some eyeliner could finish off your look.” You laugh as the two of you practically prance with heavy boots to the club. 

He smiles at the nickname, hiding his face only slightly in his sweater when he blinks back at you with sparkly eyes. 

“Really?” He smiles, dimples on full display for the tattooed bodies lined up outside, already checking out the artist. 

“Yeah, oh–” You huff, digging in your small shoulder bag. “I have some, let’s do the finishing touch.” 

And when the two of you stand at the back of the line, you do just that. Carefully holding his cheek in one hand and lining the lower lashes on his left eye. 

He doesn’t even close his eyes, and instead looks up into the night sky with that same dimple showing. Blinking every few seconds at the sensitivity, ignoring the fact that his eyes start to prickle at the feeling. 

“It tickles,” He chuckles in a hushed whisper, never having a friend be so close to his face like this before. “How do you manage to do this every day?”

“I guess you just get used to it after a while.” You focus on the way the darkened color brings his eye to seem more catty than it already was, taking your thumb and swiping the bottom lid to smear the charcoal makeup.

You note how innocent and shining his other eye looks compared. Nevertheless, you go to rest your hand on his other cheek now.

Just for a moment, his eyes flash down to look at you. So, so close to his face. Instantly, you lend him a pause and your own smile. 

“You’re blushing.” You laugh, holding your hand steady in wait as he shifts his weight to the other leg out of natural nervousness. 

“Sorry,” He whispers out, blinking frantically to prepare for his other eye to tickle. “I’m not used to being this close to someone.”

Ah, you don’t believe that for a second.

“Look up.” You instruct, already lining his other lashes. “Feels like I’m putting the finishing touches to a masterpiece.” You add in a lame chuckle, feeling a little flustered yourself the more you note how his eyes water at the tickle. They shine so pretty.

He laughs out at your comment, a hand shooting to your wrist as you smear the liner on him. Not to be intimate or anything, just simply to steady your hand more.

“I guess I am kinda the canvas like this, huh?” He comments, standing as still as he can while looking up at the moon. “Hey–”

“Hm?” You say, pulling your hand back now and doing the same with your thumb to smear the make up into perfection on his flawless little face. 

“What kind of gum is that?” He asks, blinking a few times before adjusting his eyes properly and pretending like he can’t feel the waxy substance caked on his lashes. 

“Just regular spearmint.” You give him a half smile. “Why, you want a piece?” 

He nods, mostly because if he had known you were going to get this close to his face, he probably would have already had some type of candy in his mouth.

Again, it’s not like he has feelings or anything. It’s just, well, it’s always intimate to have someone so close to you. In your space. Your bubble. No one ever gets that close unless they want to kiss. Or, he guesses, if they’re putting eyeliner on you. 

“You look really cute,” You comment now, stepping back after giving him a piece of gum and looking over how the smeared makeup really does complete his look. “Should’ve brought one of my chokers too. Now that, yeah.” 

“Huh?” He tilts his head as the two of you move up the line. “You’re really into this kind of scene aren’t you?”

You nod shyly. 

“Was a total mall goth back when I was a teenager. I would’ve stalked you around the mall if you looked like this back then, really. Totally my type.”

He lends a bashful blink and a half-hearted laugh, stuffing his hands into his pockets and looking to the ground. 

“Well, when I was a teenager I looked like the person who invented calculus.” 

“And now you’re just a little work of art, huh?” You continue the cringey art-jokes, mostly because you like the way he tries to pretend they’re funny rather than utterly horrifying. 

And he does smile at it, ears flowing with heat as he blushes. He probably wouldn’t feel so shy if it weren’t for the fact that he also heard compliments all day about his art. He’s a bit sensitive right now.

“I guess so.” He accepts your compliment like all the others, lifting his shoulder to his cheek with a squinted eye. It’s nice to feel like the world’s favorite person for a night, truly.

And the conversation is even easier from here on out. Albeit, a bit flirty but it stills platonic enough to where the two of you are just…in a comfortable little bubble surrounded by faces you don’t know. Perhaps playing the part of being two individuals who came to a club together rather than separately and alone. 

As the hours pass, there are several strangers approaching the two of you. Words of “need a third?” and “well aren’t you two just fucking perfect?” 

Jungwon basks in it, snickering quietly with you but never denying a single accusation. The two of you play along. Drinking, dancing, and then more drinking. Up until Jungwon decides he’s held his bladder long enough and is off in search of a bathroom while you make your way to the bar. 

For more drinks, of course. Not to hit on the bartender you met the first time you came here.

“Another red death?” The man with inky red hair smiles at you, already grabbing a glass and starting your drink. 

“Yes but, can I actually–” You pause, glancing at the other man behind the bar. 

Red haired man laughs knowingly with a nod and a side eye before pointing silently at his co-worker and raising a brow at you.

You nod back, dipping your face only slightly when you see him take two steps back and whisper to the man. 

Instantly, you feel a bit more shy over asking to be served by this guy but goddamn. His dark hair looks slightly damp when his eyes glance to you upon whatever is being whispered in his ear, probably from something spewing in his face after being shaken up, or perhaps from sweat. 

You try to avoid eye contact under the man’s gaze when he walks over and in front of you. Sharp jaw, silver chain, loose black t-shirt revealing equally as damp collar bones.

God. The shirt is sticking to him. 

“Babe, my eyes are up here.” He laughs, holding an empty cup and leaning on the bar towards you. “Had a little too much to drink again?” 

You nod, dazed by his dark eyes before immediately shaking your head. 

“Red death, please. Two of them.” 

The man nods with a knowing smile. 

“I saw that you came here with someone.” 

He’s flirting. Mostly for tips but it’s not like he hasn’t been known to take people home from work before so, wherever it goes is where it goes for him. 

“Jay, can you grab me the-” The red haired bartender says from behind, and Jay, presumably, hands him a bottle without so much as letting him finish the sentence. 

“He’s cute.” Jay continues talking to you, enjoying the way you don’t realize how you fold in on yourself. “Any reason as to why you asked me to make your drink?”

“Um, oh,” You were gonna be bold, but you feel Jungwon suddenly clinging to you from behind, eyeing the bartender just like you are. “I just think you make them better.” 

“Did he just say I’m cute?” Jungwon whispers behind your ear, watching the man’s hands as he makes the drinks with expert knowledge. 

“You’re both cute.” The bartender smirks, looking between both of you and then offering a wink. “This round is on me.” He adds, sliding both cups forward and brushing your hand just for a moment before turning his attention to someone else. 

Honestly, it’s like you and Jungwon are the same person at this moment when you grab your drinks and you turn to face each other. 

Both of you, bouncing on your feet with whispered squeals over the hot bartender including both of you in the compliment. 

“Oh my god.” You stare forward, tasting the drink and noting that there somehow seems to be more alcohol in this one. “He’s so–”

Jungwon nods to you excitedly, sipping his drink quickly before glancing behind you and meeting the eye of the bartender again. 

“He was just looking at your ass.” He comments, flipping his body to cling to your arm and now turning his back to Jay “You think he’s gonna check mine out too?”

You nod with a snicker, the song changing and the tempo instantly drowning your thoughts. 

“I love this song!” You shout with drunken glee, already making your way from the bar but keeping that little thought that hopefully, Jay will keep glancing at the two of you simply because it’s fun to be watched by a hottie. 

And Jungwon just goes with your flow. Dancing with sticky sweet lips, eyes glazed over from the music and mood. His makeup looks more beautiful now paired with strands of his hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. 

You don’t think you’ve ever seen dimples so fucking deep before, and it’s almost painful to remember his face without that smile plastered on it. 

“Wonnie,” You grab him by the shoulder and pull him against you, ignoring how his hair dips into your drink for a moment. “I think you’re my best friend.”

And the way he pulls back with a gasp, smiling wider? It shatters your heart just so it can grow larger. 

“I am?” He does a little bounce through his dance move, eyes shining in the strobe lights, flashes of red and purple shading his cheeks, only deepening those dimples. “Really?”

Never have you enjoyed spending time with someone like this. Never without crushing hard, never without wanting to take them home and fuck them until you can’t walk. Jungwon is different though. He really does feel like a long lost best friend, like the part of you that has been missing for far too long. 

The moment you met him, you clicked in a way that didn’t involve a dick or a hole. I mean, sure you’d probably fuck him for funsies but there’s really no point in it because you feel perfectly happy, perfectly fulfilled, just having him spend his free time with you. 

Surely when he has to travel back home, you’re going to cry. 

“Why do you have to live so far away?” You pause your dancing, making yourself sad at the thought that he will only be here for a few weeks. “Who am I gonna hang out with when you leave?”

Jungwon lends you a pouty sound, a coo, almost. 

“I only live an hour away.” He laughs, leaning forward and plastering his sweaty forehead to yours with a slurred shout so you can hear him clearly. “I’ll come see you all the time!” 

And with that, the mood seeps right back into your veins as the smile overtakes you. 

You dance with him, forehead to forehead for a long, long, while. Up until the club is so crowded with people that Jay couldn’t possibly be paying attention to anything other than making drinks, and you couldn’t possibly pay attention to anything other than the music vibrating the alcohol in your stomach. 

It’s almost suffocating, as you feel a pang in your chest of overheated anxiety. You breathe in, smelling the fifth piece of gum that Jungwon slipped from your pocket on his breath. You exhale, smelling your own sweet alcohol breath before pulling back and dragging Jungwon by the hand into the only corner not packed with people. 

“You okay?” Jungwon slurs as he sways in front of you, eyes trying their best to seem concerned. “You look like you might get sick.” 

You nod, feeling your mouth fill with warm saliva indicating that you should probably go to the bathroom now. 

“Okay, lets get you to-” 

You cut Jungwon off with an off balance sprint to the bathroom and somehow he keeps pace with you, gripping your shirt and refusing to lose you in the crowd. 

Unfortunately, as you press on your stomach to somehow hold down whatever is trying to come up, you notice how there’s a very long line for the bathroom. 

And it’s still suffocating in here. 

And your mouth tastes too sweet. And the music is too loud.

“Let’s go outside!” Jungwon shouts against your ear, vibrating your brain as he navigates you through the crowd himself, pressing you up against the front doors of the club before pushing you outside with him close behind.

The waft of breezy summer air instantly fills your lungs and your stomach settles at the space you have to yourself now. 

You stumble forward, making your way around the same concerned bouncer from before who only smiles at you and Jungwon struggling to find your footing. 

And, like the best friend you knew he became, he tries his best to be the sober friend right now. His voice wavers and crackers when he speaks, but his hands are firm on both of your shoulders as he presses you against the wall behind you. 

“Stay here.” Jungwon says with concern still in his voice. “I’m gonna run back in and get us some water, okay?” 

And you nod in a daze as your eyes follow him when he disappears back inside. You note how he says something to the bouncer before opening the doors, and surely he simply asked that the guy keep an eye on you. 

“You should probably eat something soon, sweetheart.” The kind bouncer comments to you in the night air, stepping closer to you and standing just against the wall next to you.

You feel protected by him, so there are no alarm bells ringing. 

“You know I can’t let you back in, right?” He chuckles as he speaks to you calmly. 

“Oh, I bet.” You laugh, breathing in the air again and again, still not regretting the fun you’ve had for the past few hours. “Just gonna sit here and wait for Wonnie, he’ll help me get home.”

“Good, good.” The bouncer confirms your words, still standing protective next to you when you hear the doors fly open and a few seconds of booming music before it’s muffled again. 

Jungwon flops down in front of you on the sidewalk now, two water bottles in hand with a smile on his face. 

“Jay gave me these.” He smiles. “He said if we can handle waiting til closing time he can drive us home.”

You laugh sheepishly. Unfortunately, you’re a bit too drunk and you know you probably wont make it another hour and a half with an additional however much time it’ll take for him to close up the club before needing to pass the fuck out. 

“I think I’ll have to take him up on that next time.” You slur your words. “You’ll help me walk home right, Wonnie? It’s a short walk.” 

Jungwon nods, still doing his best to act as sober as he can, but the bouncer shuts him down fast.

“Oh, I don’t think so buddy.” The bouncer laughs. “You’re both fucked out of your mind.” 

You laugh, Jungwon laughs, and the bouncer throws in his own hearty sigh. 

“Fuck–” You have a sudden, sober thought. “The tab. Jungwon, did we pay the tab?”

He pauses, eyes widening. 

“Shit.” He explains before jumping up on unsteady feet. “Can you help her call for a ride?” He slurs out at the bouncer, only disappearing inside again when the kind goth nods at the request.

And as you sit here in the silence after the bouncer helps you order a ride, a few minutes pass. Your eyes are out of focus as you stare up into the night sky before closing them. 

You could fall asleep right here on the sidewalk if you’re not careful. 

Another few minutes pass, now a loud slam of the doors rings in your tired ears now and you jolt out of the drowsy state, opening your eyes thinking you’ll find Jungwon rushing to you but instead, you note how suddenly you’re entirely alone. 

You don’t know how long you’ve sat here, or where the bouncer went, better yet why Jungwon isn’t back yet but what you do know is that suddenly, you’re mind is sober and fucking assaulted by the smell of cinnamon.

You glance around, trying to focus on the scent and where it’s coming from when– oh.

There, walking down the sidewalk is that fucking priest from before. Tall, clad yet again in black clothes, and he simply pauses his step in front of you. 

“Again?” The man calls out to you with an amused voice, lending you his hand, but you don’t take it. 

Instead, the doors suddenly fly open and Jungwon stumbles out again, nearly tripping over his own feet with an apology of “sorry, jay was trying to convince us to–”

“Uh, hi?” Jungwon interrupts himself as he takes note of the man standing in front of you. “The fuck are you?” He checks the man out, not quite able to focus on him in full.

The priest nods his head at both of you, staring Jungwon up and down before landing his eyes back on you. 

“Get her home safe.” He says nothing else before continuing his nightly stroll. 

And, well, you do get home safe. 

You and Jungwon are a mess of limbs in the short ride to your apartment, and an even messier pile of idiots by the time you make it inside. The couch is long forgotten by the time you close your front door, feeling Jungwon follow you all the way to your plush bed with drunken groans and giggles.

There, you flop onto the bed fully clothed without so much as a happy “goodnight” and you’re both drifting off to sleep. Jungwon’s heavy limbs are thrown on you as he loosely spoons you. Like he’s still trying to take care of you despite the fact that you no longer feel sick, and you’re both perfectly safe behind your apartment walls. 

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Have you no shame? 

Fuck no. 

What about Jungwon? Nah.

Both of you have a pep in your step by the next Friday, waiting for the museum to close so Jungwon can walk home with you and get all dressed up and ready for another fall into the infamous “after life”.

“We should try to stay until closing, maybe Jay will bring us home this time.” Jungwon wiggles his eyebrows as you put his eyeliner on for him again. 

“We’re gonna have to look real good then, yeah?” You smile at his pretty smeared eyes, reaching your hand up and ruffling his hair.

And you do. Both of you dress up in the darkest, blackest, sexiest fit you can find in your closet. Jungwon is sporting one of your pretty, sheer lace undershirts beneath his own unbuttoned black cardigan, pants tight and low on his waist. 

You, with another semi-transparent shirt. Sheer, showing all the goods if you hadn’t put on a nice fitting bralette under it. Cute skirt that shows your thighs, the stompers, of course. 

And the finishing touch this time? Matching chokers. 

“Cute.” You comment, leaning forward and popping a minty kiss to the tip of Jungwon’s nose. 

“You too.” He smiles, pinching your waist before turning to face your vanity mirror and checking himself out. 

Cute is right. Jay’s probably gonna fall to the floor when he gets a look at the two of you. 

And, well. The night is a blur. 

Jay does, in fact, eye the two of you with that sharp smirk like he did last weekend but you, unfortunately, drink far too much yet again. 

Jungwon slowed down a bit towards midnight but he kept an eye on you for the most part. Trying to secure the ride for both of you by orbiting around the bar and making flirty talk with both bartenders when time allowed it. 

You stayed on the dance floor through it. Sometimes dancing with Jungwon when he comes up behind you with clingy hands and updates on the Jay situation, but after a few songs he’d wander off again. 

It’s nice, kind of. Having someone with you that can maintain control through your own drunken stupidity. You don’t mind dancing alone, after all, you’re not entirely alone giving the pretty men and girls who come by to dance with you every other song when Jungwon isn’t around.

And of course, around the same time as last time, you find your mind feeling suffocated by the time the club is at capacity. 

You sway on the dance floor in search of Jungwon, unsure of which way the bar is because your eyes simply can’t adjust to the darkness and flashing lights by this point. 

Dimples. You need to find the sunshine face in this void of darkness. 

And you search. 

And search. 

Until you’re stumbling out the front doors alone, knowing that if Jungwon is looking for you, he’ll probably know you stepped out to breathe at some point. 

Just like the week before, the crip summer air outside instantly settles your stomach and breathing comes easier. You feel more sober than you thought you were as you sit here, making small talk with the bouncer who finally introduces himself to you. 

“That’s a good name for a big goth teddy bear.” You mock the man. “Balor.”

“In the flesh.” The man waves you off. 

And then, suddenly, the bouncer is stepping closer to you with a stiffened shoulder, the air outside shifting to something else for him, but you’re completely unaware of it. 

“I need to step inside for a moment, will you be alright for a few minutes?” He knows he shouldn’t step inside, but in all fairness, it’s kind of the protocol at this point. 

Considering that man has made himself very clear that if he’s near the club at all, it’s for good reason and he’s not to be interrupted. At least, that’s what code is for the bouncers here at this club. 

It’s a shame though, to know he has to leave you to the night. You’re a fun girl, peppy and sweet, not rude or hard to make small talk with on the long nights of work. Maybe you drink a little too much, but still. It’s not like the bouncer knows why he is to leave the sidewalk when a certain someone wanders by. What he does know is that more often than not, he’ll sink away inside only to resume his position alone, with no one left on the sidewalk.

Probably just a pimp. 

Or human trafficking. 

He isn’t sure, but time and time again he has been told to leave it be. That it’s nothing wretched. That it’s simply a territory that isn’t their own. 

Still, you nod to the bouncer. 

“If you see Wonnie, can you scold him for letting me get lost?” 

You miss the look of concern on the bouncer’s face. 

“Hey, come back inside, I’ll help you find him.”

“Oh, hello again.” A voice echoes from around the corner, causing the bouncer’s shoulders to fall as he immediately offers you a small “I'll find him–” before disappearing behind the heavy doors with haste. 

And then, cinnamon. The spicy scent wafting through you so fast that you’re almost dizzy. 

More dizzy than you already were, anyway.

“Have you learned nothing?” The priest walks up to you, chuckling and raising his eyebrows. 

“Weird ass priest.” You say, paying no mind to the happenings of just now, totally unaware of the energy surrounding you.

“And to what god do you believe I pray?” He tilts his head as he stands in front of you, hands behind his back, leaning down at the waist to position his face in front of yours. 

The question makes you look up at him with a skewed brow. 

“The usual one?” You ask, rolling your eyes at the silly meeting. 

Again.

A third meeting. 

“Ah, the usual one.” He mocks, nodding his head before standing back up and towering over you. “Do you seek him out?” 

You nod momentarily, having never been religious but at this moment, as drunk as you are and as alone as you feel with this strange man, only god could answer your curious question as to why you keep meeting him. 

As to why you’re always all on your own when he appears. 

As to why he forces a hope in your mind that god is really out there, and he’ll protect you when the bouncer isn’t here.

“Was that a nod?” He smiles at you, landing a cold hand on your shoulder. 

“Yes,” You whisper out, feeling heavy and more and more dizzy by the moment. Not from the alcohol but from something else. “Do you know where I can find him?” 

Your voice calls out on its own to him. You don’t recall wanting to ask him that, nor do you recall even thinking those words before saying them.

“He’s right here, love–” The priest pulls back, presenting the space in front of him before turning his hands inward and presenting himself to you. “I am God.”

You freeze, a rush of cold running through your veins. Surely you’re hearing him wrong despite that voice echoing those words in your head three, four, five, six times. 

“Isn’t that considered blasphemy?” You try to play it off in a joke, hiding the chill down your spine. 

Pretending you’re not interested. 

Wondering why it is that you are, actually. 

“Perhaps on any other street.” He confirms for you, now crouching down and showing his face plainly to you. “Do you keep secrets?” 

Your body nods before you can think to do it yourself, and you narrow your eyes for a moment at him. He’s…insane looking. Unnaturally flawless. Like those little speckles of moles on his face were placed with perfected intention. 

You’re mesmerized as he looks at you, eyes glancing to each part of your face, watching your expression change and fall, then rise and– he chuckles fondly, deeply. 

“I believe you.”

Why do you feel proud of that?

“Come back with me, yes?” 

There’s a long pause as you fight to think for yourself. If Jungwon were here with you right now, surely you’d be more grounded than you feel right now. Surely, you’d be having a heated conversation involving some sort of shared fantasy over that bartender. 

What was his name again? 

J…J-

Your eyes adjust to the face in front of you as you lose your train of thought. Something inside of you pulls. You can’t tell if it’s your heart or your thoughts but it appears to be instinctual when you replay his invitation in your head. On any other night, with any other man, you’d say no. 

Under these circumstances alone, you should be running away. 

This man. Dressed as a holy priest, walking to and fro from what you assume to be his home within that unnatural cathedral, presenting himself as god.

You should stand up and disappear into a crowd of rowdy dancers. 

You should find Jungwon and cling to him. 

You should push him away, and you should be recoiling by his cold hand that brushes your cheek. His voice shouldn’t feel so good in your ears. Like a siren, something inside of you doesn’t want you to run. 

“Temptation has you by the throat, my dear.” He smiles as his hand brushes your warm cheek again and again. “You seem rather fond of the feeling.” 

And now he flashes his teeth to you. Glistening brighter than the moon, he appears all but natural to you at this moment when you spiral internally at how fucking beautiful he is. Surely this guy is just a turbo goth that truly lives the life. Probably gives his heart to satan and only fucks during a full moon. 

And oh, wouldn’t you know.

You glance up at the sky again, the moon full and nearly pulsing in the sky like it’s a living being itself. Then your eyes fall back to the priest, his smile still present. 

A weirdo. A freak.

But…aren’t you too?

You barely feel yourself stand up and take a step forward under his arm. You follow the scent of him if nothing else. Heavy in your nose, like a hidden treasure cloaked by the darkened fabric draping over his body.

You want to smell it deeper. Maybe if he were to take off those clothes you could–

“By the throat.” He mumbles quietly as he leads you away from the club. 

Away from familiarity. Away from Jungwon. Away from the public.

There, straight back to that damned cathedral.

You’re more unnerved this time though, because the moment you step through the doors, you cannot, for the life of you, recall what you were supposed to be doing. 

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Waking up with a weight on your side, you smile at the feeling of what you assume to be Jungwon next to you. As you lay here, not quite comprehending what happened in the blur of the night before, you start to take note of something. Color. 

The light behind your closed eyelids don’t match the yellow-white light of the sun shining through your bedroom window. No, you’re seeing colors. 

Blue, red, green– 

“Wonnie?” You call out, squinting your eyes open, not quite processing the room before you feel a pit in your stomach. “Wonnie?”

Holy shit. 

You thought it was a dream.

You thought coming back to this cathedral was nothing more than a drunken dream. That the weight on your side was more than just a misplaced pillow. 

And as you lay here in a room that isn’t yours, and most certainly a different room compared to the one you slept in previously here, you try to think. 

Was it not a dream? 

The way the priest held you close and inhaled you? The way he put you to bed and left you here in the darkness? The way you– oh. 

This feeling in your chest, pulling, pushing, weighing so heavy. Something inside of you wants to see him despite your uncomfortable awakening. No, you need to see him. This feeling, you know now, only becomes more aggressive when he’s near too. Which can only mean he isn’t far outside of this room. 

You think hard about him and what you can remember outside of the blur in your head. He’s attractive. His face is otherworldly, with eyes so dark you hate that you can very nearly see yourself floating in them. 

The image of his face sits clearly in your hungover brain as you try to think. The feeling of his cold skin against your face, his lips, his…

Red.

Panic washes over you when you jump out of bed, ignoring the head rush and the way you immediately topple over and onto the floor. You need to go home, you need to find Jungwon and make sure he made it somewhere safe last night. You need to find your phone, and your…purse? 

Your shoes?

Where the fuck are your things?

You plant your hands against the cold wooden floors, staring straight down as you try to think. Still, nothing comes but blurry images of the club and then solid images of Sunghoon flashing like still photographs behind your eyes.

Are you losing your goddamn mind? 

Finally, you take a deep breath and stand on your feet, rushing for the door and expecting it to open easily, just like last time. But no. It’s locked. You’re fucking locked in. Which is– fuck, you can’t think straight. And while you still recognize that you’re not expected at work today, surely Jungown is worried, right?

He’s probably looking for you. Hell, with the way his nerves get to him, you wouldn’t be surprised to know he’s plastered posters all over the city looking for you. 

He’s definitely looking for you. 

Fortunately though, only a few minutes of pure panic pass when you hear the door unlock and a pale-eyed nun opens the door for you. She instantly sees the fear in your eyes when you take a timid step back. 

“Oh, you poor dear–” She coos out, lifting her brows in pity. “Do you not remember?” 

You hear her sympathy, feeling your body shiver with relief at her safe and calm voice. Looking up at her, she can already see the question in your eyes. The need for an explanation. 

“You did request that I lock the door for you. You were just simply petrified when–”

You gasp at her choice of words, not remembering a single bit of fear from the night before. 

“Petrified?” You whisper carefully, wrapping your arms around yourself and nervously looking around the room. 

The shrouded woman purses her lips, glancing away from you. 

“I do believe Master Sunghoon startled you. He meant no harm, my dear.” She tries to calm your nerves, but the information only stiffens your shoulders more. 

“Master?” You question with hesitation. “Do you mean Father? Reverend?” 

“Oh.” She purses her lips tighter now, a small smile breaking out at the corners of her lips. “It’s worse than I thought. Please, come with me.” 

You shake your head, backing yourself up against the wall. 

“It’ll only be a minute,” She waves her hand for you to come. “You’re not in danger, I assure you.” 

And as you stand here, knowing that you likely have no choice but to follow her, you hope that her words indicating no danger are truthful. You kind of need them to be, after all. 

“Come now, dear.” 

Reluctantly, you follow her. 

All the way up a too-dark spiral staircase, down two long and dark hallways with vaulted ceilings, and upon rounding a corner, you smell it and you fucking feel a tug in your chest. One that drives you to walk a bit faster, nearly in front of the nun as your feet carry you to where you feel you’re supposed to be. 

She chuckles when you reach the large double doors before she does, dipping her head at you before seemingly gliding back down the hallway in silence. 

Before you can even knock on the doors, they open with a rush of air hitting you square in your face. It nearly knocks the breath out of you at first, but you inhale deeply the same scent of cinnamon before your breath is actually caught in your throat. 

There stands the priest. Or god…or whatever he is. 

“Terrified.” He clicks a knowing tongue at you, stepping to the side to invite you into the extravagant room. “Just when I thought I had you too.” 

You stand in silence in front of him after stepping inside, that tug in your chest trying to pull you directly against the man. Still, you refrain with furrowed brows as you remain silent.

“And yet, here you stand.” He softens his frustrated voice, leaning comfortably against a wooden desk behind him. “The human brain truly is fascinating.” 

“Human brain.” You repeat his words to him in an attempt to process them.

“Yes, of course. Yours in particular.” The priest, in his night clothes of a loosened white shirt and long pants makes his way to a bookcase. You watch his slender fingers pull a ratty old book out before he flip through the pages. “I’ve heard about people like you.” 

You pause as you watch him push a pair of gold-trimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, a memory flooding to the forefront of your mind as you recall last night to your best ability. 

Again, red. 

“I used to be like you.” He just talks, offering no context but keeping his sharp gaze on you despite having the book open in his hands. 

You find yourself nodding as you listen, feeling your hand raise to your heart as you try to ignore the way the priest, Sunghoon, takes a deep inhale. 

There’s nothing that follows his inhale. He doesn’t release that breath as he stares at you and instead just…smirks.

“Last night, you believed me to be god.” He smiles wider now. “You stood in that very spot and undressed  yourself.” He takes a step closer to you now, tilting his head with his words. “Do you know what you did next?” 

A shaky breath leaves your lips and a shiver runs through you again and again as you shake your head at him. Forgetting just for a moment how to speak. 

“You got on your knees and you prayed.”

You drink the thick air in the room like a glass of wine, swallowing harshly, struggling to maintain any type of steady heart beat. You feel allured, aroused, mesmerized, embarrassed. 

“What–” Inhale. “Did I pray for?” 

Exhale. 

“Me.” 

Inhale.

Within a split second all the memories come crashing through your skull. Rattling images of that very instance where you were on your knees, right here, fucking praying. Your hand instinctively shoots up to your neck, and there, you feel the drainage points. Two small pricks, just like in all of those movies you watched growing up. Sore, swollen, hot to the touch. 

Well, goddamn. 

There goes your balance. Your eyes start to blur and you feel yourself fall. Only, you don’t. You can’t when you hear him drop the book to the floor and feel his cold body shoot up and against you to hold you up. 

He says nothing at first as he looks down at you, and you couldn’t say anything if you wanted to. You look up at him in a daze, trying to focus, trying to think, but all you can process is the way he inhales again, deeply.

“You ran.” He whispers to you, studying your face and the way your body went from limp to almost holding up on its own in a shorter time than he expected. So strong, you are. Such a fighter.

He inhales again, seemingly drowning in the smell of you before rolling his eyes up and closing them just for a moment. Then, he groans before looking back down at you with eyes almost as dazed as yours.

“You didn’t run away, though.” He adds.

Even as he releases his hold on you, he smiles and inches his face closer and closer to yours. Almost as if he’s making an attempt to stare straight through you. 

“I wouldn’t have stopped you, love.” 

Your body feels weak as you soak in the truth of last night, your lips instinctively wanting to kiss him. No longer do you feel the need to run away, or to find Jungwon. You’re no longer afraid, even. 

Words can’t explain how you feel right now.

“Why didn’t you leave?” 

You have no answers for him when you hum out as a response. In fact, you’re not sure if you’ve ever had the ability to answer questions in the first place. 

All you feel is euphoria as he continues to talk to you, sweetly smiling and lowering his voice to something that drips like thick syrup down the walls of your brain. 

“I can trust you’ll be back then?” He hovers his lips over yours, watching you pucker them for him before backing away with another deep inhale of your scent. “Or would you rather I come pick you up from the vomit-covered sidewalk again?”

You find yourself laughing at that, smiling as you blink at him. 

God, he’s so charming. 

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Sunghoon had shoo’d you away shortly after, and you managed to make it home in a daze of sunlight and uncanny admiration.

You’re not sure if you can ever feel normal again after that. In fact, you’re quite dissociated and disconnected to the world until you find Jungwon slumped at the entrance of your apartment, sound asleep. 

Like a guiding light, his presence grounds you so fast that you feel more dizzy than you did in Sunghoon’s arms. Like your spirit is slammed back into your body and reality is hitting you again. You crouch down in a rush with light taps to Jungwon’s face, those bright eyes widening the moment he realizes that you’re here. 

“Where were you?”  He whispered drowsily, his dry throat forcing his voice to crack as he shifts his body comfortably against your door. 

Immediately, your face is apologetic and your voice is soothing in repeated apologies. 

“I’m sorry, Wonnie–” You hiccup, nearly wanting to cry. “I ended up going home with someone, I didn’t mean to leave you there alone.” You continue, pushing your hands under his arms and hoisting him up to stand. “I’m sorry.” You continue, and continue. “I should have left my keys with you, or–”

“Hey,” He whispers sweetly, finally standing on his own and stretching his arms out with an even drier sound. “It’s okay, you’re the one who missed out.” 

You tilt your head in question as you reach for your shoulder bag, the one Sunghoon had tucked within his desk drawer, and pull out your keys. 

“Oh?” You smile at his lack of care, but part of you kind of shatters at it. 

What if you really needed help? How long would it have taken Jungwon to see the red flags? Then again, how long is it going to take for you to see the red flags?

“Oh yeah.” He nods to you, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as you push open your door and push him inside. “Jay brought me here, he stayed for a little while, even offered to bring me back to his place.”

You’re a little jealous. You did miss out, it seems. Still, you feel…fond of what you went through last night. Despite the feeling of rot within you when you think about it. Knowing it’s weird. Strange. Unnatural.

A vampire? Really? Surely not. 

“Why didn’t you go home with him?” You ask, making your way to your room right behind Jungwon, paying no mind to him as you undress and throw on a t-shirt. “Why’d you sleep at my door?” 

Jungwon shrugs, now taking his own outfit off while rummaging through your closet for a shirt you probably got from an ex boyfriend. 

“Well,” He looks at you now, really looks at you. “I’m fine if you wanna go home with people but I was a little worried, wanted to make sure you’d actually make it home.”

You pause as you dress yourself for a second sleep, feeling something in your chest flutter out of you at his worry. So he did see the color red. 

Not as brightly as you did, but he still saw it. 

“I really am sorry.” You furrow your brows as you watch him put that over-sized shirt on and lay on your bed. “I promise, I won’t do that again.” 

“You’d better not.” He chuckles, blinking at you and waiting for you to come lay with him. 

“Let me go get us some water first, I think we have a lot to sleep off.” 

He nods happily to you, only one dimple peeking out at you when you turn to head for the kitchen.

And after that, it’s nice. Not much sleep happened though, mostly just a lot of water chugging and pillow talk before Jungwon shifts with a gasp.

“What the fuck is that?” He bolts up, hovering over you and practically pinning you to the bed as he forces your face to the side. 

You know exactly what he’s looking at and explaining it isn’t the hardest thing in the world. After all, you were very drunk last night. So drunk that you’re sure you woke up today still drunk. 

A vampire? Hah. There’s no way. You were right to think Sunghoon is just like, really goth. Embarrassingly so. Probably thinks he’s a vampire lord or something. 

That pull in your chest? The inhales with no exhales? 

It’s all an act and, well, you’re kinda into it if you’re being honest, being hunted and all. The dude is hot as hell, and you don’t mind exploring a little bit of his world. 

“Well…” You trail off, lending your looming friend with the smeared eyes an embarrassed smile. 

“Those look deep.” His voice drips in concern as he keeps your face turned. “Did it hurt?”

You feel his fingers touching the two puncture wounds. Gentle, warm fingers. They pulse at the touch and sting when he pulls them away to let you turn your face back to him.

“To be honest, I don’t remember feeling it.” You think he’d probably panic if you told the truth right now. About how you were clearly too drunk when it happened. About how you prayed to a man only for him to pierce your neck and drink you up like you did to the drinks just hours prior. You aren’t even sure if you had sex with the guy.

To you though, sober or not, you probably would have still left with Sunghoon last night. With that flawless skin and those dark eyes. Sober or not, if he’s into biting and blood, you’re into it too. More than willing to play his victim. 

The fact that you were probably far too drunk at the time doesn’t bother you much because even now, with a grasp on reality, you’d like to think you’d let him do it again. If anything, just to feed your own curiosity.

“Wow, you really are into some freaky stuff–” Jungwon comments playfully, rolling back off of you and then taking a breath. “Make sure you clean them. Who knows where the mouth that did it has been.”

All smiles when you’re with Jungwon, honestly. So much comfort and concern, so much laughing and safety. If it weren’t for him, you honestly wouldn’t know how you’d be feeling right now. And it’s nice knowing that he opts to sleep over with you again. Seemingly preferring your apartment over the home he dropped a hefty wad of cash on for a two month stay. 

The feeling of having a best friend swells inside of you with each passing day, and his presence here allows you to go to work and sleep through the night without much more thought to Sunghoon. You love this city and you love the little artist that found himself at your doorstep even more. 

Hopefully he meant it when he said he’d come visit you all the time once his time here is over. Unlike you, who changed your mind the moment you saw Jungwon asleep at your door. 

“I can trust you’ll be back then? Or would you rather I come pick you up from the vomit-covered sidewalk again?” Sunghoon had said to you. You remember it despite the state of your mind at the time, and you also remember nodding to him. 

He seemed satisfied with your confirmation, yet since then you’ve felt no push or pull. No need to have him sucking on your neck or making you feel like he’s a demon wearing the skin of an angel. 

Perhaps you’ll just need to be sure you don’t find yourself drunk and alone on the sidewalk again.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

By mid-week, Jungwon looks sad to know he needs to go back to his respective space for a little while. Not because he wants to, and not even because you want him to. 

It’s simply because you need to be alone. You’ve always needed to be in your own space when this happens anyway. 

Month after month after month. For years and years. 

It never gets comfortable and you’ll never understand why you’re fated to hurt so badly every twenty two days. 

Going to work is already difficult enough, bloated in your quirky outfits and smiling through the twisting knots in your gut. Having Jungwon in your space when you very nearly want to strangle every person who asks you how your day has been would only lead to more owed apologies. 

“It’s not forever, Wonnie.” You genuinely smile through the pain at his narrowed eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.” 

“Oh, I’m being dramatic?” He throws his arms up and motions at you. “You just told me you need a few days to bleed out on your kitchen floor.” 

“Well, yeah...” You laugh and he frowns. 

“I have a sister, you know.” He rolls his eyes. “Who’s gonna buy you snacks and bring you microwaved water bottles?”

“Jungwon.” You land your hands on his shoulders and force him to look at you. “I really just don’t like when people are around me when I'm on my period.” 

He blows a strand of his hair up before pursing his lips, accepting the fact that maybe he’s a bit too clingy. Then again, you’re the only person in this city he knows and arguably the only person in this world he’s managed to grow so close with.

Given the fact that the two of you only met like, what? Two weeks ago? He should probably tone it down and not make an attempt to change your lifestyle just so he can sleep next to someone. 

“Fine.” He huffs, frowning harder. “But if you need snacks or–”

“I’ll call you.” You shake his shoulders before forcing him into a bear hug. “Thanks though.” 

And with that, you go your separate ways at the end of the work day and try to ignore how the pain medicine did close to nothing all day to help with the twisting in your abdomen. 

Still, you’re relieved to know you can tough out the next few days in silence due to Jungwon backing you up on your false-sickness nonsense nearing the end of your shift. 

“I feel like I’m coming down with a fever.” You whined to your boss, happy that the first day cold-sweats from your period makes it appear as just that. A fever. 

“She’s been a bit out of it all day. If you need me to help out on the down-low while she’s recovering, I don’t mind.” Jungwon had added, smiling at your boss and not at all bothered by the unpaid work he’ll probably have to do for your sake. 

A great friend he is. You’re lucky to have met him. 

An amazing friend, really. For helping you find space for yourself in crowded clubs and within your own bed. For lending a hand at work and showing up every day for your shifts despite simply being an artist that’s presenting his work there. No where is he needed within that museum outside of, well, you. 

And he’s always there. So for him to not be here now, when you’re making your way to your apartment door? It feels...wrong. Mostly because, as alone as you are when you walk inside and as silent as it is, you don’t entirely feel as alone like you once did here. 

Still, you go about your nightly routine and fall into bed with those same cramps in your gut. It’s not long before you’re drifting off, pleased to know that at least when you’re sleeping, there’s no pain in your body. 

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

A strong scent wakes you, forcing your eyes open in the darkness of your room. 

Familiar. Warm. Spicy.

Cinnamon.

A tug, just a little pull inside of you brings you to your feet as you wander through your apartment. Straight to the front door. Straight out of the front door. 

“You know where I live?” You whisper drowsily, rubbing your eyes and walking straight into his grasp, ignoring the feeling of sticky blood leaking out of you just from getting out of bed alone.

“No.” Sunghoon speaks against your hair, rubbing your arms as he holds you against him. 

“Oh.” You accept his answer with a nonchalant feeling inside of you. Who even cares how he ended up here? 

“Come back with me?” He whispers, already taking a step back and smiling wickedly when you instantly follow, forcing your nose further against his chest and up to his neck. “I hear it dripping, love, come.”

And you do. All the way downstairs and into a car with heavily tinted windows. 

You feel comfortable, safe. 

The cramps in your belly are nowhere near as you slowly but surely come to your senses. Half-awake but feeling buzzed next to him. Still, you smile while keeping your nose planted up and against his neck even as he drives. 

You like the sound of his little laughs each time he tries to push you back to your seat, and you like even more the way he mutters to himself through it when he relents and lets you do as you please. The short drive in the dead of night doesn’t offer much in terms of danger anyway. 

And slowly still, your mind clears. Breaking out of the buzzed fog when he brings you through the cathedral

 silently. Past the pale-eyed nuns with pursed smiling lips, past the windows and hallways. 

No longer are you buzzed by the time you make it through those heavy doors of the extravagant room. The same one you prayed in. The same one you nearly fainted in. The same one you tried to forget. 

“How do you feel?” He asks just moments after the doors close. 

You can sense the slightest bit of hesitation in his voice when he asks you that, only now realizing that you’re in your pajamas and fucking staining them.

“What do you mean?” You ask, squeezing your legs together in an uncomfortable show of what’s happening between them. 

“Are you awake?” He asks now, still slightly hesitant in front of you. You can almost see him hold himself back. 

From something.

“As far as I know.” You tilt your head, glancing around the room. “Um, can I go to the bathro–”

“Can you read that clock?” He interrupts you and points to the candle-lit wall. 

“Three thirty–” You pause, squinting to make sense of the exact minute. “three.” 

He smiles at the fact that you’re entirely awake with him this time, despite the drowsy lure he had you in when he appeared at your door. 

You’re here of your own free will, and you’re not running. 

“Do you want to go home?” 

You’re confused by the questions. As confused and drunk as you felt upon stumbling out your apartment door, you very much came here willingly. If anything, you’re just a little weirded out by the fact that you were paying such close attention to him that you missed the way blood seeped through your clothes. 

“No?” You offer back to him before taking a deep breath. “Can you show me where the bathroom is though?” 

And before you can even comprehend it, Sunghoon is right up against you. Looming and staring down as his hands rest on your shoulders before sliding down to your waist. 

“Now, now.” He chuckles, lowering his face just an inch, resting his lips on your forehead. “Why would I want to do that?” 

“Because I’m gross right now?” You laugh awkwardly, trying to take a step back but realizing that his grip on you tightens. 

“Oh, have you forgotten?” He laughs out, lowering himself more, dragging his lips all the way down your face, neck, chest. 

“Ah, wait–” You panic when you feel his nose against your stomach, threatening to go lower. “I’m like…” You’re embarrassed to say it now. 

After all, you came here with the clear indication of fucking. Period or not, you’re not afraid of a little bit of blood but…this.

“Sunghoon, I’m on my period.” You finally speak into the room, trying to push his face from your stomach. 

“I know.” He smiles, pressing his nose harder against your stomach. “Drove me crazy all day.” He dips his face down instantly, inhaling deeply between your legs.

Something inside of you is insanely turned on by his blatant interest in you. 

“All day?” You ask, hands reaching for his hair as he drags his nose straight through the mess you’ve made. 

“Could smell it, darling.” He laughs, pulling back and looking up at you. “Smells so sweet, not gross. Delicious.”

Why the fuck is the blood smeared against the tip of his nose so alluring? Jungwon was right, you really are into some freaky shit. Then again, it’s not so weird considering you’ve never done this before. Everyone’s gotta start somewhere when it comes to kinks, right? 

“Can smell something else too.” He looks back between your legs, ignoring that you are trying to act like you don’t want to let him. “You’re aroused.” 

Oh. 

And just as you’re preparing for some sort of pressure between your thighs, you feel a waft of cold air rush up your body when he stands and grabs your face with both hands. 

“You never came back.” He hisses against your lips, dragging you back and further into the room with him. “I had to sniff you out like a fucking dog.” 

Your mouth falls open at the spiteful shift in his voice, following his movements all the way into the room until he’s spinning around and pushing you from his hold. You fall back against something insanely soft, and instantly you moan at the feeling of silk against you. 

Barely able to catch your breath, he’s over you. He’s on you. Tucking his face into the crook of your neck with a low rumbled growl in his throat and inhaling over and over again. 

Inhale. Inhale. Inhale. 

And you can feel him nose his way all the way up to your face, opening his eyes and staring straight through you with slack lips just over yours. 

You’re mesmerized by him at this moment. Never has a man acted this way with you and it’s insane to think you’d ever be satisfied with someone who wouldn’t. You almost strain your neck to kiss him, and you truly would have if it weren’t for the fact that you feel him sink his hand into your shorts.

Not even a second to truly comprehend how ice-cold his fingers feel when he slips them down and slides two of them into you. He watches your face when he does it, his own slack lips turning to a smile when you moan out at the smallest of pleasure he wants to offer you. 

“Oh, look at you,” He coos, feeling your arms shoot around his shoulders when he continues to slide the digits in and out of you. “So sticky, what a pretty little mess.” 

You groan in embarrassment at the act, knowing full well that you’ll have to face the fact that you like it at some point after he’s finished with you. You don’t mind admitting it so much now though. The way his fingers slide through the thick mess, forcing the scent of brass to mix with his own cinnamon aroma? To die for, truly. 

“I could just eat you up–” He chokes in a whisper this time, struggling to maintain his composure from the sickening sweet smell of your blood. “Would you like that?”

You lift up instantly, kissing against his slackened smile. It’s one sided, as he simply lets you do it and nothing more. Mostly because he, himself, is spiraling into a frenzy of what he needs more than what you want. It’s all pleasure the same though, as he feels your tongue trace against one of his sharpened teeth.

Just a small bite. Just a taste.

“Ah–” You pull back in a wince, the flavor of blood hitting the back of your taste buds as you look up at him with confusion.

He doesn’t allow much looking though, as you hear that same rumble from his throat right up against your lips. You feel his tongue lick you up, slurping the blood straight from your new wound and moaning through the flavor of it. 

His eyes flutter closed as he tries to hold down his thirst, knowing that his fingers are fucking dripping with this same sweet, red slick. It wouldn’t take much now for him to break and let it all drip down his throat. He could end this now if he’s not careful.

And when he opens his eyes again as he pulls back from your sweet tongue, he notes the look of confusion still on your face. His eyes roll in fond annoyance at you for that, only because you have this stubborn need to question despite having the clear answer bleeding from your mouth. 

“You’re still trying to pretend you don’t realize?” He asks, whispering real close to your lips, darting his tongue out and offering a small kitten lick as he buries his fingers deep. 

Your lips open for him in a moan and he licks into it again. Your still bleeding tongue only drives him further and further from a stable mindset. No one, not in hundreds of years, has tasted this fucking sweet. He almost can’t savor it with the way his body rises from slumber at the mere fucking scent of you from ten blocks away. 

His cock pulses for the first time in decades for you. God, he feels more alive than he did when he was actually cycling blood through his veins. 

“You just sliced open that pretty tongue on my teeth.” He chuckles, basking in the warmth he can only feel with you beneath him. “My fangs, love.” His fingers continue their slide all the while, the sounds of squelching blood filling his ears more than your soft groans for more. “Still, you seem to deny what this is and what I am.” 

You can hear his words, but comprehending them isn't quite as easy. Like, yes, he’s got a vampire kink. Whatever. 

“I get it, you’re kinky.” You huff out, missing the way he stifles a laugh at your denial of the truth. 

“You’re a stubborn one–” He smiles, flashing the same fang that sliced through your tongue. “It’s a bit frustrating. Perhaps even endearing.” 

And then, suddenly, his fingers come to a halt and he waits for you to look at him. Just as you go to speak, he’s sliding his fingers out of your mess so quickly, shushing you with his red stained digits. 

“Now, listen.” 

It’s silent. More silent than you ever thought the world could be. 

“Do you hear it?” 

You shake your head, feeling his fingers leave a trail of your blood against your lips as he drags them away and up to his own mouth. 

There, he hangs his fingers from his mouth, licking gently and tasting thoughtfully before sliding them further in. He sucks them clean in an erotic show of his blood-lust before letting them fall from his still licking tongue. Then, he’s slotting them right back between your legs, wanting more to taste. 

“No? You don’t hear how loud it is?” He asks now in a lower tone, still thirsty, still in need, dipping down to lick the blood from your face. “All that blood in you, bundled up right–” His fingers press hard against your clit. “Here.”

Your body jolts in pleasure, eyes rolling back at the mere sensitivity he forces your body into. God, kinky is right. He knows how to use words. His voice is so elegant while spewing the filth, so proper.

“Ahh, that feels good, doesn’t it?” He questions you in a moan that mimicked your own, now lowering himself from your face and kissing down your clothed chest. Down, down, down. “Do you think you’ll believe me when you feel the blood drain out of you?” His voice echoes in your ears, reminding you of the vampire-like thirst he’s trying to act upon. 

And when he slips your shorts down your legs, you don’t even protest. Which at this point isn’t weird at all. The dude is insanely into it and you can’t help but feel like you can vibe with it if he keeps acting like this. He’s good at roleplaying. 

Instead of an embarrassed protest, you respond to him by spreading your legs and presenting the red mess he’s smeared all over you. Inviting him.

He glances up at you as he watches, saying nothing, thinking nothing except for the fact that– you are perfect. 

In every way, spread out and dripping blood, perfect.

You feel an intense jolt of pain shoot through your body just seconds later, followed by a loud and almost animalistic moan from the man between your legs. You lift slightly as you try to look down at him, witnessing the way he sucks the flesh of your thigh into his mouth, blood weeping from the new wounds his teeth create.

So much blood. He’s the one drunk now, utterly fucking mesmerized by the amount of it you pour for him. Your fleshy thighs offer the freshest, he couldn’t help but take a sip before giving you what your quivering body is truly begging for. He has to quench the genuine thirst before playing with his food, at least. 

And as you watch him it’s like you’re nothing but a piece of meat at this moment. He’s sucking and sucking against your thigh until you’re sure your toes are numb. They’re tingling, and you can physically feel the blood being pulled from you. As if his teeth are two syringes seeping it out of you. 

Af if they are. Not because they actually are, right?

And by the time your toes are effectively filled with static, he finally releases the fleshy bite on your thigh. You stare down, listening to him smack his lips and lick the corners of his mouth, seeing the way he doesn’t make eye contact with you at all before he’s turning his attention and burying his tongue into your crimson coated cunt. Without warning, but with so much eagerness with his tasting lips. 

Your eyes flutter with a loud and strained gasp, eliciting a groan of his own to bubble into the blood that falls against his tongue with each passing pulse of you. He licks in time with your heartbeat, which is fucking insane that you can tell he does it. Never before now have you heard your heart beat so loudly, so frantically in your ears. 

And you would be embarrassed, perhaps even worried that the taste is awful. Maybe it’s too much for him, maybe this kink is all just for show and this is a limit he’s only willing to try once before realizing himself that he doesn’t necessarily like drinking the blood from a woman’s pussy…except– Sunghoon gives you no reason to feel like any of that is true. 

No, no. Oh no. He’s fucking relishing in it and you can tell by the way he moans and skews his head to dig his tongue deeper. You can tell by the way he smothers himself, not coming up for air for even a second of the time he’s spending down there. 

And god, you can feel the mess of it all. Sticky, smearing all over your thighs when his fingers trace you mindlessly before gripping your thighs just to pull you down the bed, closer against his face, sliding his tongue ever deeper.

Moaning, fucking slurping it out of you without so much as a breath. 

He’s not breathing.

And now? You panic, focusing more on the time he’s spending burying his mouth and nose into you than the feeling of it. Your hand shoots down into his hair, pulling his head back and away from you. 

Then your breath is caught in your throat at the sharp image. His eyes blown out, widened at you. Nose, cheeks, chin, tongue all glistening with sticky crimson slick, and a smile.

He smiles at you. 

At least before his tongue is clicking and he’s poking it into the side of his cheek before reaching back, grabbing your hand, and shoving it out of his hair before sinking his face right back between your legs. As if to show you that he was annoyed by that. 

You don’t get to think about it though, because this time he’s licking you more frantically than he already was. Fast tongue flicking and fucking you, his teeth dragging against your pussy lips, refusing to let you believe that he wants to breathe fresh air right now. 

Your hands find purchase in his hair yet again though, and you feel him grip your legs and stiffen his shoulders to keep his head in place just in case you try to pull him from you again. You hear the deep growl. You feel it rumble against you as if to warn you to keep your hands to yourself if you’re not going to let him do exactly what he said he would fucking do. 

So, you don’t pull him away. Instead, you play in his hair with your weak hands. Twisting and twirling strands of it between your fingers until he’s pulling his tongue back on his own. 

A shock to you, truly, that he does it at all. But you guess it makes sense when you feel another sharp pain in your thigh, right below the preview bite he had given you. 

Just when you were gaining feeling back in your toes too. 

And he goes back and forth like that for a while, until his face is utterly soaked in diluted blood and pussy-slick. Until he needs to look at it pulse, and watch how beautiful you still, fucking still, have more to pour out for him. 

He’s amazed, really. Never has he served himself a woman that’s openly bleeding for him like this. After all, he prefers to drink his dinner from the carotid artery and be done with it. He was far more creative back in the day though, you know, when his cock still worked. 

Most of his sexual pleasure came from drinking alone. Never getting hard but always reaching climax in one way or another when he gets that last, delicious drop of blood from his victims. But now? Oh, now. You’ve stirred his arousal back to life. Not from pure hunger, but lust.

It’s been so long that he’s lusted. So, so fucking long since he’s cared enough to fuck his prey or give in to the temptation of menstrual blood. In fact, he can’t even recall ever allowing his victims to fall away from the drowsy lure he puts them in. Many of them didn’t know what was happening to them before death and he preferred it that way. 

Until you. An average looking commoner with insane fucking blood. Devilish blood. Divine, demonic, angelic, fucking celestial tasting blood. 

After all this time, he’s had beautiful face after beautiful face. He’s had men, women, celebrities, false-prophets, and even purely divine bodies.. But you…oh no, he can’t simply kill you like those utter throw-aways.

There was a reason he didn’t end you the first night. Something in him caught fire on the taste of your drunken blood. The alcohol you had ran through his veins along with a taste he’s never once fathomed existing. It was the first time in hundreds of years where he forced himself to let you walk out of his quarters. 

Blood with no comparison. So thick, so sweet, so…damning. How could he have just killed you there? How could he pretend like it’s not addicting? Like he didn’t want you to continue producing more and more of it, all for him to drink up?

Of course he wants all of it. He wants to drain you to your last fucking drop, but then he’d never taste it again. Not in thousands of years, at least. So now, as his cock pulses awake and your heavy flow only produces more and more for his hungry mouth to lick up– fuck.

It’s been so long since he’s felt something for a victim like this, and even longer since he’s wanted to use his cock. No, needing to use it. It feels almost foreign to him now after so many centuries, to fuck and eat at the same time. To indulge in all the pleasure, and not just the one that keeps him alive. To want you to feel the pleasure too, to need you to want him without the false sleep forcing it.

You. 

You’re the one. You’re the one he’s going to keep. For as long as you’ll let him, and when you stop letting him, he’ll have no choice but to lure you again. Forever. All for him. 

“Love,” He rasps out, staring at the way your pussy shines so prettily in front of him, the pulse drawing him to near starvation despite being drenched in his meal. “Never have I wanted to fuck before I–” 

Kill, is the word he almost used. It’s instinctual, but instead he releases a moan from his throat at the mere thought ignoring that instinct. Drinking, sipping. Forever just a fucking appetizer and never the full meal. He can settle. He will settle.

Never. Truly never has he wanted to stop himself from drinking just to fuck and he needs you to know that. The feeling is too erotic for even him to comprehend right now, meshing with his hunger and making him feel –-

Gods be damned, he could kill you. 

He should kill you. Given the fact that he has never let a meal leave this room without being drained entirely. Never while they’re awake and fully aware anyway. Insanity. You’ve made him go insane, losing his wits enough to treat you as something more than a victim.

Despite hunting you as one. Despite never having to hunt anyone like he has you. Wanting you to be here willingly. Wanting you to love the feeling of his thirst. Wanting you to learn how good the drain feels. Wanting you to know what he is and needing you to love it. 

Needing you to stay alive. 

Insane. 

He’s fucking losing it.

He knows that if he can never smell this scent again, if he can never taste it, or have your fingers in his hair, if he can never want to fuck again? Oh, he’d crumble. 

He’d take a walk at noon.

You’re not dying tonight. In fact, never shall you feel the cold slab of a morgue freezer if he has anything to do with it. No blood wasted when it comes time for you, and no life truly lost either. 

If just for the sex. If just to quench a never ending thirst. 

If just to live in insanity.

“Before you–” You release in a breath that he chases. As if craving the life under him like an animal. “Before you, what?”

“Kill.” He whispers as he swallows each breath of yours, tasting the sweet sleep that you once held in your body. His own eyes feeling drowsy as if you have your own lure on him now. 

Even the panicked gasp you release at his choice of word there, he swallows it, kissing you hard in a drowsy groan and smearing the blood all through the kiss, letting your breath rumble out of his mouth as if the moan were from his own lungs. 

“So vacuous.” He chuckles now, feeling the pleasure of his cock jolt through his body. He presses himself between your legs, relishing in the sticky blood seeping straight through his sleep pants. “Do you feel that?” He continues, rutting against you as if he’s a virgin of all that he’s experiencing right now, licking each smear of blood from your cheeks and chin. 

“Ah, Sunghoon,” You groan, but you try to be serious in your tone. Feeling the orgasm that once was bubbling up settle back in your stomach. “You’re making a mess.” 

“Mm, I am.” He mutters mindlessly, pressing harder against you now as the taste settles in his throat. “Love, tell me. You feel it?” 

Of course you fucking feel it. 

The nod you lend pleases him, knowing that it’s not just his imagination. Finally, he can feel the warmth of a living being wrapped around him. Finally, he doesn’t feel so cold. 

“You can’t fathom what it is that you do to me,” He continues his sweet talk, running his lips down to your neck, leaving trails of that blood all the way before immediately piercing his teeth into the same wounds he left on you already. He feels your pulse against his teeth when he sucks and only groans weaker against you as he ruts. 

“Ah–” You wince in pain again, feeling the wound reopen with a cold and sharp prick. The pain ignites something inside of you to press your hips up, sliding yourself against his red-drenched pants. 

He chuckles into his bite at your willingness, his hands reaching straight down to shove his pants down in one movement. Euphoria runs through him at the feeling of your warm blood against him when he presses back against you.

Really, the feeling alone paired with the taste of your fresh blood yet again only drives him to keep going. After all, he has all the time in the world. His intention to keep you here only lends him the ability to press his length straight into that bloody, sopping wet hole of yours. The one pulsing for him, the one that lends his favorite smell, taste, and feeling in the world. 

His teeth are forced to retract when he throws his head back at the sensation of sinking deep into your cunt, one fluid motion reminding him of how much he loved this feeling before. How often he’d fuck, and fuck, and fuck until suddenly, he just– couldnt. 

You’ve ignited so much life within him, even while doing nothing more than lying here bleeding. No longer does he feel bored with the world considering he’s managed to find you in it. He could possibly even love you if you let him.

Especially with the way you react nearly the same as he does. As if you haven’t fucked before. As if you’ve never mixed scents with another being before ever coming to this city to chase your own demise. The little sounds you make could be so much more than what you think they are. 

They’re so similar to the ones you make when he bites, when he sucks, oh, so so similar. So deeply seeped in pleasure, pain, hesitation.

“Darling, are you afraid?” Sunghoon manages to say as he feels himself warm from inside of your tense body. “Do you believe me now? Do you understand now?”

You frantically shake your head at the tear of his cock spreading your walls open around it. That one slide rendering you near faint considering the amount of blood he’s taken from you already. The feeling of…ice. It’s in you, running from your veins all throughout your body. So, so, fucking cold. 

No, no, no. No living being on this earth could feel this hard inside of you while being this…oh. His hands have been cold on you too. Always. His scalp under your fingernails as you scratched. His lips, his tongue, all of it was freezing until your blood was coating him. Everything about him is ice.

Still, you shake your head through the pleasure, cock warming him both literally and unintentionally. He just sits inside of you, feeling the beat of your heart gush that same blood past his length and out of you. Your eyes slightly open to look at him, afraid of what you’ll see. 

He’s smiling. His eyes are…brighter.

“C–cold.” You manage to stutter out, nearly feeling brain freeze from the way he pulls his hips back and plunges into you again, warm blood splashing out and against his pelvis, coating your thighs more. And oh, that bite on your thigh, it’s dripping again. 

“So cold, yes?” He chuckles when he dips down, moving his hips steadily in and out of your sticky mess. No longer thirsty, just…aroused. “Do you understand?” 

You frantically shake your head again, grabbing onto him from over his shirt. You’re panicking inside, your fingers gripping so tight, trying to find heat. Needing heat. 

How did you not think about this more? It took this to recognize that he never warms? And he’s smiling at your panic? 

God, but it feels so, so fucking good. 

“Love,” He coos at your panic, pistoning his hips easily with the slide, bringing both of his hands to your face and forcing you to look at him. “I’m dead.”

Ah. 

So he is. 

Yet, the feeling of him inside of you feels better than you’ve ever had. The way his hands hold your face, the way his eyes blow out for you, the way his entire face is tinted in red. He’s so alive yet…

Entirely dead. 

“You’re afraid?” He asks through his own forgotten pleasure, wanting you to stay but entirely willing to put you to sleep so this doesn’t have to end. 

“Sunghoon,” You interrupt any words he’s about to give you, opting to continue fighting the truth when you note the softer tone of voice he uses despite the quickening pace of his hips. “Harder.”

Oh, the fire within burns colder than it ever has at those words. He doesn't even need to pull you? You don’t want to pretend this isn’t happening? You’re accepting him? 

If you want him to go harder, he’ll make you feel like no other. Harder he goes, using all of his pent up frustration of not being able to drain you fucking dead, all of his strength, all of everything he’s missed out for the past centuries– all of it. It’s behind his thrusts now as he slams into you. The blood that splatters out only makes the moment all the more grand to him. 

Breaths leave you with each slam, the sticky sound from below being drowned out by the sheer sound your heart rate in your ear. You’re still panicking, but you can’t help but want more. After all, surely what’s left for you after he’s done is….no, it’s not real.

He feels the fear pulse around his cock and moans out at it, the squeeze so tight, the gush so delicious. This entire room smells of you, and he wants it to be fucking drenched in you. The fear inside of you right now only intensifies the pleasure, and he knows he should be calming you through it, he knows he should tell you that you’re making out of this alive, but–

The way the heart beats so frantically when one is terrified. You’re dripping with fear, the smell of your blood intensifies with each petrifying pulse squeezing his cock to the point he feels his own heart make an attempt to pulse. Your life runs through him entirely out of fear that you’ll lose it. 

He can’t tell you, not when your body reacts so flawlessly. Exactly how it’s supposed to react. So delicious is that fear, he wonders if it makes your blood taste any hotter. He dips down, sinking his teeth into your neck once again and confirms his suspicions. It does taste hotter, sweeter, and it pumps itself so beautifully against his eager fangs. Almost as if you truly bleed for him, because he’s not even needing to suck for it at this point. 

It just drips, and pours, and bubbles out all for him to swallow up. 

You push through it though, the pain is so good, and if this is what it’s like to die, perhaps you’ve found yourself in a lucky position. At least you’re not being ripped to pieces by a stranger, or crushed beneath your own car on a highway. At least this way, you’re being held and seemingly adored.

And the fear, excitement, and pure adrenaline in your body forces it out of you. A rush of heat slamming Sunghoon right in his gut when you convulse under him. Legs shaking as you moan out both in disbelief and intense ecstasy. The blood tastes even sweeter now for him, so sweet that he has to pull back in a guttural and demonic growl.

It’s been so, so long since he’s felt a woman cum around him. His own body reacts in an instant, releasing his own thick secretion into you as you shake through it. Sweating, panting, drooling, crying, bleeding. All for him. 

And the explosion behind his eyes is a reminder to keep you alive. He forces himself to keep the inhale from happening as he plunges into you one last time, coating the inside of your bloody walls with a flurry of freezing ropes. Amazed at the feeling he has long forgotten, his body shakes through it and renders him near psychotic for the release. 

You continue to shake with him, shivering at how the man makes you feel as if you’ve been lying in snow for days, but you keep your eyes closed. 

You’re terrified of him, of this, of the truth hitting you square between the eyes as if it wasn’t obvious all along. Fantasies, legends, fairy tales. How many of them are based in reality? 

You know what’s coming now, based on those same stories. 

The last bite, the drain, fuzzy images, death.

And you embrace for it, trying to relish in the post-orgasm bliss before it happens because you know there’s no way to run from him. If he’s truly what he says he is, there’s no chance in this world that you can stop him. You’re going to die, and the strange way in which your brain accepts the inevitable is more calming than petrifying. 

You never knew you’d be able to prepare for it like this, but here you are. Waiting for it. Accepting it. And when you feel the air of his body shift down to you, right up against your neck, you squeeze your eyes shut and hold your breath.

His cold hand tilts your face and all you can do is anticipate as you feel his teeth graze the abused and swollen marks there. 

Here it is. 

You inhale deeply, hoping that if there’s an afterlife, this last breath will be a good memory for you until–

A kiss.

He kisses the wounds. He licks them. He nuzzles his cold nose against them, and then he pulls out of you and lays directly on top of you. 

It’s silent as you lay here, still trying to prepare to fucking die and he’s just prolonging it? 

“Get it over with.” You gripe, frustration dripping out in your weak voice. 

It’s laughable, really, that you’ll sound so argumentative and petty over the loss of your life. So laughable that even he’s chuckling about it, right against your ear with no breath fanning against your skin. 

“Get what over with, darling?” He asks, not having felt this drowsy drained state in so long. 

Your mind is racing though, seemingly trying to think of everything that has ever happened in your life onto everything you wish still could happen, only to consistently land on the fact that you don’t want to believe what’s happening. 

You know very well the denial you’re forcing yourself into, even in the face of demise, you don’t want to believe any of this. 

“I still can’t believe that you’re— No,” You dead-pan before taking in a terrified breath, still keeping your eyes closed. “They’re not real.”

“I’m very, very real.” Sunghoon argues back, infatuated with the denial you try to keep. “You know that I am.” 

“So, you have to kill me then?” Your voice gets smaller as you accept the truth little by little, your breath shakier. “Fucking get it over with then, stop trying to savor it, it’s not like I can run now, right?” 

You still like the way he laughs, so breathy despite having no breath of his own. And through that laugh, he lends another kiss before you feel all of that weight lift from you and dip onto the bed next to you instead. 

“Don’t beg for it.” Sunghoon warns, pulling away from you and forcing his instinct to remember the release of the orgasm he just had. “I won’t be able to stop myself if you ask me so prettily.” 

You pause, your eyes opening against your will as you look at him. He’s facing away from you, but you can see the damp blood drying in the strands of his hair. Your eyes trail down, a puddle of blood staining nearly the entire lower half of the bed and it’s still dripping out of you. 

Or perhaps, that’s whatever it is he fucking shoved into you and fucked out of himself. 

“None of this is happening.” You say to yourself. “I did not just fuck a vampire.” 

“You’re right.” He comments with another laugh. “A vampire just fucked you.” 

Well. You’re still not ready to believe that. Even with the absence of heat, even with the lack of breathing. 

“Prove it.” You ask, unsure as to why you’re wanting it both to be real and just a dream.

You back away when he immediately does as he’s asked. Turning to you and crawling over you. There, he lowers his body, chest to your cheek. 

“Listen.” He says, reaching to hold your face and press it up and against his chest. “Anything?”

You wait, listening for a thump, anything to prove he’s wrong. Fucking any sound at all to blow his cover. 

You’re frozen as you listen, your body going into fight or flight as the seconds turn to minutes. Unfortunately, your body is not a fighter, nor a flier. You’re stuck with his hand on your cheek, holding you so tightly against something you wish was alive. 

A little thump, thump, thump could be the most relieving sound to you, but no. There’s nothing. 

You pull away from him now, body still frozen but head running a mile a minute. How many proofs does he need to provide for you to understand that it’s not fantasy? 

And finally, you feel your body jerk away from him on its own. He’s startled by the movement and you use that short second to roll off of the bed. You do your best to stand, but your brain immediately pulses in pain. Your vision goes fuzzy, dizzy.

Right, you’ve lost a lot of blood tonight. To think your toes aren’t still numb, to think you’d be able to stand without dropping to the ground.

“Thousands of years.” Sunghoon stands quickly, stalking over you and wrapping his arms around you. There, he presses you back on the bed and straddles your hips. “I’ve never told another soul and let them live to remember it– until you.”

You shake under him, the weight feeling more dead now than it ever has. He’s heavy as he holds you down, but somehow his grip on you is gentle. His voice is soft. His eyes are hesitant. He’s not holding you here to hurt you, it seems.

“My love, I told you time and time again,” He glances away from you, feeling something within him shrivel at the thought that now you’re unwilling. “Is it different now? To find that I’ve told no lies to you?” 

Still, he soothes you as you try to comprehend reality. You think hard through the dizzy fog of blood-loss, running more with your mind than your body. He did tell you. And you’re still alive. He just drank and drank from you, and you’re still alive. 

He came to your apartment, he told you he smelled you. 

He’s never lied. 

You just refused to listen. 

He drank you, he fucked you, he held you, and now he’s holding you. 

“I don’t want you to fear me.” Sunghoon admits with sad eyes, trying to ignore how long it’s been since he’s felt sad at all. 

So many emotions you force him to feel, this was not one he was looking forward to. 

“How can I not be afraid?” You breathe out in slurred speech, as if to mock him, because you now know that he truly can’t do it himself. 

“It’s too late to be afraid.” He says apologetically. “You’d have died weeks ago had I wanted it.” 

Why are you still falling in love with his voice? With his stupid grammar, and his horrifying dead-skin? Even with the fear in your stomach, why does this make your heart flutter?

“I’ve never felt so full,” He admits now, releasing his grip on you slowly. He can smell your heart slow, knowing you’re starting to calm now. “Until now.” 

You stare up at him as your eyes recover back to clear vision, in awe of how gentle a killer is being with you. Inspecting the way he’s drenched in your blood, yet you truly still are breathing. He could have killed you time and time again. 

But he didn’t. 

He’s never once lied to you about what he is, and still you struggle to believe what he says. Even when his words match his actions. Sure, he’s a vampire, but he’s not going to kill you? 

What reason do you have to believe him save for the blatant truth behind it? Do you want to believe him? Would you rather be dead?

He knows you can’t fathom the truth so quickly though, and that’s why he’s being gentle. He has nothing more than patience to give to you, if it’ll end in your acceptance anyway. The fact that he can hear your heart beating correctly again only gives him hope that he’s right about not having killed you on the first night.

After all, he truly hasn’t lied to you. Never has he felt full, even after killing several a night. Always hungry, always thirsty, always needing more and more of the syrupy life strangers offer to him under his lure. But you. Entirely aware, flowing with blood that drives him crazy…you’ve managed to fill that desire in him. 

Why should he lie to you? Why would he kill you if there is no need? Despite fighting the instinct, he’s satiated by you. His cold body warms with yours. He will never get enough of you, so how on earth could he just…take that away from himself?

And you do stop fighting. In fact, you lay with him in a bloodied mess and sleep. Despite wanting to ask questions, wondering if he can even sleep at all. Your body is tired, your mind is still petrified, and your hands still cling to the source of it, unsure if you’ll make it to morning at all.

Still, somehow, this feels holy. 

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

PART TWO Fanart by @a-the-na 🖤🖤🖤🖤

[scoobydoodean]

WAIT WAIT WAIT pleaseeee expand on sam separating his soul himself??? i’ve literally never heard this before (i really wanna agree cause i just can’t work out how cas just did not realize he’d forgotten sam’s soul)

This is just a pet theory I have. I first suggested it here when talking to Shal about Bobby not clocking Sam as soulless. The TL;DR is that Sam has a tendency to create emotional distance to protect himself from grief and other painful emotions. Shal's careful examinations of scripts reveal that it's even in the script direction when Mary dies that "Sam disassociates". In 8.08, Sam is paralleled with Fred, who disassociated to deal with grief (I talk about Sam distancing himself from his emotions in season 8 more largely here). I've been slowly collecting (when I remember) little bits and pieces around this idea that Sam tries to distance himself from his emotions in the tag #i just stopped—named that because of 11.11 when—after being confronted by Lucifer—Sam apologizes for leaving Dean in Purgatory, saying—seeming perplexed by his own actions:

I should've looked for you. When you were in Purgatory, I... I should've turned over every stone. But I didn't. I stopped. And I've never forgiven myself for it.

So this pet theory I have is that in The Cage, to cope with the torture being inflicted on him, Sam simply separated his soul from his body. It was the most extreme possible case of dissociating from his own suffering possible.

6.22 strengthens my belief in this theory because Sam splitting into three pieces is treated as a defense mechanism. It's kind of like an Id/Ego/Superego situation, except that the pieces are soulless Sam, Sam the hunter and family man, and the Sam who remembers hell.

SOULLESS!SAM: Well, your BFF Cas brought the Hell-wall tumbling down and you, pathetic infant that you are, shattered into pieces. (he points at Sam) Piece. (he points at himself) Piece.

SAM: I - I have no idea what you're talking about. SOULLESS!SAM: Why would you? You're jello, pal. Unlike me. SAM: What are you? SOULLESS!SAM: I'm not handicapped. I'm not saddled with a soul. In fact, I used to skipper this meatboat for a while. It was smooth sailing. I was sharp, strong. That is, 'til they crammed your soul back in. Now look at you. Same misty-eyed milksop you always were. That's because souls are weak. They're a liability. Now, nothing personal, but run the numbers. Someone's got to take charge around here, before it's too late. 

Sam and soulless Sam have a power struggle inside Sam's head over who gets control. Soulless Sam is really an enforcer, trying to protect Sam from his worst memories. As we see after Sam kills him:

You think I'm bad? Wait 'til you meet the other one.

Then when Sam finds the other part of himself:

SAM: I have to know what you know. What happened in the cage? TORTURED!SAM: Trust me, you don't wanna know it. SAM: You're right. But I still have to. TORTURED!SAM: Sam, you can't imagine. Stay here, go back, find that bartender, go find Jess, but don't do this. I know you. You're not strong enough. SAM: (exhales) We'll just have to see.

Of course, one could argue that Sam's subconscious creates this scenario with soulless Sam and the Sam who remembers hell because Death told them Sam would crumble and Soulless Sam was scared of the fallout of having his soul reinstalled. But idk. I feel like it goes deeper than that, and tortured Sam and soulless Sam's attempts to protect Sam from the truth feed into that to me.

[itwasntimethatdidit40]

A heart that hurts is a heart that works - Something Rotten sequel.

first part can be read here

Pairing: Dark!Joel Miller x afab!reader x Dark!Tess Servopoulos

Words count: 3829

Rating: Mature, absolutely NSFW and again, this shit is triggering. Please, read the tags carefully and if you're a minor don’t interact.

Tags/warning: This happens the morning immediately after the events of Something Rotten, pov second person, no use of y/n, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, heavy degradation, angst, smut, DUB CON/NON CON, reader is barely described, she has breasts and vagina, no mention of her skin tone, she doesn’t blush, she has hair but it’s not described, it is mentioned that Joel's clothes are too big for her (pics are just for aesthetic and don’t represent reader), the only thing is that reader's father died of lung cancer (like mine), depressive thoughts, as said in the first part: reader is held prisoner by Joel and Tess, on her leg is carved the word “pet” (Tess did it), use of a knife, groping, a large amount of bites, mention of wounds, mention of bruises, no kindness whatsoever towards reader, Joel and Tess are both EVIL, fingering (Tess receiving), oral (Tess receiving) spitting, nipples sucking and biting (it's not my ff if there is no attention towards nipples OKAY), unprotected p in v (both f receiving, wrap it up IRL), pussy slapping, cum eating, Joel comes on reader’s face, pissing, a little more scissoring, a little bit of chocking, squirting, brief insert of reader's thoughts in italics… I think it’s all 😅 If I notice I've forgotten something important I'll add it right away.

A/N: Title comes from a Placebo song called Bright Lights. It seemed right to continue with them since "Something Rotten" is also one of their songs. Anyway, I leave you the entire playlist that I listened to while I was writing both this and the first part and again thank you very much to those who recommended songs to me ♥️

There is something of my experience and pain in this so please be particularly kind. English is not my first language and I have no beta, I apologize for any mistakes. I hope you enjoy it, thank you so much to anyone who reads it.

[I started a tag list, if you want to be added let me know, I never tag people because I don't want to impose anything on anyone but if you like it I'm happy too ♥️ ]

Your mind is completely clouded. You open your eyes and for a moment you don’t remember where you are, you rub your eyes, feeling your aching body awaken, the pain of every joint coming back to you. You reach out and press a spot on your stiff neck, a stab of pain shooting up your brain like a gunshot and then sliding down your spine, making you grit your teeth to stifle a moan.

You shut your eyes as images of what happened flash before your eyes, a piercing pain taking over your head.

You don’t know how much time has passed but when you manage to sit up, biting the pain between your lips, you see a bright light coming in through the dirty window, a speck of dust stirring in the beam of light that illuminates the messy bed, the crumpled sheets and the two people lying on it. Tess is on her side, her arms folded, her hands resting on the pillow, near her head. There is always a kind of tension in her, you see it even when she is sleeping, in her huddled body that seems ready to attack and unleash its claws on anyone. She is wearing nothing but panties and Joel’s shirt left open, revealing the outline of her breasts. 

She should disgust you, but instead as soon as you see one of her nipples poking out from under her shirt salive pools into your mouth. You put a hand to your forehead, overwhelmed by yourself, by what you feel and by a shame that creeps up inside you and makes your temples throb.

This is so wrong. Yet you would like to lace your lips on that little button and suck it, if only she would let you do it, if only she would let you lie next to her gently, allowing you to be the good pet she expects you to be.

Shifting your gaze to Joel doesn't help soothe your twisted mind. He’s on the other side, lying on his back, in his boxers, your eyes wander on the defined muscles on his chest, the softness of his belly, and a strip of sunlight hitting his abdomen highlighting hair leading to his groin. 

He seems carved out of a block of marble, skimmed by scars, exuding power and sex, the tips of your fingers graze your swollen lips and you still feel his taste, the weight of his cock on your tongue, his relentless thrusts, his hungry eyes on you. 

They must have fallen asleep, which gave you some respite even if you don’t feel rested at all.

You look at your thigh and it's still there, the pulsing sign that you should leave, just run while you can, sneak out of this place quietly and look for somewhere to hide. But you feel like a mouse in a cage, your body not moving an inch. You’re still untied; it would take nothing to reach the door and close it behind you. But what if they woke up? If they felt the bed lighten with your weight? You know they'd have you back in an instant. 

Your brain, you can't decide whether very stupidly or very wisely, thinks that it is better not to make any risky moves to stay alive. 

Helpless and desperate you lie back on the bed staring at the ceiling, the silence broken only by Joel's soft snoring.

Your arms spread across the bed as you sink into your thoughts and your fingers casually graze the knife abandoned on the sheets. The coldness of the blade sends a chill down your spine.

You have to do something for yourself. At least try. You cannot be so spineless. You move one leg off the bed, your eyes fixed on your captors, seeming not to notice anything so you move the other leg as well, letting yourself slide cautiously along the edge of the bed, finally resting both feet on the floor. You pick up the closest garment you can find on the ground, it's a Joel T-shirt, wide and long enough to cover your butt. You just have to get up, you can do it. Leaning your weight on your legs feeling your knees crack in the effort, you wonder what in your body is not sore. You are on your feet. Joel and Tess are motionless in the same position as before. You walk on the floor resting your toe and then your heel, silent and terrified like a prey trying to evade before falling into the lion's jaws, hoping that the wood will not creak under your gait. You reach for the door. You almost make it. Just rest your hand on the handle and lower it. A moment and you're out of here. As soon as your hand touches the cold metal you hear a voice behind you, “Where do you think you're going?” 

You feel your heart falling out of your chest, freezing where you are, your eyes at the door, your breath getting heavy.

“Turn around”

You do it slowly, praying you don't feel a blow immediately afterward. Joel is standing in front of you. “Please” your voice is a barely audible whisper ”please.”

Joel reaches out, grabs you by the wrist “no fucking way” 

He doesn't add anything more, he takes you back to the bed, forcibly lays you down and lies on top of you. His eyes look at you fiercely, he drops down next to your ear “maybe I was wrong about you, you're not the good pet I thought you were. Let me teach you your priorities straight“ he growls, his voice low, sharp. 

His body weighs down on you, completely overpowering you, his legs blocking yours, his hands resting on the sheets on either side of your face. 

"I give you credit for that. You were brave to think you could sneak away. But also incredibly stupid." His voice vibrates close to your ear, it is eerily calm and controlled, sounding as if it came from the darkest part of him, straight from his gut.

A lump rises from the pit of your stomach to your throat, sickening. "I'm sorry," you stammer, Joel's eyes lighting up with that sinister hue you now know like the back of your hand. 

He retrieves the knife from above the bed and places the blade under the fabric of the T-shirt, cutting through the sleeves and tearing it from the neck to the hem, reducing it to a shred of fabric lying beneath you. You tremble when the icy blade touches your skin.

His boxer-covered erection presses against your thigh, against your wound. 

Again you wonder what substance your mind is now made of because feeling him against you, demanding, claiming your body, makes your pleasure slide down your legs. You can feel it on your skin, a shiver, a wetness, a trickle of you leaving you to become his. You mold under him, relaxing your muscles, ceasing to resist, submitting to his stern eyes nailing you to the bed. 

He takes your hands and intertwines them possessively with his own as his legs push between yours, forcefully spreading them apart.

He crawls on you like a rabid dog, inhaling your scent on your neck, down to your sternum, reaching your breast, licking the skin above your ribcage “You were Robert's, weren't you?” 

His teeth close on one of your nipples, biting it, your back arches pushing against his mouth, demanding more. “This? It's mine now.” he whispers in a rough voice ‘This is mine too.’ he adds, twisting the other nipple, he moves one hand to your mound, grabbing it ”What about this wet pussy? She's mine too. I own you now. Make sure you don’t forget that, you little cock slave”

And you feel it again. The desire coursing down your body, clinging to your nerves, flowing into the middle of your thighs. 

It lingers on you deeply. And you’re pleading at that. Before you sense your own voice saying it, like it doesn’t belong to you, coming out of someone’s else body “Please” you babble “please, more” as he run a single finger through your folds.

Everyone you knew died. Every person you loved is gone, ruined by the spreading epidemic. Except your father, who passed away a few years before the pandemic broke out, obliterated by lung cancer. You still remember his jagged, exhausted breathing getting more and more labored, small and thin, until it died out completely. You still remember the smell of the hospital room, the dimness, your gripped heart, your silent tears. It was something you never wanted to see, the moment when death takes someone.  It stays inside, digs deep into you, rattles in the walls of your brain until one day it subsides and remains a creeping awareness you have to live with. A brick in your pocket that will forever weigh of absence, of pain, of lack.

And when you thought maybe you could make it, one day when the brick seemed lighter, pandemic came and your mother turned into a monster. From a fragile woman, still bent by your father's absence, to a ferocious beast with bloodshot eyes that tried to break your neck.

You had had to tear it down yourself, with your own strength, that thing your mother had turned into. And you couldn't explain it for days, or how you had done it, or what had happened. People were running around terrified, not knowing where to take refuge, not knowing if it would ever end. Until they came and loaded you onto trucks, promising to escort you to a safe area. What you were not told was that there was no solution, for some of you there was not even a place in the QZ. The epidemic took away not only the people you cared about but also your dreams, every hope you had for your future, every plan to become a good teacher, to accompany young minds in creating a better world. There is nothing left to create, only destruction.

You could have offered yourself as a teacher in the Qz but you had decided not to bow to a system that spread only government propaganda, instilling in kids that there was nothing else to believe in but FEDRA. 

And even in the face of desperation the cruelty had not stopped, some soldiers had tried to take you at night, traumatized and without strength, you had been saved only by the good heart of one of your neighbors who had defended you. You had jumped out of the truck, along with him and some other people, looking for an alternative that would never come. They had fallen like skittles, one after another. You were tired of seeing it, the cold hand of death reaching out to everyone around you. 

Your heart still aches horribly, but after all, a heart that hurts is a heart that works. And you're still alive. 

He takes the finger away and shoves it in his mouth, enjoying the taste of you and then he’s close to your ear again grazing you with his beard and graveling “I knew you were a little slut,” Joel's heavy breath warms your skin, driving your being back into your body. “When I'm done with you you'll want nothing more than to be my brainless whore”

You’re bucking your hips against him, mindlessly, while he takes your body with his mouth and hands, furiously licking, biting and groping your flesh, moving impatiently over you on the bed and waking Tess up. She takes a few seconds to focus, abruptly recovered from a deep sleep, but then you hear her dry voice, “oh, are you having fun without me?” 

Joel does not tell her that you tried to escape. which in itself is a miracle for you. He turns to her just a moment, leaving your nipple with a loud pop .

“Come” he tells her, and it's almost sweet. Almost. Tess comes crawling up on the bed like a feline and looks down at you, smiling cruelly. 

“Lie on top of her, make sure this bitch doesn't move” Tess nods, he makes room for her, and she crushes you with all her weight, her scarred back against your tits, as if you were a mat, clinging to your arms as Joel watches the scene smugly "Quite a picture" he growls.

He pulls down Tess's panties, tossing them aside. He does the same with his boxers.  “This is exactly what I want. Two pretty cunts all for me” 

He stoops to observe you both, his eyes roaming your sexes, his thumb touching you first, a creamy river in between your folds, and then Tess. She snorts “will you hurry up?”

“mmm you're not wet enough honey, but we can fix that”

“Honey”, you think he is the only person who can call Tess that. Anyone else would be out of balls in a heartbeat. 

He buries his face in her cunt and you feel Tess stiffen on top of you, her whole body reacting to the first touch of Joel's tongue. You seem to catch a glimpse of submerged fragility behind all that violence and resentment she always displays.

She grips your wrists in a vice as her hips rise toward Joel and a low, deep moan escapes from her throat. 

Joel's fingers run hard and calloused over your folds, collecting what drips from you and spreading it over Tess's pussy, mixing your essences, then returning to lick her. And you can feel her, crumbling on top of you, conceding willingly, every muscle in her asking for more.

Each lapping of Joel's tongue on her vibrates over your body like a wave, Tess's butt sliding over your folds, crawling over your clit, giving you reflex stimulation.

“Mmmm just like that, baby, that’s fucking good” 

She whines so sweetly under his ministration, an undertone so vulnerable and tender in her voice you almost think she turned into another person. And you are in the front row watching this, a silent witness to the other Tess, the one who still has a shred of humanity hidden within her.

It’s unique, you think, how sex with the right person, a person we care about, a person we share a path with, makes us. Defenseless, no mask to wear against the world. Even Tess, perhaps the coldest woman you’ve ever met. 

“Nice and drippy” Joel murmurs, nuzzling at Tess’s cunt “fucking gorgeous” 

He dips his nose in there, moving through her folds up to her clits, brushing the tip over it. “You smell so good, babe, such an nice mess for me to feast on” 

“Fuck” Tess gasps “just fuck me” 

“Yeah baby, I’m going to stretch you both so damn right” 

Tess rolls her eyes in twisted need, impatient like the bossy woman she still is and you whine like the shy mess that you are. 

So different and yet ready for the same cock. 

You noticed the way Joel’s voice soften when he speaks to Tess, the intimacy between them is palpable, in this moment you’re just an appendage. 

You want that desperately, belong to someone, to him, to her, to feel his voice and his whole body going unshielded for you. 

Joel spits into his palm and takes his cock in his fist, pumping it and then tapping the tip on her cunt, once, twice, three times, rubbing it on her folds, lubricating it with her juices, before getting it all the way inside her. Tess's body arches so desperately over yours, merging with Joel's as he begins to thrust inside her.

She thrashes on top of you, clinging to your forearms, pushing you back against the mattress, her hips swaying over yours again giving secondhand attention to your clit, now so swollen and needy that each thrust you emit a moan in sync with her, shyly participating in her pleasure. You bend your neck slightly to one side to look at Joel standing before you, bronze and sculptural, a cruel god who leaves you breathless. His chest glistens in the dim sunlight streaming in through the window, revealing tiny droplets of sweat beading on him, a grin painted on his face, brows furrowed, lost in Tess's wet walls, focused on pounding on her special spot again and again.

“You like that huh? You like this cock splitting you, yeah, I know you do, fuck you’re so drenched I could take a bath in it, all slippery and warm...mmm baby, just like that. Take it.”

He rests a hand on her belly to hold her more firmly, a sense of possession different from that manifested with you, purer and deeper, made up of silent, recurring gestures between them. It's as if you feel it all the way down into your stomach as he sinks into her, the forced closeness making you almost delirious, sensitive and wanting.

Tess is almost at her peak, sliding on you now unceasingly, her back kneading your breasts, up and down, your nipples impossibly hard against her skin, she stammers "there- there- I'm almost there- oh fuck"

"Not yet, baby, hold it back" he challenges her and she growls in disappointment and frustration, as he comes out of her. Joel brushes against you "it's time to put this slut in her place. You want it huh?" he roars as he looks at you "I can see it from here, you're flowing like a fucking river, clenching around nothing like a whore” 

His eyes sparkle with evil. He spits on your cunt, a glob of saliva right on your clit. He spreads it quickly over your entrance and thrusts into you unceremoniously, all the way down, in one breath-breaking stroke. "You're full now huh? Clench around my shaft, bitch” 

You feel your walls strangle his cock, eager to hold him inside, to belong to him, to be broken through. "Yes" you moan, not even sure why you had tried to run away from this anymore. Tess wouldn't even need to hold you with her whole body but you'll never say it, the way she bounces on top of you drives you crazy. You are back on the scene now, eager, drunk with a dark, all-consuming desire burning in your veins.

He grips your hips hard, digging his fingers into your thighs, going out and back in you harder, deeper each time, using your cunt as his personal toy, beating on your cervix as if he were to fill it with bruises. And you don't care, welcoming each thrust as if it were the last thing you will ever receive.

Your mouth proceeds alone, bellowing and wailing each moan like an off-key song you can't stop singing, irrepressible, obscene, feverish.

"You're tight for a whore, pet, but don't worry, I'll take care of it." Joel grunts, Tess echoes you, her harsh voice protesting uselessly to let her finish, her legs wrap around Joel's waist claiming him but he is focused on ruining you now with the cruel and unrelenting force he has not reserved for her.

Her nails sink into the skin of your arms, you feel them barely disconcerted by Joel's stabs but a tiny part of your brain knows they will leave more marks on you. 

There is nothing gentle about it, no attention, no care, just animalistic thrusts that make your body shake like an earthquake. 

You are less, obviously less, but you are still something.

Tess turns on you, looking into your eyes, lowering a hand to your clit, rubbing it furiously and then colliding it with her own, clit against clit, pressed together in sloppy kissing, hips rocking back and forth, sliding up to the point where Joel joins obscenely with you, seeking on her own the finish Joel has not yet given her by using your body.

“Oh fuck, yes,” she screeches, "here we go little slut, give it all to me" biting your skin on the marks Joel left, on your neck, on your tits, sucking your nipples between her lips, unrestrained. She's a wild amazon riding you, untamed, fierce and mean, teeth, tongue and hips demanding no permission and taking from your body what they want. 

And then again her hand descends between you to rub her clit as her knuckles press against yours, squirting letting out a guttural sound, flooding you, Joel's cock and the sheets. 

Joel growls at the vision “oh that’s fucking right, babe, yeah spurt all over me, FUCK, so good”

And you lose yourself, your sanity flying out the window with your attempts to escape, you are caged by Tess's body, hammered by Joel's cock, you feel their eyes on you looking fiercely, them calling you their slut again and again, that's all you can do. 

Tess pulls away from you, Joel holds you firmly by the hips, his face contorts into a grimace, he bites his lower lip as he thrusts himself possessively into you, reaches down and puts a hand around your neck, squeezing your pulse point, smiling cruelly as your air diminishes and your mind becomes rarefied “keep it up slut, milk me” and she scolds him “you can't cum inside her”.

“Fuck” he snorts "you're right". The grip on your neck loosens and you gasp, panting hard, trying to regain oxygen.

Joel slaps your pussy hard with his hand open, ordering: “on your knees, pet.”

You sit complacently on your lap on the bed, uncertain of what he wants to do. Tess is at your side, sneering. 

“Stick out your tongue for me.” He says harshly, Tess's hand bends your back, making you squat, waiting. 

“Good kitten” Joel grunts stroking his cock up and down, the angry red tip aimed at you. You don't realize it in time that long, thick, streaks of cum hit your face, your mouth, slide down your chin. You close your eyes just a moment before you feel his semen hit your eyelashes and run thickly down your cheek.

“Mmm now you look just like a proper slut” Tess giggles wickedly, then pauses "In fact no, we can do better". She grabs you by the arm, drags you naked as a maggot into the bathroom, and gets you on your knees inside the tub. “Hold still” she barks at you. You close your eyes, trembling, not knowing what to expect, until you feel something warm hit your forehead, run down your face, partially wash the cum off. An acrid, pungent smell makes its way into your nostrils. As soon as it reaches your lips you realize. 

You open your eyes, clouded by Tess's piss, her degrading gaze penetrating your bones along with Joel's laughter, standing in the bathroom enjoying the show. 

“Now you're perfect.”

tag list: @aurorawritestoescape , @baronessvonglitter

[sparrowrye]

Demi Demon || Alastor x Reader, part 20

Synopsis: soulmate AU where you have the same mark on your body as your soulmate, and if your soulmate dies, you die too. Alastor needs to make sure that his soulmate is safe so he can continue his reign - whatever that takes. Though it looks like we have a couple secrets of our own.

Previous part

Part 20: dark desires

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"What do you want Husker?" I knew he was crossing when he first stepped out of the house. I sat just beyond the tree line with my back against a large oak. I had heard the door close, the sway of grass as he walked, his steps, his breathing, and felt his red magic about half way across the field.

I had barely slept last night. I woke up before dawn and made my way to my new sitting spot. I could hear the crash of the waves at the bottom of the cliff and the whirl of the wind across the field. The peaceful serenity was nice. The calm, external environment was helping me figure out how to feel internally. Until Husker showed up at dawn.

"I wanted to check on you." He stepped out from behind the tree.

"I'm fine. Never better. Why do you ask?" I had my legs pulled up and my arms dangling over them. I kept my one hand covering the bruised one.

"I thought maybe you would be happy that the curse is finally gone. But...you obviously don't feel that way."

"I shouldn't..." I pressed my lips into my shoulder to keep myself from spilling. I wasn't sure why I didn't want to talk about it with Husker. I had told him plenty before but this time I was hesitant.

"I'm usually good at guessing what's wrong," he tried, "but this time I'm a little lost. Did something else happen? Was there a memory?"

"No, he...I didn't..." I wrapped my arms around my legs and leaned my cheek into them. I was still holding my human form but I could sense everything as if I was in my Demon form.

My hands shifted so the bruise shone a little. Husker pointed and asked, "May I?" So I let him brush his claws across my injured hand, the muscle and skin popping and fixing itself. I turned my head the other way and gritted my teeth from the pain.

When he was done, I withdrew my hand to my chest and stared off into the forest. Husker was quiet. He sat in silence with me for a long time. I could hear his breathing and his presence sat on the outside of my shields.

I let out a huge sigh, Husker's ear twitching in my direction. I turned my head so he was partially in my view. "I don't...I should've known that he wanted something more with me."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean...I thought he just wanted to teach me how to defend myself against a Demon. That way he didn't have to ever think about keeping me safe again, but...I...he..." I struggled to find the words. I didn't want to tell Husker about the Sanctuary in case it somehow got back to Alastor. "When we touch I can feel both of our magic combining. He wants to keep me because it gives him more power. Which means...I can't do anything without him. I can't have a life anymore."

Husker was quiet. I could feel his presence fully around my shields as if to comfort me in some way. He physically sat adjacent to me against the same tree. I could hear his tail thumping and even feel it vibrating through the ground.

"Well, you know," he leaned over so his shoulder touched mine, "he's gonna teach you everything he knows. And you've obviously got your own kind of power and experience. Sooo...." he tilted his head, drawing out his words. He was waiting for me to finish but I obviously wasn't getting it. "So you may one day be better than him."

I actually laughed. It was short and high pitched. I stood up and spun on my heels, planting my hands on my hips. "This is the Radio Demon we're talking about. He's been around for thousands of years. He's had all that time to practice and master who knows how much magic. I've barely lived a second in comparison to him."

"True," he agreed, "but even he has his weaknesses. He's teaching you all the tricks which means you'll know how he thinks. It's just a matter of time."

"That's what I'm upset about." I paced around in a circle. I let my Demon side show and dug my foot claws into the soft earth. "In order to be even close to his level, I would have to train with him for hundreds of years. I don't even know how long I live for."

"Demons don't really have a timeline but most of us live longer than the average Human."

"I don't want to be stuck with him!" I yelled. My tail whipped behind me as my pacing increased. I went up to a tree and raked my claws down its bark. "I deserve to pick the life I want to live. He gets to decide what life he wants because he's got the power, but I deserve to decide."

"He's not really..." Husker clicked his claws together. "He's more...you won't get through to him unless you've got some kind of power. And...you may have to suck it up and train with him until you've reached that point. You've seen how he reacts when your shadow shows up."

I glanced down as my shadow morphed into the woman. I had yet to come up with a name, though I was heavily leaning towards Alcine. It seemed like a nice, elegant name for a woman who's shadow looked like that. She nodded her head at me on the grass.

I let out a strangled sigh. "I just...I have my own plans."

"I know." He pushed himself to his feet and stood in front of me. "I know exactly how you're feeling. So I want to do what I can to help you get there."

"What about you?"

He shrugged. "One step at a time. Maybe you'll even be able to convince him to let me go. But let's take this one day at a time."

I rubbed my clawed fingers together. "Okay."

****

"Are you finally ready, darling?" Alastor stood on the scorched symbol at the cliff, his eyes and teeth glowing brightly in the dim moonlight. His hands rested on top of each other on his red cane. I hid my Demon side as I walked up. My feet felt like they had glue on the bottom of them, making each step harder than the last. 

"Where are we going?" It was the third time I had asked. 

"Out. I think you've been stuck in this dusty house for too long." He uncurled a claw from his cane and held it out, his smile widening. 

"You and I both know kindness isn't your thing." I looked up through furrowed eyebrows and an angry scowl. Anger was easier to manage than fear.

He hummed a short laugh. "You pain me. I'm not all bad." He inched his hand towards me more. 

I sighed. "Yes you are," and took his hand. Our combined power rushed through my veins and took my breath away. I had to take a moment to recover while Alastor soaked in the feeling. He pulled me closer and teleported away. I nearly grabbed his arm when the ground disappeared. I was slowly getting used to the feeling of teleporting.

When we touched solid ground, I looked around at the dark landscape. We were on a roof but there were several huge buildings surrounding us. Not all the floors were lit up and most of them didn't even have windows or walls. I inched to the edge and saw a lively scene beneath me. The major streets were covered in yellow, electrical lights and people had to push themselves through the heavy crowd. 

This was one of those Old World cities. Since the Great Collapse, many major cities had fallen to nothing but ruins, leaving mother nature to handle them how she wanted. I had been in a ring of sorts in one of these cities. When an old ring had been discovered, everyone had to go find a new one. On the way, Striker and I had spent a night in one of these big cities. He heard of a fighting league, a legal 'ring' fight with willing participants. He had participated in a fight himself then offered me up to their champion. The fight lasted under two minutes.

I knew he would probably still be in one of the legal towns, but that didn't stop me from scanning the crowd in search of Striker's sharp face. "What are we doing here?" 

"There's someone I want to see if you recognize," Alastor answered nonchalantly. He stood just a hair behind me, his presence snaking around my shields. He didn't push through, which surprised me, but the fact that he was actively surrounding me didn't make me feel any better. I tried asking who I was supposed to be looking for but he didn't respond. He fell silent and just stared at me. I hated when he did that.

For awhile I simply watched. We were hidden on a roof that towered just above where the electricity stopped running. There was no one on the floors of the buildings around us and the shadows kept us well hidden from any curious eyes. 

After awhile, I sat down with my legs crossed and continued to watch. I was actually enjoying it. I stretched out my magic sense and felt everyone who came within distance. I could sense their emotions and feel who had Full magic and who had Slight. There were a few Demons hiding themselves in a human appearance, their magic's color shaping their outline. I imagined myself walking in the crowd with them all, brushing shoulders and going about a normal life. When I 'touched' them, it felt like I was sucking some of their energy straight from their body. 

A cold shiver ran through my body. I casted a glare at Alastor as his presence finally penetrated my shields. I tried wrapping my mind in a black cloak as if to keep him from reading my thoughts. I didn't know if he could actually read thoughts but I wasn't eager to find out. I turned back to the crowd to look for someone I would recognize. If he was trying to get in my head, that must mean he saw the person and wanted to see my reaction. 

It took me a few moments before my eyes locked on a man. I didn't immediately recognize him but I couldn't look away. He had a sturdy build, an ugly frown, and scraggly hair. My heart quickened and my hands started to sweat. What was wrong with me? Why was I freaking out? What was it about this man? No memories surfaced as I tried to remember.

He walked down one of the small streets and I followed, scrambling to my feet and jumping to the neighboring rooftop. I watched him from my high perch as he strolled halfway down the less-lit street. He leaned against the old building and pulled out a smoke. He was wearing a long sleeve which seemed odd for such a warm night. He put his hands in his pockets and just looked left and right. I knelt down and continued to watch him. What was he doing? Who was he waiting for?

Eventually, a second man walked down the street and shook hands with him. I leaned lower and casted a light wind to carry their conversation up to me. 

"That's thirty credits for the boy and forty for the girl," the newcomer said. He pulled out metal squares, called credits, to count them and drop them in the man's hand. 

"What do you want next?" the big man counted the credits himself before stuffing them into his pocket. 

"They're looking for two boys, around nine years old give or take."

"No girls?" 

"No. They supposedly have too many now and not enough fighters. They need the boys for the fights."

"Nine is awfully old." The big man blew out a puff of smoke. "They can't disappear as easy as younger kids."

"Which is why you're getting fifty credits for each." 

The big man coughed and took the smoke from his mouth. He cleared his throat and straightened his shirt. "Fifty? That sounds like they want a delivery."

"They do. They want them delivered to Swansbury. You can handle that, can't you?"

"Yeah, of course."

The newcomer held out his hand and the big man rolled up one of his sleeves. I leaned further over the edge to see what was all over his arms. The newcomer took the man's smoke and pressed it the hot end into his bicep. The man let out a grunt but didn't react in any other way. The newcomer returned the smoke after the big man had rolled his sleeve back down. The marks on his skin were all burn marks. Why did they do that?

"Your next contact will wear a gray top," the newcomer informed. He swiftly left the small street and disappeared into the crowd. The big man waited in the street, still smoking his cigarette. I watched him closely, trying to put together his face. I knew him. But from where?

Something pulled me backwards and I found myself in my mindscape. I pushed myself to my elbows and found myself in a memory. Not just any memory, the memory. The man trapped my hands against the cold cage floor and everything came running back. I squeezed my eyes shut and swallowed the fear in my stomach. I was suddenly standing and tripped backwards into my shields. I shook my head and pulled myself back to reality. I opened my eyes to an empty alley.

I jumped to my feet and rang along the edge of the roof for him. I found him down another small street, walking into another small building. This one had electricity shining through some of the shaded windows. The man appeared on the third level and collapsed on an old rickety bed. This was the man that had assaulted me.

My Demon side slipped out and I dug my claws into the concrete of the rooftop I sat on. So many emotions came flooding through me as I stared at him. He was a ring hunter. He was the people who stole children and sold them to the ring fights. I had so much energy buzzing through my body I didn't know what to do with. I wanted to bring the building down and watch him suffocate from the crushing rubble. 

"You can do it." 

My ear twitched as Alastor's lips brushed against it. My hands were shaking the harder I pushed them into the concrete. My heart couldn't slow down.

"You have the power, now."

My vision started to blacken around the corners. I was zeroing in on his helpless, clueless body on the bed. He was going to sleep peacefully and would wake up the next day to ruin another child's life. 

"You can put a stop to him."

My breathing grew shallow. My hands were sweaty and my tail whipped back and forth on the roof. My wings pressed into the floor on either side of me to give them something to do. I wanted to jump off this roof and crash into his room. I wanted to wrap my claws around his throat.

"It would take a flick of your wrist."

Alastor's hand was gripping my shoulder as he leaned further over the other one. He was kneeling beside me? Behind me? There was so much energy bouncing between us that I couldn't tell where he was in contact with me aside from his claws in my shoulder. 

"End his life to save so many." He gently grabbed my wrist and pried it off the edge of the roof. He lifted it up so my sharp, black claws curled around the man's figure. "Restrict his airflow." His throat closed and his eyes shot open. He clutched at his neck and rolled of the bed. He banged his chest as if to dislodge an object from his throat. "Watch him writhe as you did."

The man's flailing slowed until he finally laid still on the floor. The outline of his body grew red until everything about his was glowing red. It was his soul. I quickly cut off my magic. A second later the man gasped for air and the outline disappeared.

Alastor was everywhere. I abruptly withdrew and broke away from him. "I'm better than that," I clutched my hands to my chest, "I stopped the killing when I left the ring. I'm not going back to that. I'm not a Demon."

"Oh darling," he stalked over to me, "you are a Demon." He leaned down so his face was level with mine, arms folded behind his back. "It's how you managed to survive for so long in those fights. It's in your nature."

A door slammed shut, drawing both our attention back to the street. The man had run out of the building and was making his way to the crowded street. A huge, dark figure appeared at the end of the street and snarled at the man. He casted fire at the illusion and went the other way. Alastor chuckled and looked at me sideways. He grabbed my forehead, covering my eyes, and I felt my body drop. 

A second later I was gliding over the lower buildings on the outskirts of the city. The man was still running, casting glances over his shoulder for his pursuer. Various black figures scared the man from certain streets, herding him further away from the crowded street. I jumped from building to level and back again. I could taste the fear of the man. It was sweet and electrifying. I wanted more. 

The man tripped and scrambled behind a pile of crates. I jumped down on the other end of the alley where the man wasn't looking. The streetlight behind me blinked. The man's head swiveled in my direction. The light turned on and my shadow--no, Alastor's shadow--stretched down the concrete. 

"Good day sir!" Alastor's chipper voice came from my lips. I wasn't actually here. I was seeing through Alastor's eyes. He stalked slowly and precisely towards his prey. The man tried casting fire but his veins bulged and he cried out in pain. He curled into a bawl, sobbing and begging for his life. Alastor leaned down so his face was inches from the man's and said, "You've gotten in my way."

His claws latched around the man's throat. Half a second later, the man's life faded from his eyes. He slumped into the ground and Alastor straightened up. He snapped his fingers to call the dark figures to surround the body. He effortlessly lifted himself to the rooftop and made his way back. I could see my own body laying on the ground as he knelt beside it. He covered his eyes and my own flew open, my body lurching forward. 

"What are you do--"

He caught my chin in his claws and held our faces close. "You are a Demon by nature. Your power will grow until you can no longer handle it, unless you learn how to properly exercise it. That is what I'm doing." He shoved my face away and stood. 

"What did you do to him?" I pushed myself to my feet. 

"You'll know by tomorrow when I make my broadcast." 

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

Author's Note:

Thank you all for your patience, kind words, and understanding! I hope this chapter makes up for yesterday. How power hungry do you think we'll get? Can we fight the urge? How persuasive will Alastor be?

[i-heart-hxh]

Do you think Kurapika will die by the end of the series? I’ve seen lots of people saying he will, and that togashi said he will, but i don’t think i’m sold.

largely i just think it would be a poor ending to his character. i don’t think him dying and the Kurta being lost forever would be a very satisfying ending. (although, i trust togashi to make any direction he ends up going in very good.)

i especially don’t think it will happen any time soon at the current point in the story. there’s just far too many loose ends that haven’t been tied up. i sincerely doubt he would die while the troupe is still active or the eyes are still out there.

I think what’s most likely to happen is that we get a technical death, similar to what happened to gon, where he “dies” but is brought back to life due to some dark continent fuckery and possibly some of leorio’s medical knowledge. bonus points if we get a classic scene of dead love ones encouraging him to keep living, lol

as a follow up to my last anon (about kurapika): i think it would be unnecessarily sad to make kurapika die permanently. maybe it would make sense, character wise, as he is totally driving himself into the ground at the moment. but i have a hard time envisioning a way that end could be a satisfying one. it would mark the absolute decimation of the kurta. permanently lost to time, with absolutely no hope of any kind of revival. kurapika is currently the only person with a deep knowledge of the kurta culture and traditions, and the only person who could pass that knowledge on. or even pass on the scarlet eyes. it kind of reminds me of the air nomads from avatar. but it would be like, if aang died in the process of fighting ozai and no other air benders were born after that

Hi anon! It's funny you sent this, I actually was just thinking about making another post about my guesses on Kurapika's fate about an hour before I received this. Good timing! I actually did a poll on this topic a while back and then added some of my thoughts after it finished. However, my thoughts and guesses have solidified quite a bit since then.

I agree with you--I actually think Kurapika is likely to pull through, albeit potentially after a death and then revival or some other drastic near-death situation similar to what happened to Gon. I agree that it's hard to imagine a fulfilling ending where Kurapika doesn't survive (though I have faith in whatever Togashi may have planned, even if it goes completely against my guesses). I have some thoughts to add on why this is my guess as well.

First off, the way Leorio's character is set up. Putting him in the same place as Kurapika while he's training as a doctor, knowing that his largest character motivation is not to lose any more friends... It would be awfully cruel for Togashi to have Leorio go through Kurapika's death in light of that. His role as a doctor needs to be tested and come to fruition, and his character arc needs to come full circle as someone who deeply wants to prevent his friends from dying.

Secondly, the themes of the series. I've talked about this a lot in discussions of Gon and Killua's relationship, but some primary themes of the series are second chances and the transformative power of love and human connection. When thinking about the series through that lens, having Kurapika not pull through after all (and having Leorio lose him), does not feel like it's in line with those themes. Kurapika needs a second chance to connect with the world of the living and find meaning in those around him.

I also suspect that Kurapika's storyline is going to come down to a choice between two things: Life and death, but not just his own. Here's why:

Kurapika, obsessed with getting revenge for the Kurta clan and gathering the body parts of his murdered family and friends, is currently guarding a baby. I think he will be put in a situation where he has to make a choice between Woble's life, and getting his revenge and gathering the body parts of his loved ones. He already had to make a similar choice once, in Yorknew. He had Chrollo in his grasp, he could have killed him, but ultimately he had to choose between doing this and Gon and Killua's lives--and he chose Gon and Killua's lives. He isolated himself from his friends as a result of this, trying to force himself to stay on his path of revenge without letting anyone get in his way (including, perhaps most importantly, himself), but now he's in a position again where it seems likely his plans will go off track when he has to choose between a living child and his people, who are already long dead.

(I also suspect he might find out the Phantom Troupe wasn't responsible--or at least wasn't entirely responsible--for the Kurta massacre and his ultimate antagonist will be Tserriednich, but that's a bit of a digression that I can talk about in more depth another time.)

I think ultimately this is how his character is set up: Will he choose to focus only on what he's lost and those who are already dead and on causing more death (including ultimately his own), or will he decide to protect and focus on those around him who are still living and on finding reasons to live himself (likely in Leorio, Gon, and Killua, among others)? It's true that, if he continues to live, he can bring the memories of the Kurta into the future with him, to honor those he lost, rather than living only for revenge that I'm sure his loved ones wouldn't even want him to burn down his life for. It's a bleak ending for him if he doesn't survive, and the Kurta would simply fade into history forever with him, like you were saying.

So, it's possible he will "die" or very nearly die in a fight against Tserriednich, in order to protect Woble, and then Leorio will have to find some way to get him to pull through--possibly using his training, possibly using something in the Dark Continent, maybe both. It would satisfy both of their character arcs to a certain degree and make sense with the trajectories they're on.

As usual, however, Togashi is unpredictable and he could have something entirely different up his sleeve, or even be misdirecting the audience on what he's trying to do. Only time will tell! But in the meantime, I agree with you that Kurapika's probably going to make it, even with the dire circumstances he's currently in.

[hanlimz]

[hanlimz's 200 event!: sunghoon + 3 (hugs) and 14 (kisses)]

synopsis: forbidden relationship, dangerous consequences, and tender love. / for my love @nyxvrse <3 mwah love u sm ! hope u enjoy~ pairing: knight!y/n x prince!sunghoon genre/warnings: fluff, angst if you squint / some mention of death (no one dies tho), poor historically accurate dialogue ㅠㅠ, maybe ooc sunghoon (?), idk a descriptive kiss? wc: ~1.7k (OOPS LOL) a/n: why is it always Not my biases that i write the longest fic for ? like? my hee fic is staring at me with over 6k words rn n my need to write for sunjaywon is off the CHARTS but my brain won't let me LMAO ㅠㅠ / anyways, this is a part of my 200 followers event! feel free to request!

sunghoon is urging you forward with a solid hand encircling your wrist. his touch tethers you to reality, and the clarity you experience in his presence is addicting; colors are more vibrant, every new rush of adrenaline echoes throughout your entire body, and the crisp, morning air burns as it finds its way down to your lungs. sunghoon's fingers press into your flesh in the same way he has been etched into your heart. as you run, dewdrops bead on the worn leather of your work boots—the remnants of the night's storm having not yet been victim to the summer sun. the loose fitting linen of sunghoon's casual attire ripples in the breeze, and you find yourself mesmerized by it. mesmerized by him.

under the canopy of a large willow tree, sunghoon stops. his breathing is heavy and labored, and he has to lean against the damp bark of the tree to chase after it. still entranced by his natural beauty and hidden away from the rest of the world by the billowing branches, you take a hesitant step closer to sunghoon; he glances up at you and allows a hint of mischief to swim in his gaze. even through his fatigue, his lips manage to quirk up at the corners, and his grin sends a wave of heat flowing over your body. however, his playfulness and your susceptibility are both dangerous. there are rules to follow, and there are consequences for breaking them. fraternizing outside of kingdom-sanctioned duties is strictly forbidden, and a mistake could cost you your life.

a knight is never meant to fall in love with royalty, and you are no exception.

as sunghoon skirts his hand to rest at the taper of your waist, he bunches the fabric of your training blouse betwixt his slender fingers and tugs you into his lean frame. the tip of his nose brushes against the side of yours, and his mouth ghosts over your cupid's bow. prince sunghoon is poised, graceful, and positively hypnotizing. like the pied piper, his song has enchanted your very being; he's taken your heart in his hands and flipped your world of order and rigidity on its head. however, a phantom of doubt haunts your thoughts, forcing you to pull away and leave him wanting.

"your majesty—"

"please, [y/n] ... i've told you how i want you to address me—how much i loathe that ridiculous title escaping your lips," he cuts you off, reaching up to cup your cheek. the warmth of his hand blossoms against your face, and you like to think that the lines of his palms foretell stories of a shared future, a joint destiny. "call me by my name."

"sunghoon ..." you protest in spite of his seemingly magnetic pull, "you know the punishment for this is severe. if we're found out here, together ... it would spell danger for the both of us."

he simpers, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, "well, it's good that i have you to protect me, then. don't you agree?"

"you know that's not what i meant."

"i know," he replies, attempting to hold you infinitely closer. the tantalizing scent of jasmine and citrus mixes with the mint leaf he had been chewing on earlier, and you have to stop yourself from falling even deeper under his allure. "but, tell me then what i should do? what should i do when i'm in love with someone who i'm unable to love freely? tell me, [y/n]—what danger is greater than the threat of a life where i am left without you?"

sunghoon is greeted with an obtrusive silence. in the quiet, you can feel his beautifully deep eyes searching your face for any semblance of fear or reluctance. his calm seas of umber seep through the cracks in your stony facade like the natural stream that had made its way past the castle walls. when you glance up at him, the familiar hint of mischief in his gaze is replaced by two pools of sincerity and assurance. sunghoon's certainty frightens you; his willingness to pour out his heart and allow it to lay bare is enough to leave you dazed.

"you are who i want, [y/n]. you are who i need," he declares, pressing his forehead against yours. "in every life after this one—i know i will love you all the same."

his words are reminiscent of ice water cascading down the plains and valleys of your body. his love is a foreign concept to you, and the raw emotion in his voice is almost too much for you to handle. sunghoon's passion glows through his royal attire; it warms the tips of your fingers that had gone numb with nerves. hot tears welling up behind your eyes appear pearlescent as they catch the emerging sunlight. sunghoon has let you into his soul, and—by doing so—has taught your caged heart the intricacies of pure adoration.

desperate to feel him against you once more, you let your wet eyelashes ghost over the apples of his cheeks. "i'm taken by you, prince sunghoon," you whisper, "you're like nothing i've ever had the pleasure of indulging in before ... soft skin, kind heart, gentle hands. every part of me is rough—jagged and sharp." as you inhale, sunghoon records the bridge of your nose under the pad of his thumb. a fond smile graces his delicately charming features, and you find yourself compelled to tell him the truth.

"i don't want to hurt you, sunghoon," you confess, attempting to ignore the urge to succumb to the methodical swipe of his fingers against your cheekbone. "i want to be able to be tender with you—to cook dinner with you, to hang your laundry next to mine on the line, to call for you when the sun sets so we could watch it side by side. i want to hold you in my arms and keep you in my heart, but i'm afraid of what my love might look like—what it might do to you."

sunghoon is still smiling after you finish; his hands are still mapping the way your body feels beneath them, and the unadulterated devotion in his eyes has yet to waver. "you won't hurt me, [y/n]," he says, a fiery gleam of determination blazing in his gaze. "you could never hurt me."

"how can you be so sure, sunghoon?"

"because, i know you," he says, simply.

"you know me?" you reply, unconvinced.

"i know the way you love, [y/n]," sunghoon urges. "i saw you scrub floorboards and mop the marble when my sister's lady in waiting had fallen ill. i watch when you go into town to play quoits with the children. i know you sneak some of your leftover dinner for mister kwon when he works late nights in the marker. and, i've woken up to see your head resting on your folded arms at the foot of my bed more times than i'm able to count." he chuckles and glances at the grass, "you're already tender and soft and sweet, and i find it absurd that you don't believe so yourself."

blood boils under your cheeks, "well, those were—"

"let me show you," sunghoon proposes, and you're thrown off by the severity of his tone. leaning in, he brings his mouth to brush over yours, "will you let me show you how tender you are?"

air is punched from your lungs with the weight of his question. you know exactly what his words imply, you are all too familiar with the peril that lurks deep beneath them. darkness looms over you; it overtakes your vision for a moment as you consider the conflicting emotions warring within, but sunghoon is patient. each of his movements reflects the slow ascent of the sun in the late morning sky; he coaxes you from your cocoon to bask in his light, bathed in all of the warmth he knows you deserve. it feels good. it feels like silken bedclothes and summer fruit and muffled laughter. it feels right.

"show me," you murmur.

and within seconds, sunghoon is kissing you.

it begins like two feathers tickling your lips; in this manner, his mellow nature is not lost on you. his hands are star-crossed spirits dancing up and down the length of your torso. sunghoon lingers everywhere he can reach, committing the way your body thrums in his palms to memory. though, like a series of symphonic movements, a newfound vigor awakens in him; greed and hunger flow together with all the love he has for you, and sunghoon charges forward. he hums into your mouth as his fingers curl into the stifling cotton of your day clothes. you push back, splaying a fervent hand across the expanse of his neck and pulling the hair at the nape of his neck. stumbling in a wonderfully disordered waltz and swaying like the branches above your heads, the two of you kiss until you run out of breath to share.

when you pull away, sunghoon starts to laugh. the sound is rich and full, a resurgent melody before the conclusion of a piece. inhaling proves to be difficult as the both of you recover from going without oxygen for so long, but you deem it trivial. your heaving chest, your pounding heart, your trembling legs—they make you feel like more than just a cog in the kingdom's machine. they make you feel human. they make you feel alive.

pressing your forehead to sunghoon's, your labored breaths mingle once more. "i'm taken by you, prince sunghoon," you say again.

his amusement turns boyish, and sunghoon cannot contain the bout of giggles that escape from past his lips. in a flash, his grip tightens at your waist; slender fingers dig into your flesh, and you almost yelp until the surprise melts away. in sunghoon's arms, you experience flight for the first time in your life. he turns with you in his hold, various hues and shapes bleed together as the world is likened to a watercolor painting, and you swear a pair of wings sprouts from between your shoulder blades. they seem remain even as your feet touch the ground, manifesting in the form of your heart fluttering with untamed freedom and fierce love.

"and i, you, [y/n]." sunghoon replies, "my knight in cotton armor."

you chuckle at his silly response, and in this moment, the world seems incredibly small. enamored with one another, two dewdrops meet at the conclave of their respective blades of grass. joining together, indulging in the quiet, becoming one beneath the decades old willow tree—they have not yet fallen victim to the summer sun, and it feels good. it feels right.

[firefirefruit]

Steel in Her Veins, Chapter: Thirty-Six

Read On: AO3 | Table of Contents | Next Chapter

Characters: Fem!Reader x Roronoa Zoro

writer's notes: HEY! I'M BACK! I'm graduating for my BA soon, FINALLY! Being so busy and coming back to One Piece and writing has been such a refreshing and welcome feeling; I'm really glad to be back. I'm so excited to finally post a new chapter for you all! I wrote an extra long chapter to make it up to you guys for all the time I've lost, and truly, I hope you enjoy this one as much as I did writing it. PLEASE don't forget to reblog, like or comment, as that helps me a ton in terms of support! Enjoy <3 c:

Chapter Thirty-Six: Dragon Taxi

The echoes of exhilaration reverberate against the crumbling walls of the Draconian citadel, turning every curious dragon’s head in a thousand-mile radius. The beasts pause, mid-flight, wings aflutter before their proud chests like a halo of glittering thorns and observe.

Raya continues to scream, breath after breath after breath, her fingers rooting painfully into the metallic back of Aragnus, in the fear of slipping off. The wind rushes straight into her throat like heavy bullets, her dark hair wildly jumbling up into waves in midst of the ceasefire. Her fingers accidentally brush past his glittering scales, and she can’t help but laugh as each of them flitter in response to her touch. It’s been so long since the last time she’s felt happy – so happy, she’s intoxicated with the feeling and conveniently forgetful of the worries she normally harbours onto like a masochistic blanket.

Aragnus swerves into a harsh right, speeding through the airborne traffic of his fellow brethren; Raya glances around, and for a moment, it feels like time slows down. Her eyes raise upwards, her soft lips parting as she slowly lets out a breath. Beautiful, elegant creatures swerve on each of her vulnerable sides, the curved silhouettes of their bodies singing sweetly into the marrow of her bones. Colours – so many colours, she thinks passionately to herself– glint across their metallic talons, making them look so incredibly heavenly to her plain human eyes.

Without warning, Aragnus plunges upwards.

The obsidian beast drives her upwards like a slinging comet, his tail glowing hot white in reaction to the force of the pressure, before he lowly chitters in what could only be described as teasing as he takes the sight of his dishevelled, frightful passenger.

She accusingly stares back at his large, glossy eyes, shouting against the deafening atmospheric pressure. “What was that?”

He swerves his head away from her gaze. A presentation.

She laughs. Her whole body gleams to the bubbling drop in her stomach, and for a second her fingers seem to be swimming in a pool of glitter, her eyes blurring from the extreme dryness of the air. Her hair, wild and dark and present with palpable energy, begins to ascent above her shoulders in a pool of glow and she doesn’t know what to do besides scream to express her joy.

And then she hears it. The unanimous startled hum of the thousands of dragons within this enormous citadel.

Instantly, Aragnus slows, humming out a rough breath of endorsement. He treads air, facing his kind and offering them a look satisfaction.

Good, he mutters to himself.

“What?” Raya asks. She hesitantly pats his back. “You can keep going, I’m not against you wanting to perform, my little taxi.”

Aragnus scoffs enormously as a spark of fire exits from his snout. Please refrain from calling me transport. Besides, I think we have played quite enough.

“Alright, but…” The next words dies on the tip of the swordsmith’s tongue as she looks around, staring at the view as Aragnus soars them to their destination.

The way the tunnels and entrances are split off from the centre citadel are similar to ant colonies, she remarks, fascination bubbling in her eyes. Aragnus soars through one of the hundreds of tunnels present, gliding effortlessly in the embers of the fire.

When they arrive, Raya doesn’t know what to say.

Where they are now couldn’t be described as anything else but majestic in a wild sentiment. With eight towering boulders equidistantly set in a semi-circle, the rest of the cavern is empty except for the humongous platform in the centre. But Raya notices something – etched across the platform is an array of thousands of claw marks, so imprinted into the rock’s surface that Raya somehow felt the desperation and fear of the many who stood there before her. Raya can’t help but wonder what had happened to the owners of those marks.

Seven other dragons, similar to Aragnus’ enormous size, but not as broad as he, begin to slow to their descent onto each of their designated boulder. One yellow, the other red, and a glittering green all begin to snort in what sounded like chittering excitement – and for some inexplicable reason, it makes Raya’s blood run cold.

She swallows, now feeling incredibly distrustful of her taxi ride. Her brown eyes scan for his, yet they’re unable to reach them as they remain focussed ahead.

“So,” Raya casually says, desperately trying to steel herself from feeling the panic rising in her stomach. “Am I being publicly executed, or what?”

But Aragnus doesn’t respond.

Raya swallows. “I asked you a question,” she slowly enunciates, staring down at the dragon who now graces them onto the clawed out platform.

Calm yourself. We shall explain in mere moments.

She swerves herself away from him like a jerk reaction, now completely alarmed by his response.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

A scream echoes against the walls. Usopp, distraught, comes running through the entrance.

“Raya!”

Her head snaps towards her crew, her brain slowly taking in each of their panicking faces. A frightened Chopper, Usopp and Brook – they gape at Raya, who dumbfoundedly stands alone and vulnerable on the crumbling platform with eight looming beasts carefully tracking her movements.

Luffy, Sanji, and Franky – even she can feel the heat of their concern from miles away.

Nami and Robin.

“What…”

Nami is at a loss for words; her eyebrows are knit together with dread. Robin’s eyes cautiously flicker around the room, most likely trying to figure the situation out.

And, finally, a manic Zoro.

Her eyes lock onto his almost out of second nature, holding his gaze for a moment longer than the others. He’s silent – way too silent for her liking, as he darkens almost instantly when he sees her standing there, all frozen.

There’s a madness in his eye, that’s without question. His fingers instantly snap onto his hilt, furious veins protruding out from his scarred skin.

Then, everyone collapses onto the floor, shouting. A sudden wave of intense pressure invades their minds, their hands clawing at themselves in desperation. All thought and reason exits from their heads as they ground their knees deeper into rock.

We, the eights, call all forth. We, the eights, call all forth, multiple voices – masculine and feminine alike, resound heavily, echoing in clusters of hypnotising thrums in everyone’s thoughts.

Instantly, Usopp screams. He has his hands over his ears, his fingers clawing at his ears, his eyes, over and over with no thought but intense agony. Raya gasps as she remains the only one standing.

Even Luffy is on his arms and knees, but instead of screaming, he remains eerily still.

“Can you—” Bepo grunts out, lagging behind the Strawhats through tangled vocals. He stumbles over his own feet, Law immediately grabbing him by the shoulder. “Am I going crazy? Can you hear that?”

“Yeah,” Law says, raising his fingers as the blue circle around him merges outwards to absorb the incapacitated. He looks at Raya with pursed lips, deep concern shadowing his face. “It’s most definitely the dragons.”

A large swarm screeches in the distance, their wings billowing through the hollow colonies of caves like a thunderous harmony. They grow nearer and nearer to her judgement, making Raya worriedly twist around to stare at the great eight dragons.

Raya furiously swerves towards Aragnus, who now takes a graceful position on largest boulder of the eight. “How are you doing that? How are you speaking to them?”

Merely, the dragon’s eyes narrow. You think very little of us, caller.

“Raya, are you alright?” Sanji calls out, his teeth gritting hard in his jaw. “What the hell do they think they’re gonna do to you? I’m gonna beat the shit out of them, I swear.”

“Shut it, cook,” Zoro snarls maliciously, forcing himself onto his feet despite the pressure that slams thickly into him. His lips twitch from the pain, but instantly he erases the expression from his face. “You’re making things worse.”

He begins to unsheathe his swords, but Raya raises a hand at him with a fiery glare.

“No. Don’t even think about it.” She soberly looks at Aragnus. “I’m going to handle this.”

Suddenly, Zoro laughs out loud, his dark grey eye bulging with a sudden rush of insanity. His voice rises to an alarming level of anger - barely ever occurring for the swordsman in question which catches Raya off guard.

“Do you know what kind of fucking situation you’re in right now? What they’re gonna do to you?”

Luffy instantly snaps his head towards Zoro, his face darkening. “I’m not letting that happen.”

“Stop it, both of you. If she’s not asking for your heroics, then you don’t intervene.” Nami snaps, grabbing both of their arms.

“But—"

With an ear-splitting whoosh, the swarm now appears soaring through the room like screeching bats, shrouding the cavern into complete darkness. They soar behind the great eight, poising themselves in what seems to be crafted like a crude amphitheatre clawed out of stone. Thousands of beady eyes slink on her, watchfully gazing on their prey.

She bristles at their stares, causing her to gain more courage than she should be granted in a predicament like this.

“Why am I here? Is this some sort of morbid entertainment? You want me to fight till the death?” Her voice rises, staring each of the great eights down. She glares at the centre of the eight, onto the proud, towering Aragnus. She mutters lowly, “Because I’ll fight. Don’t think for a second I won’t.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Zoro madly yells, struggling to free himself from Robin’s impenetrable hands.

Aragnus merely chortles. It sounds like you have been bloodthirsty for much too long.

Zoro freezes. “I swear to fuck, Raya, don’t do anything-”

Raya swallows. “I’m parched.”

The samurai curses so loudly, his voice echoes again and again within the infinite chamber.

Then it will be an honour to aid your palate.

And he swerves towards her, his serrated obsidian claws ripping out from between its armoured skin. Zoro, finally bouldering himself out of Robin’s grasp, immediately tries to charge towards her, but Aragnus is too quick.  With one single flap of his wings, he musters enough force to throw the swordsman flying in the air. Zoro hurtles away like an asteroid from such intense pressure that even heavy-bodied Franky has to slam his fingers into a boulder to stop himself from flying away.

Crack.

The sound of multiple bones painfully breaking apart envelops the space.

Moments pass. Silence.

There’s a deep hole made in the wall, rock crumbling over like heavy rain, with no sight of Zoro.

Nothing.

Raya’s heart stops. Her face falters.

“What the fuck,” she mumbles through clenched teeth, “was that?”

Aragnus twists his head and takes a slash at her, but she dodges it almost immediately. He pauses to smirk at her.

A presentation.

Her breath comes out unevenly, the blood in her body rushing to her head in intoxicating patterns.

She swallows, fury consuming her as she says the next few words.

“I want your fucking head.”

Instantly, she unsheathes her longsword and strikes at his throat. Aragnus merely snaps his jaw at her advance, but that doesn’t stop Raya. She takes this as an opportunity to strike again – and strike, she does, as she spins herself around so magnificently and proceeds to slice the tip of Aragnus’ tongue.

Aragnus roars in pain. He claws at her again, but, again, it’s blocked, and she swears that now the metal sprouting from her skin begins humming to the blood that flows from her anger. This is exactly how light would feel like, she thinks quickly to herself, as she slams her longsword towards the distressed beast. The metal hums. Her blood thickens. Pure light flows. Glowing deliciously through her cache like fire, like dust, like power.

Raya, Aragnus roars, Granddaughter of the glorious. Niece of the burning. Kotetsu’s truth. You do not know who you are.

“Totally, because, like, I’m brilliant by association, right?” Raya mocks, tilting her head at him and twirling her hair. She scoffs, spinning her longsword across her shoulder to her hip, then piercing it into the ground before her. “Learning such plain facts about me is nothing but kind of… disappointing, to be honest, Aragnus.”

Is that so? The dragon drawls humorously. Then, I ask you to look at yourself. Look at your hands. Your hair. The metal in your skin. Do you know who you are?

“And who do you think you are, my behavioural therapist?”

The dark dragon spins instantaneously, his spiked tail thundering against the floor like a spinning boulder. Raya screams in a blend of pain and exhilaration, her fingers glowing brighter and brighter, her sword vibrating aggressively in her palms. She swings with an overarm, aiming her longsword across Aragnus’ metallic spikes – albeit instead of hitting her mark, stumbles before she does. The dragon thunders a claw onto the platform, splitting the rock into thin, crumbling veins.

You do not know of your true birth right, true or false?

Raya bristles at this. She screams out like a manic beast, completely taken over by her feral instinct. “Hey, how about you shut the fuck up and just fight me?”

Her arm strikes right in between nail and metal, slicing through impenetrable skin with ferocity and finesse. Her hair, flowing above her shoulders, moves as if it’s fire raging beneath a body of undisturbed water.

Instead of roaring, Aragnus only growls in what sounds like positive approval.

Who is your mother, Raya? He pesters. Who is your father? Who do you think you are? Look down at yourself, or I will make you myself!

Before Raya can even react, Aragnus hurtles towards her like a shooting star and slams her to the ground. The air blasts out of her lungs in an instantaneous explosion, her bones beginning to split from beneath Aragnus’ claw, and she cries out.

“Stop!” Luffy screams monsterously. His eyes flash and bulge with madness, with the agony of watching Raya pathetically lay there like that. But he can’t help, as Law continues to hold him hostage in his blue room. Luffy swerves around, slamming his fists on Law’s chest. “You fucking moron, that’s my crewmate!”

“Luffy, wait…” Brook mutters softly as he presses a bony palm against the blue wall. He stands there at the commotion, frozen.

Law doesn’t react to Luffy’s multiple attacks on his arms and chest, his fingers still raised in the air. His eyes are completely focussed on her. On… On who is supposed to be Kozuki Raya.

“Turn around, Mugiwara,” he says. “Look at her.”

Luffy falters. He spins around.

Aragnus pushes her head harder, forcing her eyes to lock onto her own body.

Look, I say.

Raya freezes in her position as she stares at herself. It hurts. It hurts to even look. Her eyes burn like they’re about to melt out of her face.

No. Surely this isn’t the power granted by her devil fruit.

This…

Aragnus poises himself upwards and lets her go, slamming his claw against the rock before her.

You shine. You melt. You release the metal from your veins that blossom like apples on a tree and glow with the power of a thousand consumed souls.

It’s gold. Glowing, beaming light. So bright her retinas are burning and the metal in her skin is melting in liquid silk. Raya stands with silver liquid webbing across her pulsating, golden form. She is ethereal. She is everything consisting of tan skin, golden light and silver steel. Breathing does not matter to her anymore. Her life is only in blinding colour.

Again, the beast charges at her; Raya screams, jumping out of her trance. She, too, charges forwards, and like a shooting asteroid, clashes her whole being, her sword, her arms, and her forehead, against his protruding nails.

You think a mere fruit offers you this? He chortles through his snout. No. This is in your blood. You were never altered. Your heart beats – yes, it has always beaten - with wrath.

“Then who am I?” Raya thunders, and with that burst of anger, a shining light pulsates around her form, forcing her crewmates and allies alike to cover their eyes.

Would you like me to show you?

Immediately, Aragnus soars into the sky and he moves in the most impossible way.

He begins spinning. He spins his entire heavy body like a tabletop turner. Slowly, at first, he moves as if to show off himself in his chromatic, gleaming splendour, twisting and twisting and twisting around until all fall in trance to the wonder of his existence.

He then gains momentum, swirling faster and faster until the dragon becomes nothing but a blur -a dagger-shaped blur - aiming right towards her crew. Raya’s eyes panickily flicker towards them, until she realises that the dragon’s shadow is not hovering over their path, no.

Instead, this looming, heavy beast has his beady eyes tracked on someone else. Tracking straight through the wide, human-shaped hole in the wall, spinning so furiously he turns into a shade of black, he’s found the immobile samurai.

Raya’s wet, silver face falters in horrid realisation. Aragnus lowers his dagger-shaped head, and into a curved dive, allows the rest of his body to elegantly ripple after him.

That was the absolute to Raya’s already manic breaking point, as the blood in her body begins to rush in an impossibly fast momentum throughout her, defying the biology of her simple human body. With one step, she lifts herself off the platform, grounding the rock beneath her into dust, before screaming out a battle cry and shooting into Aragnus’ line of sight.

It’s bright. It’s too bright.

In the corner of her eyes, all she can see and taste and smell is of pure, pulsating light. It consumes her, burns her - lungs, heart and veins alike – until she is nothing but an orb of metal and rock and gas and sulfur.

Her skin is made of gold. The metal that used to spike and plunder through her skin intertwines together all over her body like clasping hands, webbing her skin into an armour of light. She can’t stop screaming – not because she’s in any pain, but as if someone else has taken over her body. She can only feel the pulse of battle and the thrum of a warrior’s heart entwine into her own, her hands and arms blackening into a dark metallic splendour.

She clashes against Aragnus with the entirety of her being, and with an ear-piercing shatter, combusts everything and anything around them into matter of darkness and suffocation. A black hole expands from her hands, formed through the consumption and explosion of her own self, before it fragilely disappears back into herself.

A moment passes, her manic and bulging eyes locked onto the monster’s, before the dragon snorts and pushes himself away.

Everything goes silent. Franky’s body lays protectively over Chopper and Usopp, his robotic eyes wide in panic at the swordsmith. Law’s chest heaves, his fingers trembling before him as the blue orb around them flickers in hesitation. Luffy’s mouth doesn’t seem to be working, his eyes shadowed with a pure shade of Gear-five-purple.

And then, something clicks.

Raya and Luffy stare at each other as if they’ve only just met now.

What is this feeling? A yearning to embrace, to fight, to magnetise, to be whole.

Zoro grunts out loud from beneath the rubble.

Raya’s head instantly snaps over to his voice, staring at the man who lays immobile on the ground through the hole.

He does not even dare to look away from the brown-eyed woman, even as he’s paralysed, leaving himself broken and vulnerable in her sight. Raya’s throat goes dry, dread rushing through her.

Aragnus then releases a head-splitting roar, swerving through the air between her and Luffy.

My brethren, he starts, we see them again. We see Nika, the first half of the Sun, the caller of seas, the God of Liberation.

He turns to Raya, and then does the unexpected. His head slams into rock in some sort of deep, eternal bow, his breath fluttering out in humiliating submission.

We see Cyra, the other half of the Sun, caller of ours, the Goddess of Retribution.

[zopharooni]

"Breaking Point"

A DMAU story, part 4/4 (start / previous)

Trigger Warning, this part gets messed up:

Death/murder, genocide, violence, arson, sal (scary)

Spike. Gideon.

They are alive.

"Thorne! I've missed you so much!" Spike exclaims.

Getting a closer look at him, his robes are blue, a pestilence custom, but with additional white markings, a popular denotation of status. What really stands out, is he has a bluish tinted halo above his head. A disciple. Of pestilence.

"I'm sure you have a lot of questions." Gideon calmly reassures me. He's aged, graying around some points, likely faster due to stress. He's lost a lot of weight. He also has the robes of a leader on. To lead this cult.. the people that took him away from us? Worshipping the one who killed Cliff and almost Spike? Unacceptable.

"You're god damn right I do. Start talking. Now." I bark, pulling my glaive closer to me.

"You thought I died. I fell deathly ill while on the road here, and they saved me. Nursed me back to health with the blessing of their bishop. Once I recovered, I ventured back to the cabin for the rest of you. You were gone, Spike was in critical condition, and Cliff... It was too late for him."

"These people saved us! Don't you see? We're safe here! We don't need to hide or fear the outside world. We have the blessing of the God of Pestilence on these sacred grounds." Spike chimes in.

"To worship the god that almost killed both of you... who did kill cliff. How could you?"

"He saved us. It's our fault for not trusting them sooner. I don't blame you for running away, you know. It was so much to handle for you."

"Our fault?? I've heard enough. When night falls, this place will be nothing but ash, and I will not hesitate to strike you down if you get my way. 'When all is lost, Chaos reigns', this I know!'"

"Thorne please-" Spike tries to plead before I swing at him with my glaive.

Suddenly the whole world seems to go silent. I see their mouths move, yet nothing comes out. The rain falls, but no sound emanates when hitting the ground.

The look in his eyes tells me that he was ready for this. Our battle begins. I can tell from the swings of his twin sickles that he isn't prepared to kill me. A mistake. The rest of the cult seems to stand around, watching, mouths agape. They aren't a part of this duel. This is family. His attacks are quick and brutal, but I'm quicker. I throw a few swings to keep him on his toes, but I'm waiting for an opening. One mistake. That's all it takes.

As he swings a sickle up towards me, he catches my jaw slightly. Ouch.

Seeing my blood makes him hesitate. Perfect. He doesn't put his all into the next swing, and I viciously knock one of his weapons to the ground. It's over. I plunge my glaive through his chest. I revel in the pleasure of killing a disciple of heresy, and retract my glaive, letting his body fall to the ground.

Their leader. He looks shocked. Too bad. This is the price of heresy. Suddenly, he reaches behind his cloak and pulls out a large, long piece of metal. Just as I try and figure out what it is, the two pieces unfold, into a long shaft, and he forces the blade upwards, locking it in place. A folding scythe. Huh.

He rushes towards me, ready to kill. Hah. A sentiment you have far too late, old man. The battle goes on for much longer this time. We trade blows several times, splattering the rocks around us with blood. He nicks my face twice, once close to the wound his disciple gave me, and one right on my snout. Several slashes connect with my chest, but they bounce off due to the plate armour I wear under my robes. Idiot.

The monkey follower from earlier rushes me as we duel, swinging wide with their greatsword. Another follower follows suite, with an axe. A bug. To be crushed. 3 on one. I back away slowly, observing them. This fight... ha...

It's the most fun I've had in a long, long time. I can feel chaos' influence on me. Guiding my hand. They don't stand a chance.

The bug is the first to charge of the pack, rushing with their axe underhand. I don't wait to counter this time, instead rushing into them, slamming the pole of the glaive into their chest, and I feel something crack. Good. The monkey is close as the bug reels back, and I swing wide to bait them closer. It works, and as they swing their greatsword, I duck under, spring up, and separate their head from their shoulders with a quick, yet brutal cleave. I then swiftly dispatch the bug with a bisecting strike.

2 down, one to go. Their leader slowly approaches, likely trying to predict my next move. As if you could. Chaos can't be predicted. I feign a downward strike into a spin, cleaving upwards.

He dodges to the side and sweeps my legs, knocking me to the ground. He raises the scythe, yet hesitates. Has he not learned anything? I take the opportunity to swing the polearm at his feet, knocking him down. As he falls, I spring up...

And plunge the blade into his chest. Blood gushes from the wound, and his mouth.

It's over.

"Well... you've won... Would they... be happy?" He sputters.

"My sweet girl... I hope this path you are carving for yourself ends well... I would never wish anything ill on you. I'll miss you."

He takes a final breath, and he's gone.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and quickly spin around. His disciple. Barely alive.

"I didn't think I'd ever see you again. I love you, so much, sis. Goodbye..." He mutters, embracing me in a hug before falling limp.

"I'm... sorry..." I find myself saying without thought.

"That you were foolish enough to fall to this heresy." I finish, forcing his dead body to the ground.

The rest of the cult stares at me in shock. Some backing away slowly. This is the part I was looking forward to.

A few hours later, the deed is done. Not a soul remains. The smell of smoke in the air, ash and embers polluting the sky.

It's time to go.

Except... I have one last loose end to tie. Chaos is all my life has come to. That's all it will ever be. Admittedly... I don't think I want that to change. The freedom I have, the ability to do whatever I want and no one can stop me? Not even the disciples of the Gods themselves? It's exhilarating.

I stop by the cabin. It's not mine. Not... No. Never was. Heretics and traitors and liars were housed here. They don't deserve remembrance. I step inside, and begin piling wood in the fireplace, making sure to leave a trail of kindling out onto the carpet. It takes a few minutes to get the fire going, but when it does... Things go up quickly. Flames crawl up the walls, blackening the wood and obscuring the air with smoke.

Something about this... Hurts. A pain in my chest. A headache. My hands shaking... Yet it is the most free I have ever felt. Now I have nothing holding me back. No one to tell me what to do, no one to waste my time and effort protecting and nurturing their every need. I push out through the cabin door...

but I am not greeted by Ombrosian air.

The dewy smell of nature and rain persists, but more... unnatural. Potent too. Nigh invasive of my senses. A musk, akin to mildew, perpetuates the air. Potently bacterial. There is a abnormal silence, yet broken by the sound of thousands of skittering legs. Clicking and chittering, the sound of carapace against stone. Insects. Bugs.

Looking around, I find myself in a large room. The floor a cobblestone pattern, with occasional interruptions of mold, plants, and weeds. Nothing I've seen in my time. Everything looks slightly... off. I don't know why. The walls are a bleak, grey stone. Cracks populate the area, with mushrooms and lichen spilling from various portions.

Additionally, the open areas of the walls are decorated with various paintings and tapestries, depicting The Lord of the Flies and his almighty crown, it's three green eyes almost seeming real in the illustrations. One could say they might even be moving. Against the walls are grand, opulent shelves, littered with various books, scriptures, and glasses with different coloured liquids housed inside them. Several green books with a shared design are spread around the different selections of reading, slightly luminescent. It seems to be important.

Everything is so grand at first glance, yet looking closer, it seems perpetually... off. Chaotic. Some shelves are slanted, their contents not obeying gravity. Some paintings and tapestries seeming to be different every time I glance at them. Engravings in the wood of the shelves seeming so artistic, yet completely disorderly. One of the bookshelves even appears to be upside down. Or is it? The flowers poking up from the ground are oddly beautiful, yet the more I look at them, the more they seem to warp. Some with slightly too many petals, some with shifting colours, some an uncanny size to them.

And everywhere, not a single area spared, are bugs. Floors, walls, the ceiling, crawling all between the shelves and on the decorations. The sound now makes sense.

All of it pales in comparison to the centre of the great hall. A massive throne, grand, worthy of the divine. and atop it... is him. My lord. The great chaos. The lord of the flies.

Beelzebub.

In all his glory. A massive goat, unkempt and disheveled. The very embodiment of Chaos. Everything about him. It's... perfect. Everything a divine should be, everything I expected, yet even greater.

"Welcome, loyal cultist! Perfection, isn't it? The others never took me for an interior designer, but I would say I did well." His voice echoes throughout the chamber, followed by a slight chuckle at his own words.

"Y-Your grace! Yes! It's beautiful! By the gods, to finally meet you... It's... wonderful!" I squeak out, stumbling over my words. To finally meet him. Its exhilarating.

"I know! How could it not be? I tend to have that effect on people." He bellows. "And, your name?"

"T-Thorne, your divinity! Your most loyal devotee!"

Suddenly I realise that our voices are the only things breaking the silence. The chorus of insects quiet, yet ever present.

"What have you done for me to find yourself here, cultist Thorne?"

"I have destroyed a rival cult of pestilence in your name, slaying their leader and his disciple. Among many others that have fallen." I say, silently pushing the private details of them back into my mind. It's not like it matters, anyways. This is the moment I have worked so hard to get to. To meet chaos himself. A privilege not shared by many.

"It sounds like you have been... busy." Followed by a pause, and a smirk to himself.

"I commend your efforts, deer, and yet there is still more you can do."

Suddenly the crown, Khaos, floats down from atop his head, levelling itself with me. A strange presence seems to emanate from it, a chaotic magic, and then I am lifted into the air. My mind flashes to the chaos cult, the acts I have done in its name, the faces of those I've slain. I can feel a surge of power into my body, my fresh wounds from battle scarring over. This is the power of a true god.

Just as quickly as i was lifted, my hooves meet the ground again. Khaos floats slightly to the side, allowing for me to focus on my god.

"Thank you, your divinity! What does this mean, now?"

"A cult as big as mine requires... Keepers. You are devoted to my name, are you not?" He queries.

"Of course!" I eagerly answer.

"Step forward." He commands, lowering his hand.

I obey his command, with no hesitation, getting closer to him. He's so large in his form. I feel so small and insignificant in comparison. But that's only surface level. With this boon, I'm stronger than ever before.

“Devote yourself to chaos. Swear to destroy all in my name. Ascend to discipleship, and embrace the insanity in the name of I.” He preaches, Khaos swirling back to be at eye level.

"I swear, in your name, I will strike down heretics where they hide. I accept your discipleship and fully accept the insanity, and the freedom that follows! My life is yours, Beelzebub!"

"From now until the ends of this mortal coil." He says, lowering down a single claw.

A grab it, and look over at Khaos. All three of it's eyes blink in unison, then reopening, revealing bright, glowing white eyes. They stare right through me, searing into my very soul. My vision goes white.

Then suddenly, I find myself back at the front of the cabin, accompanied by the familiar sounds of nature. It is raining heavily, the frequent crackles and rumbles of the thunder, followed by flashes of blue lightning.

I look above me, and see a faintly glowing, green halo.

Long live chaos. For when all else is lost, what else is there?

Courtesy of @wolsalwastaken for Beelzebub dialogue! I think it came out really well!

And honestly? Thanks to our discord server for being so supportive and engaging of our silly little au! Yeah this seems final, but i assure you there will be more writing. I just felt like appreciating them.

[ynisreal]

wires (8) - michael afton x reader

author´s note: helloooo tumblr! so, i've already uploaded these two chapters to ao3, because my main fan work consumption is on the site… sorry for the delay in posting them here :P summary: Michael tells you part of the truth. You and Michael clean up the establishment. Where is Ennard?

"You know what his goal is, right?" Henry's voice echoes in Michael's memories. Of course he knows, that same goal was hinging and hammering on Michael's memories all the way to your house. "Ennard must be looking for a new body to camouflage himself with again," Henry reminds the younger man of each metallic limb entering his stomach and wearing his skin like a coat. Michael wasn't going to forget the animatronic's purpose, having experienced first-hand what the big robot intended to do.

"I know, but he won't be able to find one so quickly. The person he chooses has to be injected by Remnant through the scooper before he dies or, anyway - during, as happened to me," Michael's answer to Henry's question pops into his memory, reminding him of the seriousness of the situation they were in, "I don't think Ennard knows about this, so until he finds out, there will be other bodies just like Noah's, failed attempts to find a puppet for this piece of shit."

That's Michael's fear. It's the same fear that makes him hold on a little tighter to the hands that are intertwined on his torso. You notice the change in his grip, finally understanding that you weren't the only one afraid of going back to the establishment. All along the way, Michael has been giving you these little indications that he was also afraid of what had happened, even though he didn't want to show it to you. The sudden grip on your hands, the slightly controlled breathing and the tension in the broad shoulders of the man in front of you. When there was a red light and Michael's motorcycle stopped, the man's hands brushed against your thigh, his anxious fingers tapping out a frantic rhythm on your skin. Honestly, you feel a little guilty for not comforting him, but you know how serious Michael is about his secrets and what he decides to share, so you don't want to force an opening and end up fighting with him again. You don't have the strength to get into a fight about who yells the loudest with Michael right now, with the vivid images of Noah's organs racing through your head.

"Thank you for coming to pick me up," you thank him, trying once again to distract yourself and Michael from the fear you were both feeling on your way back to the establishment. "Sure, I promised I'd help you carry the weight on your back, and I'm going to do just that," Michael replies, in a slightly happier tone than his demeanor showed. He was trying to reassure you and show confidence, which you could appreciate in him.

You smile under the large helmet that surrounds your face, "Is this the extra helmet you use when you offer girls a ride?" you joke, trying once again to ease the tension in his shoulders. However, this seems to have the opposite effect when you feel his shoulders tense up once again, perhaps even a little more. This makes you open your mouth in shock, "Wow, here I was just joking, and little did I know that I was another one of your victims," you imitate an angry tone, wanting to hear what Michael's response would be.

"Calm down, it was only two," Michael replies quickly, turning his helmeted head slightly in your direction, keeping his eyes on the road. "Apart from you, of course," the last comment being added in an obviously teasing tone, the man clearly amused by the little jealous tantrum you were throwing. "Hm, I see, should I assume that they also worked with you? Or that you also wrote them notes?" you add, continuing to dramatize the situation, amused by the lightness in which you and Michael were chatting, which completes its task in distracting both of you from the fear hanging over both your minds.

"No, that was just you," Michael says seriously, which surprises you a little, given the joking tone the subject was taking.

It's true. You feel it almost immediately.

"I didn't used to get too involved with the people I had sex with or talked to, that only started with you," Michael adds, not really caring what his words meant or what they suggested.

True. Again.

Your cheeks immediately blush. Shit, how Michael had the ability to dominate your thoughts and make the problems surrounding your head seem like ants next to his magnitude. "Well, what's in the past doesn't matter, I'm glad you've changed. You're the kind of person that everyone would love to meet," you replied awkwardly, not knowing how to react to Michael's sudden confession, letting the first words that came into your mind take over your facial muscles and spill out of your mouth.

Michael doesn't answer. After all, that clumsy little reply of yours brought a light into Michael's mind. He had changed, after meeting you, after so many months locked in the silence and darkness of the establishment, after dying and having to drag his own corpse out of a dark alley, Michael had changed. And this change was a good one, of course he still had certain reactions or behaviors that were already automatic in his brain, but even unconsciously, he had opened up to you, he wanted that opening. Michael was willing to open all his scars for you to look inside, through all the blood and pain.

"We're here," Michael says, seeing such the familiar establishment lurking on the sidewalk. You raise your head to look through the tinted window of the helmet, feeling your stomach rise in your throat and threaten to come out of your mouth. Days passed, Noah's case was still open, analyzing suspects, the sun still rose and fell the same way as before, but your fear was still there. Michael's company made you feel safer, knowing that neither you nor he would ever walk those same corridors alone, but it was inevitable that you would create various scenarios in your head about how the two of you would end up dead in the same way as Noah.

Michael noticed your hesitation, so he squeezed your hand that was still wrapped around his torso, signaling that he would be entering with you. He would help you carry the tiring weight of fear, even if his hands were growing calluses from having carried the same fear alone for several years.

The engine noise ceases and you look around the parking lot, unaccustomed to the scenery belonging to the establishment. You remove your helmet awkwardly, wrinkling your nose as you feel some of your hair being pulled along with the material. Your eyes meet the dark glass of Michael's helmet, and you wait a few seconds, a little confused by your companion's delay, when it finally hits you.

"Do you want me to go in first?" you ask, your voice soft and your head tilting slightly in sympathy. Michael's gentle laugh makes itself known and he lifts his hand to stroke your cheek.

"No need, just wait for me at the exit to the parking lot," he replies, knowing that you would feel uncomfortable entering the establishment alone, but you still wanted to make him comfortable. Michael still had no plans to show his face to you, that hadn't changed, so he appreciated your respect for his secret.

You nod and give him a small kiss on the hand that was hidden in a glove, which you assumed was part of the bike's equipment. Your footsteps echoed through the establishment as you walked up to the large red door that marked "Exit" in black letters. Michael waited until the footsteps were far enough for him to take off his helmet, wrinkling his nose when he felt bits of skin from his face getting stuck in the material. Shit, he would have to buy a wider helmet to avoid the cracks that were forming in his face, leading to some black patches from the necrotic muscles. He picks up the backpack he had brought, reaching for his hoodie and the black surgical mask he had brought. After lifting the hood from the hoodie, the upper part of his face was hidden, along with the lower part which was covered by the mask.

After a few minutes, you hear Michael's footsteps echoing through the garage, signaling to you that he was coming to meet you. "Is this the exit?" you ask, given that he's been working in the establishment longer than you. Michael saw the red door next to you and made a positive sign with his hands, showing you the new bandages that covered his fingers and hands. The famous mask and hood you were used to seeing every week are back, and you finally realize how much you had missed Michael. Honestly, you were grateful. A lot of feelings went through your head these last few days, especially with Noah's death and the story Henry told you, which helped you realize that: life is grey. It doesn't judge, it doesn't help or facilitate nor does it hinder or slow you down. Life gives what it can, and now, you were extremely grateful for what little Michael shared with you. Whether it was a blind kiss, a faceless figure or sweet words that were muffled by the mask. Life gave it to you, and you felt grateful for what seemed so little to other people, but was immense to you. And for Michael too.

"And the wage earners always come back to collect their wages," Michael said casually, letting out a theatrical sigh as he opened and held the large, eye-catching door for you to pass through. You let out a small laugh, "True, the chocolates my sister likes are very expensive these days," the same joking tone in the man's voice is heard in your own, enjoying the light mood you were starting the shift in. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's just your sister who eats them," Michael says sarcastically, calling the elevator as he pushes the button that instantly lights up. You let out another laugh, pushing the man's arm a little too hard, just to provoke him. But honestly, with the short contact of your hand on his toned arm, you realize that even if you had used one hundred percent of your strength, Michael might not have moved at all.

The elevator finally opens its doors, making a loud noise, as apparently all the doors in this establishment do. Michael lets you in first, extending his arm between the open space of the doors to prevent them from closing. As you enter that familiar environment, the reality of the place you're returning to makes itself present in your stomach again. Memories of you running through the corridors and praying to any entity that would listen to you so that you wouldn't be the next victim return to your mind, letting the discomfort begin to grow in your body. You are not alone is what you try to repeat to yourself, as an attempt to stabilize your anxiety. And it was the reality, you weren't alone, Michael was with you, the man who always tried to help you and ease your worries, why should this time be any different? It wouldn't.

The man next to you found your sudden silence strange, imagining that the memories and traumas of that night must be tormenting you. He still didn't know the details of what you had done or what you had thought on that day, only receiving the narrative through indirect sources—via Henry and the reports the older man had brought home. His imagination filled in some of the gaps, relying on the fact that Michael had been through similar experiences a few times to make accurate assumptions. "Close your eyes," Michael says impulsively, his voice coming out hoarse, surprising even himself as if his body had taken action before he realized what he was about to do.

You hardly needed time to react, immediately complying with Michael's request and allowing your sight to be stripped away. Your swift response exuded desperation, a realization that left you a little embarrassed. It became clear how effortlessly Michael could read your body language, especially in your most vulnerable moments. Your other senses took over, enabling you to listen to Michael's movements. You heard the elastic of the mask being stretched and the friction of the material against the man's skin, indicating that he had removed the object. Almost immediately afterward, your sense of touch allowed you to feel Michael's lips meeting yours. The kiss was slow and sweet, the small cuts on the man's mouth adding a subtle tickle, especially when you reached out to grab the material of his hoodie, bringing the two of you even closer. The affirmation you sought was present in the shared kiss—Michael was here. The same Michael who had promised to help you, no matter how challenging things became.

The sound of the elevator doors opening echoes through the closed room and you feel Michael's hand cover your eyes, even though you've kept them closed. The sweet taste of the man's lips disappears, replaced by the cold breeze that envelops the bare lower part of your face. "We're here," Michael whispers, his husky voice close to your ear. You nod positively, a little nervous about your prolonged lack of sight. The hand covering your eyes finally leaves, allowing your vision to return, the dim lighting of the establishment invading your eyesight again, irritating you slightly.

You glance at Michael, who already has his mask back on. The affirmation you were repeating was now firmly in your mind, so you didn't hesitate to take the first step, making your way towards the heavy, noisy doors of the main hall. This time, the loud sound didn't startle you, showing how determined your brain is to ignore any kind of fear, focusing solely on the mantra hammering away at the back of your mind. Michael follows you, satisfied that the little bit of encouragement he provided in the kiss worked, pleased with the image in front of him: you attempting to move forward. It won't be easy, but he can try to make it easier for you.

Michael follows you, noticing how you're walking a bit too fast through the main hall, searching for the cleaning utensils to organize the chaos that the police and investigators had left behind. Michael's strong arm appears in the corner of your vision as you reach for the mop bucket.

"Doll, slow down, I'm here to help you," his voice is once again close to your ear, "I'm glad you're determined, but don't forget that I also have my role in helping you," he continues, grabbing the bucket with ease and placing it on the floor in front of you.

"Okay, sorry, I'm just afraid this wave of motivation is gonna leave too soon," you express, rubbing your hands on your uniform, a sign of your sudden hyperactivity. "So don't use it all up within seconds, just take a deep breath and calmly use up your motivation battery, so you don't go into total denial about everything that happened," Michael says calmly, raising his arm to pick up the other utensils. "Honestly, denial would be a good way to deal with all this," you admit, watching as the man in front of you, once again, gathers up all the items and then leaves you empty-handed.

Michael turns his head towards you, letting the dim light illuminate the upper part of his face. With so many emotions over the last few days, you'd forgotten: Michael's eyes were completely dark. A dark black that consumed all the light in the room and didn't reflect a single glint. You remember the drawing you made that associated this feature, which at the time you thought was imaginary on your part, with the eyes of a powerful villain. It's true, it was a look that would make any villain envy the darkness and emptiness that his gaze conveys. But you couldn't possibly think that about his gaze, knowing that Michael wasn't a villain, at least not in your eyes. You looked away, not wanting Michael to find out that his eyes were uncovered. After all, if he kept secrets, you could keep yours.

"Don't say that," the man's voice is serious, "Denial won't do any good, in fact, reality will only hit harder afterwards," Michael says. Truth, you feel it again. Damn, you wish you could tear your insides apart so you could stop feeling these intuitions. Feeling your body betraying you and agreeing with Michael.

"Yeah," you reply dryly, in denial about being able to stay in denial, basically. "I hate to be cliché, but time heals all wounds, and well, justice heals other wounds too," Michael looks back at the shelves, reaching for the cleaning cloths and gloves.

"Have you experienced this before?" your voice comes out hoarse, a little frustrated with Michael's advice, not wanting to accept the reality that you would have to cope with your emotions and fears. The man doesn't stop in his movements, continuing to throw the cloths he found into the bucket in front of you. He takes a few seconds to respond, as if he's thinking about what to say.

"Yes," Michael says, "Noah wasn't the first death in this establishment."

Well, what the fuck? Isn't this kind of information usually shared with new employees?

You don't answer, your body speaks for itself, your eyes going wide and your hands clenching your uniform. "What do you mean?" your voice comes out a little broken, your fear returning almost instantly. Michael realizes this, so he makes the decision to tell you this story in another manner. "I'm going to tell you, I just need you to close your eyes so I can comfort you," he says, his voice heavy with anxiety. Shit, it was hard having to be careful about the secrecy of his appearance and keeping you physically close at such times.

You sigh and close your eyes again. Michael brings you close, covering the top of your face once again with his hand and letting his other hand caress the fabric of your uniform that was covering your shoulder. "It's been a while since that body was found," Michael is careful with his words, not wanting to scare you or expose himself too much, "Henry, the man you met, was the one who found the body, but the killer was already identified in that case, so you don't have to-"

"Did this man come back to life, or did something happen to him after death?" you ask curiously, remembering the tale Henry had told you. You really didn't believe that the man had come back to life, so you assumed that it must be some kind of lesson or significance that the employees of this establishment shared. Well, you were partly right.

"What do you mean?", the hand on your shoulder stops abruptly, surprised by your question. "Henry told me that he knew a story about a man who had another chance in life after he died," you explain, your hand reaching for Michael's to return the caress on your shoulder that was helping you to calm down, "Well, I assumed that it was a well-known tale in the establishment, and since Henry found the body, he may have tried to pass it on to me," you conclude, a little confused by your own statement. "Forget it, I must look crazy," you add, finally finding Michael's hand as you feel the familiar bandages around your fingers.

Michael smiles beneath his mask, evidently Henry must have shared the story of his death with you. "Would you like the story to end like that?" Michael asks, resuming his caress on your shoulder, "For the corpse that Henry found to come back to life?". You think for a few seconds, not understanding Michael's question, but regardless, you decide to answer: "Yes, it would be less gruesome than ending up with Henry running around the corridors afraid of being the next one, just like me," you shrug, the sincerity in your voice making your speech seem a little too casual for the reality of your statement.

"Okay," Michael smiles, a smile so big that he's afraid the necrotic tissue on his cheek will tear deeply. "You mentioned that the killer was identified, is he under arrest?" you ask.

That's going to be impossible to explain, Michael thinks.

"No," the man replies sincerely, not wanting to delve into who, or rather what, the killer was. "That's why I'm here with you, it's safer for both of us, and believe me, I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure that these same stories don't repeat themselves with you or your sister."

"My sister?" you vocalize, your hand that was stroking Michael's bandages quickly ceasing. "Michael, what does my sister have to do with this?", your voice sounds irritated, which makes Michael hesitate in his movements. Shit, he said too much.

"She has nothing to do with it, Y/n, calm down," Michael blurted out as he felt your hand grip his tightly. Not that it was actually hurting, but he could sense the desperation in your tone. "I only vocalized my concern for both of you, I know how much you love and care for her."

"Okay, but why should the murder in this establishment worry my sister?" you asked once again, the irritation you felt still not subsiding.

"There's a killer on the loose, Y/n, that's what I'm saying, we don't know where he is," Michael knows that what he's telling you is the opposite of comforting or calming you, but it's the truth. He didn't want you walking the streets carefree or letting your sister come home from school completely alone. Ennard was still on the loose, and he was testing bodies until he could find one that would hold up, which won't happen until Ennard realizes that the corpse needs Remnant.

You sigh, letting the depth of Michael's statement settle within you. He was presenting facts that were difficult to accept, the realization that your sister or other people could be in danger. You couldn't afford to let fear paralyze you, to be as openly vulnerable as you were being, you needed strength and courage in this moment, especially since your little sister depended on your protection and care.

While Michael could bring you comfort and motivation, this line of thinking brought you courage and determination. You had to control your emotions, after all, it wasn't just your life that depended on it.

It worried the man when he didn't hear any response from you, but soon after, he listened to your breathing become more controlled, as if you were trying to calm your thoughts and stabilize your heart. "I understand, thank you for clarifying that to me," you finally reply, your voice strangely calm, "I needed to hear that, thank you Michael," you add, raising your hand to caress his other hand, which was still positioned over your eyes.

Michael smiles, satisfied with the conclusion of the confusing and unexpected conversation you two shared. So he carefully lowers his mask, sealing the discussion you two had with a small kiss, just to bring you and him a sense of comfort and closeness after a sensitive conversation for both of you.

When you feel the hand being removed from your eyes, Michael is already wearing his mask and standing at the same distance he considers safe. Your gaze falls on the utensils already positioned in the bucket, apart from the mop and broom in Michael's hands. You crouch down to pick up the bucket with the cloths and cleaning products, but Michael's arm reaches for the item before you can grab it.

"Why do you still try?" Michael's voice is laced with teasing, totally different from the tone you two had been talking in a few minutes ago. You let out a hearty laugh when you saw that Michael was practically hugging the broom and mop with one arm, squeezing them tightly against his body so they wouldn't fall off, while his free arm was carrying the bucket. "If you'd rather contort yourself to carry the bucket than let me handle a broom, honestly, you're crazy," you smiled, holding out your arms, hoping that Michael would make an exception for today.

"Call me crazy all you want," he says, ignoring your offer and starts walking through the corridors in search of the mess made by the investigators. You roll your eyes, amused by Michael's extreme insistence on being a gentleman, but you still follow him down the corridors to start your day shift.

"Fuck, couldn't those jerks collect their damn tapes?", Michael's voice rings out through the corridors until you reach Ballora's gallery, where you were. Hearing him get angry about this makes you laugh as you organize some boxes that the cops had emptied during the investigation. "Damn it, just put that shit in the garbage can, did they have to leave it on the floor?", Michael finally makes his way to the door of the room you were in.

"Michael, it's our job to manage the establishment, their only job is to investigate," you explain, without taking your eyes off the task you were doing, sorting out the items that were for the decoration box that ended up on the floor due to the policemen's carelessness. "But it's also their job to have the minimum of human dignity and throw garbage in the garbage can," Michael replies, still frustrated by the mess that had established itself in the Funtime auditorium: badly cleaned blood, torn yellow tapes on the floor, empty coffee cups everywhere and, to complete the humiliation, the staff toilet near the auditorium was clogged. Not that Michael needed it, he no longer has a functioning digestive system, but you did, and the asshole cops apparently didn't think about your digestive system while they clogged up the only fucking toilet in this establishment.

"Are you going to unclog the toilet? I can finish the boxes quickly and get it done," you asked, turning your body towards the door. You saw Michael standing in the doorway, holding two transparent garbage bags, both visibly full. "No, I'll do it," Michael replied in frustration, not at you, but at the mess. As much as he found the months he spent alone in the establishment frustrating, he had created a sense of home for the place. For him, seeing this messy and untidy place that he'd practically lived in for months would burst a vein, well, if he had veins with blood pumping through them.

"You're already cleaning the auditorium, which I believe has been left in a mess of blood and other filth," you plead. Michael had immediately offered to clean the auditorium, knowing that it would be uncomfortable for you to relive your memories there, even more so with the blood barely cleaned up by the investigators who collected the body and the various tapes written "Crime Scene".

"No, I'll clean the auditorium and the bathroom, no problem," Michael put the bags down, sighing at the effort he'd been putting in all afternoon. It was strange, to spend the whole afternoon mopping the floor and walking back and forth through the corridors to carry bags of garbage, and not break a sweat. He felt hot and breathless from the hard work, but he couldn't sweat anymore. "I don't want to kiss you later and have you smell like stale coffee and bleach," Michael explained, putting one hand on his waist and the other to loosen the hoodie he was wearing, shaking the fabric of the collar so that a breeze of air would cool his dead body.

"Oh yeah, then I'll have to smell that on you later," you laugh, not at all convinced by Michael's explanation. "I don't want your sister to be traumatized by the stink she'll smell when you get home," Michael says, his voice carrying a provocative tone, which makes you smile once again.

Michael looked extremely attractive right now, even with his face covered. The fabric of the hoodie really helped with the masterpiece in front of you, making no effort to hide the man's physique, apart from the fact that, with the movement he was making with the fabric, you could see a bit of bandage around his abdomen. You had discovered yet another feature of your sexual preference with Michael, finding the bandages he wore on his hands extremely attractive, even if you didn't understand why he wore them. A good amount of time had passed since the episode in the control room, and honestly, all you wanted now was to have the opportunity to feel Michael like that again.

"Doll, I'm going to throw this shit away and finish the auditorium tomorrow, I need to sort out the fucking toilet by today," Michael announces, picking up the bags again. You nod positively, "I like it when you call me that," you say with a fond smile on your face, happy to have Michael working with you, it really managed to distract you from the fact that the two of you were cleaning up the mess of the policemen - policemen who had come to investigate a murder.

"Brings back good memories, right?" Michael's voice echoed through the corridors, the malice evident in his tone, but he missed the opportunity to see your cheeks blush and your eyes close in shyness. But your face bore a smile, good memories indeed.

You took the opportunity that Michael had taken on the task of cleaning and unclogging the toilet to check the Scooping Room. Over the last few days, you had called the company a few times, explaining the situation of the robot forgotten in the establishment. The secretary had been polite to you, but she repeated that there was no record of the animatronic you were describing, an animatronic with several exposed wires and white plates forming a face that held a hat on top. You were confused by the situation, which she tried to explain could be some robot from another establishment or an export error by the construction company. The secretary explained that they were swamped with demands from the redesign of this facility and the lawyers who were handling the lawsuit over Noah's death, so she couldn't give you a definite date of when someone would pick up the lost animatronic.

So, walking quickly through the Funtime auditorium, avoiding looking at any traces of blood or, frankly, anywhere other than the small door of the Scooping Room, you decide to check on the animatronic, even to see if the police had removed it or done anything to the robot. When you enter the dark room, the animatronic is no longer next to the door, which makes you think almost immediately that it must have been removed, but as soon as your eyes get used to the darkness of the room, you can see the animatronic standing next to the large scooper in the middle of the room.

The animatronic was positioned in a creepy way, its arms, which were tubes and tubes of wires, were next to its metallic body, with its eyes turned towards the door, where you were standing. Next to him was the large scooper, which you assumed was for rebuilding or destroying the robots. "Well, it looks like they left you right here," you vocalized in a low voice, making sure Michael didn't hear any noise coming from the auditorium. The animatronic was submerged in the darkness of the place, the open door with the low lighting of the auditorium didn't do your vision any justice, you could only see the white plates that formed the robot's face and the long tubes that escaped from the metal body. Some dark spots were on the animatronic's white face, which made you think that the policemen must have moved the robot and let some coffee drip onto the plates. You were still amazed at the lack of care the investigators had shown with the establishment.

When you hear footsteps in the corridor and Michael's voice calling your name accompanied by some complaints about the smell in the bathroom, you immediately close the door to the scooping room and practically run through the auditorium, taking care not to bump into anything and cause a loud sound that would attract Michael's attention. "Y/n, let's close up and leave, I can't stand that stink any longer, tomorrow I'll bring a gas mask to keep cleaning the bathroom," Michael says, as he walks towards Ballora's gallery, but quickly notices that you are no longer there. "Y/n?" Michael says louder, wanting to hear an answer from you before he turns this establishment upside down, creating more chaos than the policemen left behind.

"I'm here," you reply as you run down the corridors to meet Michael. "Where did you go? Finished with the boxes?" the man asks as soon as he sees you running towards him, his hood hiding the frown of concern that has formed on his eyebrows. "I went to have a look in the auditorium, but I came running when I heard your call," you explain, placing your hand on the old walls of the corridor, trying to calm your breathing. Well, it wasn't entirely a lie, but you still felt bad about lying in front of Michael, especially about a subject he clearly felt strongly about.

"Hm, you could have told me," Michael replied, crossing his arms, "It's okay, next time, just let me know before you go to the auditorium, I don't like the thought of you alone in that place," the man explained, his husky voice filling your ears with a tone of distress.

"It's okay, Michael," you responded, smiling awkwardly due to the shortness of breath you were still feeling. "Let's go, you need a shower," your attempts to calm your breathing allowed you to inhale deeply of the reek that covered the man at that moment. Honestly, you were relieved that he had offered to clean the bathroom, you wouldn't put up with that smell for a second before vomiting.

"Wow, look what a gentleman gets for cleaning the bathroom for a girl," Michael imitates a sad voice, "Get used to the smell, doll, you'll have to cling to me on the bike on the way home," the man adds, letting out a small laugh while your face contorts into a disgusted expression. "Honestly, I'd rather walk," you admit to the man in front of you, who, upon hearing your statement, lets out another laugh, this time more sincere and louder than the first.

"I'll walk with you then," Michael starts heading towards the auditorium, moving past you, while your figure is still leaning against the same wall, trying to rest your body from the effort you've exerted today. "I'm going to lock the rooms, wait for me here so we can head down together," he said, stroking your hair gently as he came across your clumsy figure, still leaning against the wall. Your gaze was on the floor, giving Michael free access to run his fingers through the strands of your hair, which were shiny with sweat and a little messy. For Michael, it was another reminder that your body was alive, your body was warm, sweating and flushed red, unlike the cold, purple fingers of the dead man.

You nod positively at him, feeling the touch of careful fingers in your hair go away, accompanied by the sound of Michael's footsteps once again echoing through the corridors. The wall was strangely comfortable for you, so as Michael had asked, you didn't move, letting your whole body lean against the wall as you waited for Michael to return and leave.

The man does his task quickly, locking all the rooms that had been opened in the investigation and checking if the ones that remained locked were properly closed. Arriving at the auditorium, Michael moves in hurried steps towards the door that was so familiar from his nightmares. Now he and Noah shared the same place of death. No matter how much his steps faltered or how much his dead heart screamed at him to get away from that door, he always checked to see if it was closed. It seemed that his soul recognized the place, as all the organs that were no longer active in his lifeless body twitched and writhed in pain. Michael unconsciously raised his hand to protect his abdomen, an unnecessary and useless action for his current situation. His stomach had already been ripped open, all his organs had already been expelled onto the floor, Michael's survival instinct had nothing left to protect.

Even though his hand was shaking, he reached out for the handle, which, to make matters worse for Michael, was open. At that moment, the fear ceased, the feeling of rage and revenge taking over Michael's entire body, already expecting to find Ennard behind that door. He couldn't risk leaving that door open, not with you here, not with your figure standing a few meters away from this room. The door swung open abruptly and violently, the dust that guarded the entrance flying everywhere given the room's lack of use.

There was no one there. Or rather, there was no animatronic. The room was dark, but Michael could draw this room with his eyes closed, he didn't need light, the memory that terrified him every night would help him navigate the room. The man wasn't stupid, he knew and had experience with the way animatronics hid, so he made a point of checking every corner or square meter of the small space. Michael felt his soul almost jump out of his body once again as he stood inside the Scooper Room, recognizing that it was here that he had lost his life, it was in this small space that Michael didn't see the light, Michael didn't hear, see or feel anything for the first time in his life. At least, he couldn't feel anything after he felt the large piece of metal puncture his stomach. He couldn't hear anything after his ear almost bled from his own screams. Ennard was the last vision he had.

Ennard wasn't here. Michael felt selfish for being relieved, at least, he didn't want to imagine how he would deal with knowing that Ennard was in the establishment at the same time as you were. However, that meant it was somewhere else, loose on the streets of this city in search of a corpse to dress, just as he had done with Michael.

The man quickly closes the door, locking it before going to meet you.

[clatoera]

Picket Fence is Sharp as Knives Chapter 9: I am what I am cause you trained me

Heeeeeeeey besties. I've been WAITING for this one. I've looked forward to it for a while now!! The next chapter is obviously thee chapter so this is the one we had to do. We had to get here. We have been waiting to get here for a LONG time. And here we are.

To start, I actually fuck up the months transition in this a few times I think. I dont think in months. I think in weeks, and so while the months may be off the weeks would be correct (part 1 is 12, part 2 is 16, part 3 is 34, and part 4 is 36). Much of this is accurate in terms of the physiology as well as some of the complaints.

Clove has a lot of anxieties and fears that we really otherwise don't see and so theres a lot more vulnerability on her part here than any other prior chapter so that is a bit different.

Thank you for sticking around I'm very very excited to get this out into the world!

AO3

masterpost

Title from T swift as usual

As always, thank you to the besties, especially @kentwells who has heard me ramble about this for months, and also @bodyelectric77 who doesn't hear me ramble as much about it but still is a victim to my senseless thoughts.

xoxo

From the time she was fifteen years old Clove had one, and truly only one, fear. Prior to fifteen it had been a non issue as far as she had been concerned–it’s not like anyone looked at her like that (or rather, if they did, there was someone large, blonde, and violent threatening them for even daring to do so).  

Dying in the Hunger Games didn’t even dredge up the same feeling of terror and peril. If she died in the games, well at least she went out fighting. It wasn’t like there was going to be anyone back home disappointed in her.  

Okay, maybe during her time in the capitol with blood filled joints and flayed skin, she had one greater fear. Even then, she didn’t fear death itself, considering that sometimes death would have been a welcome relief. Her fear, then, was deeper than death and more so in an eternity of that. 

Of note it wasn’t like she ever actually thought this particular fear had come true, save for once. But that was years ago, literal days before the Quarter Quell and well- she clearly never got an answer either way on that one. 

Even now, with her right index finger teetering on her teeth, shaving the nail down to the bleeding quick, she wasn’t entirely sure until right now either. The only thing she’s been positive about is that she could  actually feel her heart trying to escape the safety of her bones so that it can run off and let the fear dissipate like heat in a nuclear explosion. 

Now, well, there's two things she’s pretty positive about. 

To be fair she wasn’t necessarily doing anything to prevent living her biggest fear– she never needed to (save for a one year stint between Cato’s games and her own). She just..assumed she was very very lucky.

Who could blame her for the uncertainty, in her defense. It’s winter– and if the past three winters have taught her anything it’s that winter fucks her body up.

It had been so simple to justify.

Sure, she’s absolutely exhausted. Exhausted in a way that she can only relate to those last few months before her games, where she was training nearly sixteen hours straight. Yeah, it’s odd for her to want nothing more than to lay in bed for hours and hours a day– but she’s fucking tired. Winter always makes her tired, the cold always drains her. That’s not suspicious, right?

And sure, she’s starving. All the time. But again…it’s winter. Winter means burning more energy just to stay alive of course she’s absolutely starving. And well, when she gets sick when she goes too long without eating, it’s winter of course. She probably caught something from one of the girls. 

Even the body pain– that of course is due to the winter chill deep in her bones. Nothing more sinister, of course not. Everything that’s off about her recently well..things are off every winter after the war!

But…the one thing about Clove? She is not stupid. 

She is not stupid, but as Clove forces herself to look her reflection in the eye she notices the bleeding nails, the red ringed eyes, and the tears already trying to escape, she knows she is not stupid but she is very very very scared. 

The heart that was pounding in her chest to escape now feels so loud in her ears that it deafens her, the nails that now have no edge try to dig into her palms to ground her. She is unsure how she finds the ceramic ledge of the bath to sit on, but she somehow does. For a minute she thinks that she’s dying, that her brain is screaming for air with the way her vision blurs from the periphery inward (she always knew this would cause her death). It’s not until she can hear her own breathing, coming out in desperate, choking gasps that she realizes she’s crying.

Her hands don’t shake– her hands couldn’t shake, that would have meant her death– but as she tries to press the heels of her hands into her eyes she realizes that oh maybe they do as her body fails her in yet another way. 

She didn’t even have a mother. 

How could she be someone’s?

She doesn’t know how long she sits there on the ledge, how long her heart tries to run away from her.  It’s long enough that the skin of her cheeks run raw from the assault of tears, enough that the blood under her nails dries, long enough that her face is drained of any and all color. Her mind is both simultaneously empty and racing, as she barely processes which handle of the faucet to reach for. In her haze she manages to turn on the cold water, and her quivering hand can barely cup enough water to splash on her face. It’s barely enough to bring her back to reality, but it is enough to quell the stinging of her eyes. 

When she catches her appearance again, she almost doesn’t recognize herself. The angry red around her eyes, the stark lack of color even for her. Even her hair falls loosely in her eyes, plastered to her skin by the salt and tracks of her own tears. Looking at herself like this doesn’t even feel like she is seeing her own reflection.

Clove can’t help but think of her mother. 

Did her own mother cry herself raw, when she discovered her existence? Did she bite her nails to nubs, did she think Clove was her worst fear manifested?  Did she know that she’d be on her own within days, did she know not a person in the world was going to stand beside her for the next years of her life? Did she know that Clove was going to be her downfall, did she know that she was the only person in the world who would care if Clove lived or died?

Clove feels another tightening in her throat, another rush of warmth down her cheeks. She stares at herself, unblinking, as the tears continue. 

She knows she isn’t crying for herself, this time, but instead for fifteen year old Sevina Kentwell. The Little Girl, because she really was nothing more than a child, that was her mother. 

“You’re not a teenager.” Clove reminds herself, gripping the edge of the sink until her hands hurt. She is not a fifteen year old, she’s a twenty three year old woman. 

“You’re not alone, he won’t leave.” Yes, her father left her mother, but Cato would never. Could never, and would never. 

“I already won.” She tries, bringing her ice cold hand to her chest, desperately trying to regulate this meltdown before Cato gets home and finds her this way. “I won, I won, I won. I can’t die and leave it behind.” 

Even if she died, there was Cato. Cato, who no doubt, would do anything for even the theoretical baby they did not actually have yet. There was Cato. If something happened to him, well, there was Enobaria. Enobaria and then Glimmer and then Marvel and then, well, beyond that didn’t matter. 

“I won’t die. I won’t die. I won’t die.” Clove manifested, clenching her eyes shut as tightly as she could. “I’ll be okay. We’ll be okay. ”

She catches herself off guard, her eyes snapping open as fast as the word slipped out. We. How quickly she’s shifted, how quickly she accepts that she’s not even alone in her own body anymore. She’ll never be alone again. 

Somehow, though, that doesn’t send her spiraling. It was never the child part that scared her. 

That wasn’t her fear, it was not the baby part that she was so frightened of. 

It was the fear of perpetuating a cycle of death and abandonment. It was the near guarantee that she will be a bad mother, with none to model herself after. 

Still, despite that near guarantee of her own impending failure, Clove catches the hint of a smile in her reflection. 

Sure, she may not be good at it, but Cato will be.  In the back of her mind she can still see the look on his face, half a decade ago after her games, when he absently mentioned how he imagined their children to look. 

Even now she herself can't help but wonder if she’ll see her own freckles on her son, or have a dark haired little girl to break up the sea of blondes and redheads that are the children of their friends. 

Hers. It’s her kid. Which, as scary as it is to stomach, is somehow a lot less frightening than she had ever expected. 

She’s normally so aware of her surroundings, hyper attune to any shift in the floor, to the point that nothing can surprise her. Somehow now, she is so in her head, that when she hears the kitchen door slam she practically jumps out of her skin

Clove can hear the heavy steps (stomps? Is he in a mood? What the fuck she’d normally be able to tell) as Cato climbs them two at a time, giving her quite literally just enough time to step into the hall to meet him at the same time he hits the top floor. 

“Was no one going to tell me that pink comes in multiple shades. Apparently saying I need it in pink doesn’t mean much when you’re buying something for toddler girls.” Cato mumbles, pulling out the little paper receipt and bringing it up to eye level. He squints, holding the little sheet a few inches from his face. “I got one..Carnation? And the other one…bubblegum. I thought they were the same color but I was corrected many many many times.” Cato rubs his hand on the back of his neck, heading in a quick right towards their room. “What time do we need to leave?”

Fuck. She was out of it today. Of course, they had to go to District One today (very soon actually) for the twins' first birthday party. Great. She’d feel fantastic after that train ride, for sure. Well damn, was she supposed to wait to tell him after now or-

She doesn’t hear him say her name again, truly locked into her own mind again, when his hand engulfing her shoulder brings her back to her body.

“Clove? Are you okay? We don’t have to go if you aren’t up to it, I know you’ve been really tired lately and it’s okay! We don’t have to-” His voice is just so soft, with concern that is not patronizing but truly genuine, and by the time she glances up to meet his eyes she can’t help but let the words just come out before she has a moment to process what she’s saying. 

“I’m pregnant.” 

For all Clove is not a crier, something in her snaps the second she looks up at him and sees the look of outright love in his pretty blue eyes. For all the times in her life she had been terrified of saying those exact words to him, she had never once expected the way he’d look at her like this. 

She doesn’t give him time to even react before she’s back in tears, fully pressing herself into his chest before he has the time to respond. Or rather, she misses his soft “...really?” when she burrows herself against him. She feels one hand on her back as she feels the other on her face, wiping away the streak of tears over her right cheek bone. That same hand tilts her face up so he can look down at her directly. 

“...are you okay?” Even with the hesitation in his voice Clove can’t miss the absolute joy barely hidden below the surface. As soon as she gives even the slightest nod, she watches as maybe the brightest smile she’s ever seen breaks across his face. It must be infectious, because she can’t help her own in return. 

“I’m okay. I’m really really okay.”  Clove promises, leaning her face into his hand, laughing just a little through her now obsolete tears. “You don’t seem surprised?”

“You don’t cry, I had to ask.” Not just that– Cato knew her better than even himself sometimes. He knew, more than absolutely anyone else, just how scared of this she was. “I don’t think we have any right to be shocked, Clove.” 

Fair enough. 

“It’s like…everything you ever wanted, right?” Clove uses her own hand to wipe the other side of her eyes, before slinking both of her arms around his neck, fully just letting him take the bulk of her weight. 

“Clove, I already have everything I wanted. This is just… beyond that.” It wasn’t a secret that yes, Cato had always imagined his children with Clove, even more so in the last couple of years. Even still they’d been through enough, Clove more than most. It wasn’t something he was going to push her on. “Do you know how long or-”

“Uh like twenty minutes ago-” Clove starts, audibly sighing and rubbing at her eyes when she realizes that's not quite what he meant. “Sorry. Just..I’m not thinking straight today. But no. Sometime between…December and now. Zero to Three months, I don’t actually know. There are…many..many many…many many..many many..many…many times this could have happened, so. We’ll find out.”

Cato’s hands both slide down to her waist, and he lifts her to his height with practiced ease before he kisses her in a way she isn’t sure he has in the seven years they’ve spent with each other, but that she hopes he replicates again and again. She laughs against his lips, as she brings her fingers to thread into his hair slightly, just toying with the base of his neck. 

“On second thought we don’t have to go..” Cato mumbles, barely even pulling away from her to talk, still so close that their nose and heads touched. 

“We have to go. Glimmer will kill us.” Clove sighs in response, but stays impossibly close to him. 

Cato lets go of her with audible annoyance, letting her feet hit the floor before he actually huffs. 

“Fine. But we’re only going because we need to make sure our kid has friends.”

She would be lying if she didn’t say it felt like warmth spread through her chest when she heard the word ours.

Later that evening, they’re standing in the corner of a pink glitter and balloon covered living room. He’s behind her, his arm around the front of her shoulders holding her flush to him, whispering in her ear silly jokes about how they will not be adding a glittery, heart covered, pink wall to their house for the sake of a birthday party next year. 

Between their own little jokes and her stifled giggles, she can’t help but watch their friends. Glimmer, who for the first time in her life freely accepts the swipe of icing on her nose from one of her children or the man she made them with, all the while smiling and laughing without a care in the world for the way it would affect her makeup or her dress size. Or Marvel, carrying around the girls who look nothing like him but look like everything in the world that he loves. 

It dawns on her then, that maybe the reason it is a lot less scary that it is her baby, is because it’s his too.

____________________________________________________________

“You’ve slowed down.” 

Clove quite literally jumps when she hears the voice from directly behind her, and if she didn’t know any better she most definitely would have yelped too, if she didn’t recognize that tone of dissatisfaction immediately.

“Oh for fucks sake Enobaria, don’t sneak up on me like that!” Clove pauses, coming to a full stop so she can bring her heart rate back down to earth. She pulls her head band down over her ears, now even colder without her own adrenaline to ward off the biting cold of late District Two winter. “It’s March, Enobaria, give me a break. It’s always hard to get back into it after the snow melts.”

“Don’t give me that shit, Clove.” Enobaria rolls her eyes as she catches up to her fully, grabbing her by the upper arm and pulling her over to the side, off the same path back to Victors’ Village they both take every day. 

The sense of Deja Vu is intense, and Clove swears for a minute she’s seventeen again, being pulled into the woods on her way back to the Academy on what Enobaria had always so lovingly called her “run of shame.”

“Are you still slutting yourself out, Clove, or did you come to your fucking senses?” Enobaria had truly hissed in her ear, grabbing her by the elbow and pulling her forward with her nails in her skin.  “Don’t even answer that, I’m not as stupid as you think I am Clove. I know what you’re still doing.”

‘Still’, meaning in the past couple of months since Cato returned from the Seventy Second Hunger Games. Enobaria had, naively mind you,  assumed it was just a phase. Teenagers and their little hormones and all that. She figured it wouldn’t last that long, maybe a couple of weeks, as the novelty of victory wore off for Cato. 

Surely he would have a whole crowd of girls after him, but she didn’t think Clove was dumb enough to be one of them. Unfortunately, apparently, she was very very wrong, judging by the way Clove showed up at the academy every morning in clothes that were far too fine to be Academy issued and far too big to be her own. 

Nevermind the fact that some mornings she could literally see her seventeen year old mentee cooking breakfast across the street, playing housewife when she should be playing future victor. 

“I’m not slutting myself out, it’s just Cato-”

“Shut it. I always told you I wasn’t going to let what happened to your mother happen to you. And do you know why, Clove? Because I will kill you and Cato both before you ever step in that arena, got it? Don’t fuck this up for yourself.” Enobaria didn’t even give her time to respond, before she let go of her arm and truly pushed her forward, watching as she stumbled the first few feet before nearly falling to the ground. “Get to training.”

“I’m serious, Clove. You usually get back to the house by nine eighteen if you do six miles. You’re not making it back until Nine thirty. I know you aren’t at seven, you always said the number seven freaked you out, and frankly  you’re not fast enough to do eight at that pace. Never have been.” Enobaria narrows her eyes, giving her solid full body once over, practically an inspection for any obvious injuries. “You aren’t eighteen, Clove. You’ve been through a lot. It’s okay for things to be different, but don’t push yourself to the point you’re hurting. Six may be a lot for you right now, don’t risk it. It’s winter, I know everything hurts you, Clove. But that's a significant time change, I’m just a little concerned–”

“‘Baria. I’m not hurt. I promise. It’s just the beginning of the warm season, and it hurts a little bit but nothing that bad–” Clove tries, putting her hands on top of Enobaria’s wrists as she looks her over. Enobaria clearly means the concern with love, nothing less, nothing with anger.

“It’s not just that, Clove, your form has changed, you seem hesitant and skeptical when you hit the ground, you look hurt. You can tell me if you’re hurt, we can change something, just tell me. You’ve been through a lot, Clove.” Enobaria offers softly, bringing an uncharacteristically gentle hand up to Clove’s upper arm where she rubs random circles. 

Clove goes to defend herself and her body when she is taken off guard by Enobaria’s observation and gentleness, narrowing her eyes as she gives her mentor a once over. “...why are you paying such close attention to me?”

“It’s my job, Clove. It’s my responsibility to make sure you’re in the best condition I can get you in. I always watch. And I know something’s changed, I know what they did to you Clove, and we can modify things to make sure you’re not going to get hurt–”  Enobaria insists, once again leading her back up the path to their homes. She’s whispering, because if there is one thing about a Career victor that they cannot seem to shake after everything, is that their public reputation matters. They make it to the steps of Enobaria’s front porch where she eases them both down to the bottom step where many of their longest conversations in Clove’s life have occurred. 

Once upon a time someone overhearing this conversation would have been catastrophic. 

“Oh..Enobaria.” Clove whispers softly as she realizes this is her showing her love. This is how they always showed their concern– tough love.  She is gently grabbing at Enobaria’s upper arm now, giving the lightest little squeeze.. “I’m not hurt, not any more than usual. It’s not that. I know i’m slower than I used to be–”

“What’s wrong, then, Clove? It’s not a big deal, we can fix whatever it is.” Enobaria tries, doing her best to relay genuine concern rather than passing judgment. It’s been her sole responsibility, to keep Clove healthy, for twenty entire years now. 

And yes, maybe she had some guilt over not being able to keep her safe during the war, and needed to make up for it somehow. 

“...I didn’t want to tell you.” Clove whispers, and when Enobaria looks up at her she swears her blood runs genuinely cold at the fear (and tears) in the younger girl’s eyes. “You’re going to be so disappointed in me, Enobaria, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what, Clove, I’m not disappointed it’s okay to be hurt, it’s not your fault–” She immediately tries to ensure, holding Clove by the shoulders before the freckled girl turns to the side, looking at the sky to blink back her tears before they can freeze to the pale expanse of her skin. 

“I don’t even know how to tell you, you’re going to hate me. I’m so sorry, Enobaria, please I didn’t mean to disappoint you–”

“Clove, I’ll never hate you, now what’s wrong.”

Clove swallows the lump in her throat, before she rises from the step, taking a few steps forward out of Enobaria’s reach. She wipes at her face with the sleeves of her coat before she unzips it. Clove turns to the side as she fingers the hem of her– Cato’s– shirt, before she tugs just the bottom up. 

Enobaria raises an eyebrow, eyeing Clove’s incredibly toned and extremely flat lower abdomen. “Are you trying to show off the abs of a sixteen year old or–”

“What? No? You don’t see it?” Clove glances down, confused as to how she could miss it. Okay, maybe there is absolutely nothing to miss, with years and years of intense workouts to thank, but Clove most certainly notices a difference when she looks at herself in the mirror. “Please don’t make me say it, I can’t say it to you.”

“Say what Clove?”

“Enobaria…I’m..well… No, baria, I can’t say it, I can’t watch you hate me, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry, I didn’t mean to.” Clove rambles, shaking her head rapidly to insist she did not mean to bring such shame on herself. “You’re the only person I’ve ever been afraid of disappointing, I’m so sorry. But please, don’t kill me, I want this.”

“Clove what are you talking about–” Enobaria nearly rolls her eyes, but something about the tears, the fear, and the now dropped shirt click all the pieces into place and she actually gasps as her brown eyes go wide. She feels her lip fall so softly into a sigh, and she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it as she opens her arms to her. “Oh. Clove, honey, it’s okay.”

Clove visibly hesitates to come towards her, frozen like prey deciding if she has a chance to run before she is torn to pieces. That's new, too, that in Fight or Flight her instinct has become flight. “....are you mad at me?”

“Just come here.” She offers one last time, gesturing her forward with her hands. “I’m not mad, Clove. You just look terrified.”

“You always said you’d kill me.” Clove explains warily, one foot planted behind her as if she is ready to haul it across the street to her home as fast as she can. “Do you still want to kill me?”

“Clove, you were a teenager. That was the best threat I had, and it worked. You knew I was capable of it.” She offers with exasperation, dropping her offer of any sort of physical comfort. “You’re not a little girl anymore. I don’t control what you do. I don’t have to worry about getting you in and out of an arena now, you’re an adult.”

“...but are you disappointed?” 

“No, Clove. I’m not disappointed. I’m a little disappointed that you seem actually scared of me right now, but that’s my own fault.” She frowns, dropping her hands completely to her side to take away any threat Clove could be left to perceive. “I’m not going to hurt you at all, Clove. I promise.”

Clove lets her stance relax, and hesitantly takes a step closer to her mentor and practically sister at this point. “I just… I want this, Enobaria. And I want that to be okay. But I also know it killed my mom and..”

“You’re allowed to want to be a mother Clove. You’re not upsetting anyone. You’re an adult. You survived a war. You have absolutely earned and deserve whatever life you could possibly want.” Enobaria cocks her head, and against her better judgment just steps forward to pull Clove into a hug whether she wants it or not. “Clove. Being pregnant, having you.. That isn’t what killed your mom. The games killed her..Snow killed her. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You were never the reason your mother died, and I am so sorry anyone has ever told you differently.”

If Clove’s grandmother weren’t already dead and rotting, she sure would be after today, Enobaria would have seen to that. 

Clove’s only response is a weak nod as she buries her face in Enobaria’s hair, needing more than she realized to hear those exact words. “You’re really not mad?”

“Of course not, Clove.  I promise. You’ll be a good mom. You already take care of everyone else.” Enobaria assures her, bringing her hand up to run over the length of Clove’s long dark hair where it’s come out of the pony tail. “When are you supposed to have it?”

“September.” Clove mumbles into her hair, relaxing until Enobaria gently pushes her back so she can look at her with a quizzical expression as the calculator runs in her brain. 

“...you’re four months pregnant right now? Were you planning on ever telling me?”

Clove nods, brushing her fly aways out of her face with the sleeve of her coat. “I only found out last month. We haven’t told anyone. You were first on the list though, I just wanted to wait a little longer. “

Enobaria just nods, looking her over with the new lens. It made sense now, why Clove seemed so hesitant and careful, and of course slower. “...you’re four months pregnant and you still look like that?”

She gives another nod, the slightest smirky smile taking over her face. “They said it’s ‘cause it’s my only baby. And because I have worked so so hard for such a strong set of muscles in my torso. Thanks for that.”

“Oh good. I guess the Cato genes didn’t kick in then. Not that would fuck you up.”

“Thanks for the reassurance, Baria.” Clove laughs, anyway.

_____________________________________________________________

“Well aren’t you just a little ray of sunshine today, Clove!”

“Can you shut the fuck up, Sparkles?” Clove snaps from her end of the couch, elbows on the arm rest with both her hands on her face, holding up the weight of her head. 

“Oh what an absolute joy we’re going to have together!” Glimmer rolls her eyes playfully from the opposite end of the chair, not even bothering to look over at her truly miserable friend, instead content with focusing on the intricacies of the floral embroidery she is adding to the fabric in her hands. “Remind me again why I'm here if you’re going to be a bitch to me?”

“Because.” Clove groans, stretching out one leg towards Glimmer’s side. “I made one joke that I was just going to have this baby in the bath tub and now Cato won’t let me be alone. He’s just being a scared little pussy bitch baby.”

“Ah. Right. I’m babysitting you.” Glim taunts. “You know, we could just go outside and enjoy the pool with the fathers of our children and my daughters. Cato definitely doesn’t have a shirt on and we both know how you feel about that so…”

“I am not going outside like this.” Clove hisses, shifting yet again in her seat, searching for even the slightest relief of her permanent discomfort at this point in her life. “Cato is safer if I can’t see him or get a straight line to him. My center of gravity may suck but he’s big and an easy target–”

“Clove I’m sure the pool would feel so good, it’s like being weightless, and it’s nice and cool–”

“Have you ever been excessively pregnant in the middle of July? With a giant fucking baby? No? That's what I thought.” She snips at her friend, before once again shifting her legs back and forth over each other. 

“No, but I had two babies at the same time. So I think I get the discomfort part.” Glimmer sets down her handiwork, craning her upper body to look at her incredibly uncomfortable friend. “Go ahead. Just let it out.”

“What?”

“Just say it. Whatever’s on your mind. It sucks and you look absolutely miserable. So. Just…let it out. Say whatever you have to say. Complain. Whine. Whatever. You’re miserable and we’re alone. Just let it out. But remember. I grew two. And I can out complain you.” 

Glimmer clasps her hands in her lap respectfully, giving her full and undivided attention to Clove.

Clove doesn’t even bother to hesitate, being given a free stage to complain to somehow who was not going to take any of her slights personally. She sighs loudly before beginning. 

“I fucking hate this. This sucks. I’m so fucking tired. All the time. But I don’t even get to sleep because this kid just moves all. Fucking. Night! Sleeps all day but then it’s like gym class in there the second I go to sleep! Not to mention I can’t even get comfortable, it’s like she’s crushing my spine in here. Or he. Whatever. She’s crushing my spine, he’s crushing my spine, whoever it is is absolutely fucking my back–” 

“Okay, pause, do you want suggestions as we go, or when you’re done?”

“Glimmer. Just let me talk. You can keep the joys of motherhood talk until the end.”

“That's not what I was going to say, but okay, keep going.”

“Where was I? Oh! The pain. I am in agony. All the time. I can���t go in a hot bath because i’ll boil him in there, but holy fuck does this hurt. Sometimes it hurts so bad I can’t breathe, Glimmer. It’s like every joint in my body is being ripped open especially here-” Clove runs her hand over her upper back. “I just hurt all the time and I never want to do this again. I can’t. I just hope this kid is a boy so Cato won’t want me to do it again–”

“Has he said he wants it to be a boy, Clove?” Glimmer raises an eyebrow with disbelief, her eyebrows pulling together in confusion. “He seems pretty happy with the girls, I don’t think he’d be that upset either way. You know you can find out–”

“No he’s never said it but I assume that’s what he’d prefer. And I never want to do this ever again.” Clove absolutely insists, twisting back to her other side still entirely unable to get even the slightest bit comfortable. “Oh, and I’m fucking hungry all the time. That’s great. All I fucking want is a sandwhich, all day every day. But I can’t even have one. Because I can’t have that sandwich meat. I’d actually slit someone’s throat for a turkey and cheese sandwich right now, Glimmer. I would sit and eat mozzarella cheese balls with a spoon, and I don’t even like Mozzarella cheese, but I can’t have it so I want it. I hope this kid knows that it is SPECIAL.”

“...are you done?” Glimmer prods gently, turning to face Clove before she gently pats the couch in front of her. “Come here.”

“Yeah, I actually feel a lot better after that.” Clove admits, before she actually scowls at Glimmer. “Come where? You’re not messing with my hair right now..”

“Put your head right here, if you let me touch you, I can help.” Glimmer offers, once again touching the couch in front of her. “As long as you don’t bite my hands off…”

“I don’t know, Glimmer-”

“Clove! Lay down! Right now.” Glimmer insists, actually just reaching across the couch and grabbing her by the hand before pulling her down practically into her lap. “Lay on your..left side.”

“My side? I’m not a side sleeper-”

“You are now, lay down.” Glimmer rolls her eyes, before she leans just a little bit forward over Clove. “You probably hurt extra because you’re literally letting her crush your back and everything in it. It helps a lot to put all that weight to the front. Now two things, the first one I’m going to touch your back okay?” 

Clove nods as Glimmer’s fingers find the small of her back, and all she does is press in before Clove lets out an actual soft gasp of relief. 

“See? Now, wrap your hands under your stomach, okay?” Glimmer instructs kindly, before putting her hands on top of clothes and pulling up towards her face just a little. “See? It takes all the weight off-”

“OH my God.” Clove breathes in very clear relief, some of the tension truly melting off of her face. “Okay, scratch what I said, you’re an angel, Glimmer.”

“You could just tell Cato to do this, it really will help–”

“Oh absolutely not. I never want him to touch me ever again in my fucking life. I hate him for this. It’s his fault.” Clove snaps right back to her anger, but doesn’t dare flinch too much out of Glimmer’s very intentionally placed hands. “Seriously, If he ever tries to touch me again I’ll cut every one of his fingers off. He’s lucky I let him sleep in the same bed, but he has to stay on the complete opposite side. Seriously, I’m not built for this like you are. That asshole tries to take pictures of me, too, and I about broke his hand yesterday morning by ripping the camera out of it.”

“Hmm, that's unlike you.” Glimmer teases, but there is a softness in her voice that is not quite patronizing but not dreamlike either. “What do you mean like I am?”

“I don’t know Glimmer, you seemed so happy, and you were just so glowy and beautiful and you just were so peaceful and grateful and I feel fucking horrific. I don’t know how I’m supposed to survive another six weeks of this.” Clove mumbles, though her eyes are closed and with her head against Glimmer’s leg there is a lot less malice in her tone. “I’m not you.”

“Oh…Clove, I'm sorry. I don’t think I was very honest with you.” Glimmer admits, glancing down at her friend. “Clove, I cried every. Single. Night. I’d wait until Marvel was asleep, and then I’d go sit in the girls room sometimes for hours and just…cry.  I was terrified, like legitimately terrified. Every single night. For hours. Do you know why I was okay with not telling anyone the twins were twins? Because I was convinced one of them wasn’t going to make it. Aurelia, specifically. She was always so much smaller, always. I didn’t want to tell anyone in case she didn’t and then no one would ever know. And looking back, I can’t imagine pretending she didn’t exist. It would kill me. There's pictures of me, too, every single week, and I can’t look at them either. They’re hidden so I won’t burn them, because I can’t see myself that way even now. No, I was not in as much pain as you are, I know that. But I was scared. I was so so so scared.”

“Glimmer, I didn’t know, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that–”

“No, Clove. You should know.” Glimmer insists, shaking her head briskly back and forth. “It’s not fair to you to think that you’re experiencing it wrong. Because you aren’t. I was terrified. Everything else you mentioned…I get some of it. The reason it moves more at night when you’re trying to sleep is because when you walk around all day you like rock her to sleep, so when you lay down it’s not keeping her asleep anymore. If you talk to it, that might help–”

“What do you mean talk to it, it can’t hear me, Glimmer?”

“...of course he can hear you, Clove. Don’t you like..talk to him?”

“Well, no, I didn’t think he could hear through everything between us.” Clove shrugs slightly, trying not to let any of the guilt she suddenly felt slip into her face. Add that as another check as to why she’s an unfit mother.

“...there is literally nothing between you. It’s quite literally as close to you as another human could ever possibly be. The girls didn’t know their names, because they obviously couldn’t differentiate who was who, but when I didn’t know which one was doing something I'd just call them sis, literally just sis, and they did respond to that.” Glimmer can’t help her smile at the memory of her tiny girls in the earliest days of their lives. “They knew when I talked, and they knew Marvel too, because he used to lay in bed and talk to them for hours. I sometimes wonder how they became such chatty little girls, they use real words now, but it’s not actually a question. They get it from him. Now they wake me up with these little hands on my face going ‘Hi mama’ over and over until I wake up. Sometimes I pretend to be sleeping a few extra minutes just because their little voices are so damn cute.”

“You’re just meant to be a mom, Glimmer, that’s what I mean. You just talk about them like that.” Clove explains, running a hand over her face in exhaustion. “How do you just love like that? So freaking effortlessly. I’m fucking terrified I won’t know how to love it.”

“...because that’s just what happens, Clove. It just happens. I promise, Clove. It is effortless. I’m not worried about you not loving your kid, because you will. It’s the easiest thing in the world to do, not having one, but loving one.” Glimmer promises, with such a soft edge in her voice Clove feels like she is being talked to not by her friend but by a mother. “I do think you need to be kinder to yourself. Let Cato help you, Clove, that's why he’s there.”

“No, I can’t tell him.”

“Tell him what, Clove? That you’re uncomfortable? That's a given. You’re tiny and you are sharing your body with another human. You went through things no one can understand, of course you’re uncomfortable.”

Clove rolls further on her side, not wanting to face any passing judgment from Glimmer. “I don’t want him to see me as weak, Glimmer.”

“OH stop RIGHT there, Clove. He would NEVER. I mean that, never in the entirety of his life, is he going to see you that way. I’m sure of it. I will never forget the months he worried about you, and weak was never a word he associated with you. He thinks you walk on water, there's not anyone who’s ever going to be stronger in his eyes than you Clove. I know that without a doubt. He will never see you as weak.”

“But this is different, Glimmer. I should just be good at this, too.” Clove insists half heartedly, dropping the hand under Glimmer’s but actually letting out a whine at the immediate loss of relief followed by the familiar tugging ache. 

“You need to let him help you. He wants to. Besides, he’s got big hands. Make him hold up the baby so you can sleep, you deserve it.” Glimmer promises, gently brushing over Clove’s upper arm. 

“You know, you mentioned how Marvel likes to talk. Back, you know, when we were in the Capitol? Sometimes they’d just drop me back off in this cell and I'd be just…i’d be bleeding and I was in so much pain I couldn't even see straight. And it could be the middle of the night, it could be the morning, I never knew we didn’t know time, but he would sit there and talk to me through the wall for hours. I don’t even know about what. But I think he was afraid that if I fell asleep I wouldn’t wake back up, and so he would keep me just awake enough…he’s good, Glimmer. I know you two had it rough, but he’s good.”

“I know he is. They both are, somehow.” Glimmer gives the softest smile in return, brushing her now free hand over Clove’s hair over and over. Clove isn’t looking up at her, her eyes closed in contentment and genuine relief, allowing her to actually relax. “...and that's why I'm ignoring the fact I can see them throwing my sixteen month olds back and forth in the pool right now.”

_____________________________________________________________

“Cato….Cato…babe…Cato.” Clove nudges impatiently, which soon turns to grabbing his shoulder and shaking slightly. “Cato…Cato!”

“Hmm?” His voice is muffled by the pillow where he buries his face, not even bothering to lift his head from the dead of his sleep. All Clove can really see of him is the broad expanse of his shirtless back, and the mess of his hair facing upwards on the pillow. Even his arms, where they are buried under the pillow to hold up his face, do not move with her insistence. 

“You better learn to wake the fuck up when this kid gets here, I’m not going to be the only one losing sleep.” Clove warns, but fishes his hand out from under the pillow and brings it to her side. “He’s moving a lot right now.”

“Could it be because you’re talking to him at-” Cato raises half his head, just enough so he could see the bedside clock “...two in the morning, Clovey?”

“He was moving before that, too, Cato.” Clove murmurs, moving the dead weight of Cato’s hand around until he relents and turns on his side to face her. “Feel him.” She absolutely insists, leaning back on her hands to prop herself up. “Or her, I guess. I think he’s a boy though. Just a feeling.”

“I think so, too.” Cato admits, and with a sly smile he slides his hand under her (his) shirt, just to feel the smoothness of her skin under his fingertips. There was something about it, even in the dead of the night, about Clove’s little body engulfed by his clothes. He was, as always, obsessed with her, a fact he never let her forget. 

Even if she insisted it’s because nothing else fit her– bold, considering this still looked like a dress that hit her knees. 

“We need to figure out what we’re gonna name this baby, Cato. We’ve got a month if we’re lucky.” Clove put her hand on top of his, guiding it around to the most opportune place that their kid seemed to be hanging out at any given moment. 

“Well you rejected naming him Cato so-”

“Absolutely not, your ego is bad enough, I do not want to live with two Cato Hadleys.” Clove warned, but the soft look in her eyes betrayed anything but annoyance. She strums her fingers on top of his gently, giving them a little soft squeeze. “I love you, you know.”

“I know. You wouldn’t do this if you didn’t.” Cato acknowledges, shifting his head over to lay on her other hand. “I know it’s not easy, It’s been a lot on you. I love you, and somehow I love you more every day, even when you’re threatening to cut off my hands.”

“Well I kind of need you to have hands now, so you’re safe.” Clove teases, but brushes her fingers over the mess of his hair. “You know, I’m going to do all this work and it’s going to come out looking just like you.”

“Hey, I did some work too-”

“Like five minutes of work nine months ago.”

“That’s cold, it was way more than five minutes.”

“Okay, eight minutes.” Clove can’t quite lean down to kiss him, so she settles for squeezing his hand instead. “I’m kidding. You know that. I wouldn’t survive this without you, and I wouldn’t have done it for anyone else.”

“I know, babe. And I never forget that.”

She huffs impatiently as their child has seemingly decided it’s no longer time to play now that Cato’s been woken up, but the reason why hits her like bricks to her chest and the softest little “oh” comes out first. 

“Keep talking to him.” She softly demands of him, holding his hand to her while she so carefully shifts to lay on her side to face him.

“Huh?”

“He stopped when you started talking. He knows you. Keep talking to him, so I can sleep.”

“Are you serious? What should I say?”

“Do I even look like I’m slightly kidding? Goodnight, Cato. Bond with your child.” 

[inbox847]

Hi internet it's my birthday I'm 41

This past year has been the worst of my life and I'm glad it's over but also misfortune is random and dates are made up so any change to this trend is largely arbitrary and not indicative of a grander pattern (Virgo thing to say am I right)

Last year for 40 I did a 3 day escape room crawl with lots of friends and love and then got kicked in the face and body by the universe for 12 months so this year for 41 I am staying the fuck inside and chilling out. I am still and flat in the tall grass hoping that random chance doesn't notice me.

The final tally is this, vaguely in chronological order: diabetes, COVID, grandmother died, 10-yr friendship ended, cousin died, father died, friend died, another friend almost drowned in my bathtub and I saved her life at 3am, work suspension, nearly fired. And I'm sure I'm forgetting stuff but these are the broad strokes without nuance.

I have conservative goals for this year, I think. I want to complete one big craft project. I want to set some habit-based goals and practice them, like dealing with my dirty dishes every night - I have a really comprehensive planner that I'd like to start using for habit tracking among other things. I want to get a new couch. I want to clear out my storage spaces of a friend's belongings that I've let her leave here but don't want to continue storing. I want to set up my office area, and complete my professional listing so I can take on some private practice clients. I'd also like to start a list of longer-term goals and plans and at least know what the first steps are, even if I don't take any yet.

That all feels doable but importantly it also feels like it's okay if I can't do some part of it. If the hits keep coming, I can accept some of those goals being set aside without feeling too bad about it. Being patient with myself but also embracing the truth that there are some things only I can do for myself and if I don't, they don't happen. And that's not the end of the world but it is still my responsibility.

Hi 41 I'm here.

[night-unfurls-its-splendour]

Susan Kay's 'Phantom' Read: Part V (Erik, 1856-1881)

Before we start I feel that I need to talk about a perspective shift that I've had. More than half-way through the book now with the completion of this episode I've come to a realization.

Phantom is not what I thought it was. This epiphany has been slowly dawning but here we are.

My impression of Phantom, based on how I have seen it talked about in the Phandom (and certainly how the reviews on the back of the book present it) was that it was Leroux's story but with the blanks filled in and a few small liberties taken.

I had this impression because I was told that for quite a few years, Phantom was basically considered Canon and also because I have often seen Kayrik (or Kerik) and Lerik (or Leroux's Erik) conflated in discussions.

But as I'm reading I have finally realised that I don't think this is ever what Kay intended.

Don't get me wrong I hate most of the decisions she's made, but this book is a complete re-working of the source material with many elements of the book, some from the musical and some original folded in. For Erik's history she mainly follows the life-history detailed by Leroux, but in terms of Erik as a character, he more closely resembles Musical!Erik than anything (except that Kayrik's deformity affects his entire face, not just half). When we arrive at the Opera, she again adheres to Leroux's history. But once we catch up to the canon events, this time line is swiftly abandoned.

Nadir and Erik bump into each other and resume their friendship.

A few weeks later, Erik finds Joseph Buquet's body in his torture chamber.

A few weeks after that Erik hears the news of the Opera's change in management, and hears Christine sing for the first time.

In the source material, Buquet's body is discovered on the same night as Christine's initial triumph (so three months AFTER Erik began to teach her), the same night that the old managers, Debienne and Poligny, have their farewell celebrations and hand over management to Firmin Richard and Armand Moncharmin. Leroux describes Raoul rushing across the stage, "On which Christine Daae has just triumphed, and under which Joseph Buquet had just died." [This excluded from the original translation.

Why Kay chose to alter the progression of events I don't know, but that combined with a final nail in this coffin for me to realise that I had been approaching this book from entirely the wrong perspective. That final nail is the fact that Christine Daaé, in this book, is dark- haired and not blonde.

Kay does what most Phan-author's do: she cherrypicks her preferred elements from both book and musical (Erik general erudite comportment, his mis-matched eyes, Christine's dark hair) and combines them with her own headcanons to create an AU fic that, because of the reclusive nature of Fanfiction at the time and the fact that this work was published and widely circulated, became, for many fans not interested filling in the blanks themselves, erroneously synonymous with actual canon for a goodly number of years, despite its open contradictions to the source material.

Does that mean I like it any better? Haha fuck no. My irritation with Kay's choices persists. It's just that my ire for this book's influence is more accurately directed at the Phandom at large for making it something of a Golden Calf.

And like the Biblical Golden Calf I am here to pound it into dust and make everyone drink it.

So at this point I was going to complain that Kay never made mention of Erik being Christened "the trap-door lover" in Persia. There's even a CHAPTER of Leroux's novel called "The Masterstroke of the Trap-Door Lover". And this didn't come up even ONCE in Nadir's narrative. In fact the Persian and Leroux's narrator both talk about how Erik "rigged the palaces". Which is to say he made alterations to existing buildings and "turned the most honest construction in the world into a demonic house where one could not speak a word without being watched, or betrayed by an echo. How many family quarrels, how many bloody tragedies had the monster left in his wake with his trap doors?"

In Kay's narrative, Erik doesn't alter any existing palaces, he only constructs the Trick Box inspired palace described in Leroux's epilogue and his love of trap doors? Apparently it just isn't a thing.

Moving on

So of course we have to come back around to his mother. That was inevitable and I do actually appreciate it because we know Erik's furniture in the lair was his mother's.

The part where he views his mother's body is... eighhhhhh.

Erik describes the ravages of time in Madeleine's face and also the ravages of death. He talks about the irony that there's actually some resemblance between them now. And we get... this

And as I looked at her, I suddenly understood her revulsion at last--because now I shared it!

I felt no anger or grief as I looked down upon her . . . nothing except a disgust which enabled me to forgive any act of cruelty that she had ever shown me.

[...]

I did not kiss her, now that I had the opportunity.

I knew that she would not have wished it.

And I no longer felt any desire to do so.

I'm deeply confused as to what Kay is trying to convey here. Is Erik really saying that he doesn't want to kiss his mother because death has made her ugly? He goes on a lot about how death is gross and ugly and like... you just found out that your mom never re-married after you left. Never left the house she raised you in.

The misogyny REALLY steps up to the foreground here as well. He says of his mother's friend, Marie Perrault (the only person in this entire book with any rights imho)

This nervous, anxious, well-meaning lady had taught me to respect all members of the weaker sex.

Which, simply by calling them the "weaker sex"... you clearly don't? And after proclaiming is respect for ALL MEMBERS of the weaker sex, in the NEXT sentence he puts in a caveat about how he's never harmed an innocent woman, and also says something about the Khanom that really made me very, very queasy, and also reinforced my squicky suspicions about why Kay chose to make the cruel and capricious female figure in Persia an older woman (a domineering mother) rather than Leroux's "Little Sultana".

Very annoyed how Kay has graduated Erik's voice from "Automatic Aphrodisiac" to "Literally indistinguishable from Jedi Mind Tricks".

Erik regails us with how, using only his voice he is able to "reduce certain men to a trance-like state of obedience" (once exhibited on Nadir and his son Reza). When he meets Nadir again in Paris we are treated to this observation:

"Do you understand, Nadir? Keep away!"

His hand slid him it carriage door and he stood back with a trance-like obedience. He made no effort to prevent the brougham moving away, but although I knew my secret was safe for tonight, I felt no sense of complacency.

Once before he had broken free of my control, torn down the swaddling cocoon of sound with which I had bound him. Unlike Jules [Erik's lackey], he was not a natural subject; his will was too strong, his sense of identity and purpose too well developed.

Whenever he chose to fight my voice, I knew I would be unable to hold him.

That's a Jedi Mind trick. I'm sorry it is.

This section is actually quite enjoyable where the building of the opera house is concerned, but it takes a downturn, both in terms of the story and just the quality of the writing.

There are two instances of redundancy.

His death excited little excitement.

"My old interest in divination had never left me, and from time to time I still consulted the tarot cards in desultory fashion. It had been a long while since they had revealed anything significant, but now of late, each time I picked a card at random I seemed to turn up Death...

And this latter example leads me to something that really made me want to throw the book.

Since Nadir's narrative I have looked askance at something that has come up repeatedly: Susan Kay goes to GREAT LENGTHS to ensure that the readers know that Nadir I 100% straight. NO HOMO HERE, DEAR READER. ABSOLUTELY NOT. She shoehorns in a dead wife that Nadir never got over losing, and went into unnecessary detail about how when Nadir feels "the itch of manhood" (🤮🤮🤮🤮🤮) he avails himself of a prostitute or an odalisque. It comes up SEVERAL times. And when Nadir pops back up in Paris she makes sure to tell us that he has a mistress that he sees regularly. All of this to bring us to THIS infuriating line:

And so even as I walked with Nadir, talked with him, rejoiced in the warmth of communicating directly once more with a human soul, there was a part of me that looked at him with suspicion and wondered what part fate had assigned him in this new, unrehearsed opera.

Not the Lover, that was for certain. I'd seen enough girls leaving his apartments in Persia to be reassured that all of his instincts were purely heterosexual."

I'm not generally into gay readings of PotO. I don't ship Erik with either Raoul or with The Persian. But I will say that if there is an argument to be made for anyone in this book being anything less than 100% heterosexual, it's The Persian. Leroux makes no mention of him having a wife or anything of the sort. Tie that in with the determined responsibility and complex bond he seems to hold with Erik and a case can be made for our dear Daroga feeling something rather more than just sympathy for Erik. (I don't personally subscribe to this, but the case can certainly be made--I'm more of a DaRaoul girl tbh. I think that's an untapped gold mine).

But not here. Kay bends so far backwards as to have Erik say outright "Nadir is defo straight", while (even more bafflingly) implying that, perhaps, Erik is not. WHY, SUSAN. WHY?

Christine’s introduction is the single most "reads like Fanfiction (derogatory)" thing I've read in this book so far, but I find it very interesting how, when Christine sings for the first time Erik says that she "possesses a near perfect instrument". He says her technique is faultless, and that there's no weakness in either register. My first problem is that Leroux's Erik only ever calls Carlotta's voice an "instrument", because that's all it is to Carlotta. My second is that, according to Christine, her lower register was muffled and her upper register was shrill and her middle register wanted clarity. Maybe that's just Christine being too critical of herself, but I doubt that she had "flawless technique" when Erik began teaching her. Incredible latent talent for sure, but I do believe that she needed help with technique as well as motivation to reignite her passion.

Lastly we have Erik's description of when he first sings to Christine. His narrative regarding his motivation is actually very similar to my own:

She wanted an Angel of Music--an angel who would make her believe in herself at last.

[...] There was no reason in the world why I could not be the Angel of Music to Christine. I couldn't hope to be a man to her, I couldn't ever be a real, breathing, living man waking at her side and reaching out for her. . . .

But I could be her angel.

Is his motive here altruistic? No. But the sentiment is sweet enough. The notion of inspiring Christine's self-confidence is present.

Pity then that he takes a sharp left turn in the very next paragraph and utterly compromises any positivity in his intent.

I could not steal her body--but I could steal her voice and weld it irretrievably with mine; I could take it, and mold it, and make it mine forever...

Softly at first, infinitely softly I began to sing an old, heathen, Romany song. The Hollowed bricks carried the haunting melody relentlessly to her, permitted my voice to envelop her gently like a poisonous mist, seeping inexorably into her mind and staining her soul with darkness.

Well, well.

Once more unto the breach I go...

Masterpost

[oidheadh-con-culainn]

i do feel sad sometimes that i didn't have any access to english folk trads when i was growing up. i got into irish folk stuff as a tween in part because that was the only sort of folk i really knew about; i didn't have many local musicians to learn from so i got it from youtube and clannad CDs. as an adult most of the folk that's available to me is actually scottish, even though i'm a very long way from scotland, just due to the vibes of where i live. when i play sessions in donegal i don't have the same tunes as people there but i don't have english ones either, i've mostly got scottish ones and there's nothing wrong with that but it's also not grounded in any of the communities i'm actually a member of. there's something about having to borrow it from elsewhere because your own communities have become disconnected that DOES feel alienating

my parents are classically trained (though not musicians by profession) so i grew up with a lot of music but none of it was trad – i played in youth orchestras and wind bands and pit orchs for musicals. they didn't have any interest in folk music even though i know my paternal grandad did play it because i have his "fiddler's tunebook" from 1953 (i never met my paternal grandad though, he died before i was born). it would have made a difference if they did, i think, but our area didn't really have any folk going on, so maybe not that much difference unless they were keen enough to travel for it. they always thought of it as faintly embarrassing, though. when i got into irish music my family referred to it as "diddly diddly music", but in general it would be a lot more socially acceptable to say you do irish dance than to confess to being a clog dancer

but i think a huge part of it is also a class thing. the middle class classical musicians vs the peasant folk musicians, the highly trained dancers in studios vs the everyman in the pub in his boots... there's been a lot of social mobility in my family history and a couple of generations back they were a lot poorer so maybe that's why the folk got left behind as a remnant of those years

and i wonder if that's maybe at the root of a lot of english weirdness about folk traditions. like modern competitive irish dancing as we know it is basically the invention of the gaelic league and a lot of its distinctive features, such as the upright upper body, were specifically constructed to distinguish it from the more relaxed "peasant" styles and to make it a socially acceptable and sophisticated form of national heritage etc etc (catherine foley has an interesting book on the history of it if you want more on that). and this was obviously largely a response to colonisation. the same didn't really happen to the music tho. and the english, as the colonisers, had nothing to defend their heritage against, so that's part of why so much of it got lost, but also never elevated it from being the tradition of working people and peasants and whatever. and the english are SO weird about class (as something quite distinct from income/wealth) so of course folk music and dance would often get pushed aside in favour of ballet and classical music as the acceptably middle class arts, and therefore the folk trads get relegated to an embarrassing footnote that you don't admit to participating in in polite company (read: middle class company)

dunno. some sociologists and ethnomusicologists have probably written about this in more depth and with actual data and better wording. i'm just musing on my own experiences and observations

[juicefield]

Meyp Skxawng - Neteyam X Avatar!Reader Part 4

A/N: My apologies for not updating the fic in so long, I was sick with some type of stomach bug and then had a really hectic week. I've also been suffering from writers block, so if this isn't up to par I apologize! Just been struggling with writing lately. Also I'm not sure if this was obvious but when reader is with the Sully siblings (besides Neteyam) she is speaking English, and that's why she talks a lot more casually then with others (not just bc she is more comfortable around them). As per usual feedback is appreciated! Also if you find any mistakes comment them down below or message me.

You can find the other parts here:

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3

Although the writing in this fanfiction is my own, I do not claim any  ownership of Avatar, Avatar: The Way of Water, or any of the subsequent medias. All rights go to James Cameron and the producers. 

Synopsis: After a few week in your new body the Sully kids and Spider take you out into the forest for the first time.

Neteyam X Fem!Avatar!Reader 6.8k 1st person POV

Y’know, Jake was right when he said that eventually everything becomes backwards when you have an avatar. Like out there is the real world and in here is the dream. I’ve only had this body for a few weeks and I already feel my sense of reality slipping from me. Time becomes blurred, days simultaneously feeling too short and too long at the same time. Every day I feel more and more like I belong out there, in the forest, and not here in the lab with Norm and Max. The first week was difficult, my new body weak and feet too pliant for the harsh peat of the forest floor. But, slowly, day by day I feel the calluses building and my muscles will themselves to go a little further. 

With the Sully children it's learn fast or be left in the dust. Hell, the first time I went to the forest with them I almost died. We had decided to take my first trip out, well actually out and not close to the cave entrance. Lo’ak led the charge and set out at breakneck speed and before long I was left behind with Kiri. Spider, Tuk, and him paid no mind as we disappeared from their view. Walking slowly, we were enjoying the forest's feast for the senses and Kiri turned to me with a strange expression.

“Why are you walking so slowly? You were faster on your first day.” She says, fixing me with a pointed look, even though she was clearly walking slower than me.

“Well it is a lot harder out here! I’m not exactly used to climbing giant tree roots and dodging excessively large plants.” I whine, annoyed that she dared to point out my slow speed. Stopping suddenly she spins around to point at me dramatically.

“Ah! Ah ah,” She tutted with a wag of her pointer finger, “you told me you were going to make the most of this opportunity. Taw, you are stronger than you think. If you want to thrive in this body, you must trust it. You have always been stronger than you think.”

While normally her words would have been extremely comforting I’m still sore about her comparison to my past self so I look to the side, pouting and refusing to answer. This only served to make her angry, which she quickly demonstrates by pulling harshly on my tail. Yelping in pain I open my mouth to respond before her fierce eyes train on me, quieting any verbal retaliation that I was hoping to attempt.

“(Y/N). Your spirit is very strong, and that is the most important part of someone. You have always been strong, despite your problems, and you need to realize that your outside now has that same strength. Trust your body. Here.” Kiri comes up behind me to place her hand on my stomach.

“Breathe. Feel the muscle, the bone. Feel its strength.” She instructs as I do as she says. Taking a deep breath I try to tune out the rest of the forest, turning my focus onto the muscles in my stomach. I feel tension rise in my abdominal muscles when she presses harder to illustrate her point. She gently removes her hand to grab mine and place it over my chest.

“Now, feel the heart beating here. Notice the sounds it makes. Your spirit lives here, and she is very strong. Feel how the strength starts there and flows down the rest of the body.” I gasp softly when my hand makes contact with the warm skin of my chest. I am surprised by the thunderous beat I feel below even through bone. It feels like the drum the people use for the many rituals and parties that take place in high camp. The beat of my heart reverberates through muscle and bone the way the air vibrates around the drum, taking the energy of the drum all the way to my little room in the lab. So too does this heart take this blood to my legs, imbuing them with life and power. As I focus on the beat I can start to hear it too, a distant thump in the blood of my ears. I don’t stop listening to its sweet rhythm until I am interrupted by Kiri nudging my arm. 

“Sit with me. I want to teach you something.” She commands me and points to a cleared area next to the tree we are standing on. I hesitate but ultimately decide to obey, sitting down on the soft moss and blades of grass that litter the forest floor.  Fixing me again with her intense stare she places her hands on her crossed legs and I mirror her.

“Oel ngati kameie. Do you understand what that means?” Kiri prompts and I almost roll my eyes. Of course I know what that means, I’ve literally heard it throughout my entire life, despite it never being directed at me.

“I see you. Yes, Kiri. It’s the most common phrase in the whole language, so uh- yeah.” I respond and look away from her eyes for a moment of reprieve from what I am starting to suspect is a lecture on ‘seeing’ myself.

“No. Wrong. Seeing is not looking. You do not understand because you do not see.” She says and flicks me between my eyes.

“Ow. Why are you flicking me? Of course I can see.” I whine and press two fingers over the spot she assaulted, massaging gently. She has had so many years of practicing her flicks on her brothers that her fingers are practically a deadly weapon at this point. I know that she doesn’t mean see like that, but I’m still irritated enough that I don’t want to give her what she wants. She hisses slightly and I can see the frustration on her face so I refocus and decide to actually listen to what she has to say.

“Taw. Seeing is not done with your eyes, it is done with your spirit. To see someone is to let go of the previous experiences you have had and to let them wash over you anew. When I say I see you, I mean the part of Eywa in me sees the Eywa in you. I see into you, your spirit and your kindness and I see the way we are connected. I see into you. I saw you when no one else did, and that is what I am asking you to do now. Do not see the forest as a dangerous place, see it as it is. It is the most wondrous creation of Eywa, and you are now a part of it. If you want to find a place in the clan, you must learn to let go of what has happened to you. You must also see your new self, to trust yourself as well as the forest. Do you understand?” Kiri finished the explanation with a gentle touch of her hand on my own. 

“I know but, Kiri, I’m not a part of this forest and I never have been. I can’t see because I am not a child of Eywa like you. I’m afraid there is no Eywa in me.” I speak my fear that I had been holding in since I took my first few steps in this body. The fear that I would be unable to connect with the world around me, despite aching deeply for a connection.

“Oh, (Y/N), you have always been one of Eywa’s children. You were born on this moon just like everyone else and Eywa’s heart beats in you as well. In fact, I feel that you may be closer to her than even some Na’vi I know.” Kiri comforts me in a soft whispering voice, looking into my eyes with tender sympathy.

“How? I can’t connect with her, I can’t visit the tree of souls, or even pray to her without feeling dirty and shameful.” I lament, shrugging my shoulders to try and hide how strongly the thought makes me feel.

“(Y/N), you don’t need those things to be connected with the Great Mother. I cannot explain it, I just feel her in you. Ever since you have been in this new body I have sensed that she grows closer to you everyday.” Kiri answers vaguely. I try to get her to explain, or at least to try to find words for what she feels but we are interrupted by the sounds of a branch snapping about twenty feet away from us. 

Kiri is immediately at high alert and brings a finger up to her lips to silence my many questions. My ear twitches at the sharp sound and I scramble up as silently as possible. Kiri nods toward a tree to our right and we both huddle behind it, looking around the trunk to where the stick had snapped. The hairs on the back of my neck start to stand when I see foliage rustingling in a way that looks like something is almost slithering through. Immediately I am sure it is a predator, I can tell by the way that the leaves shake that whatever is behind them is stalking us. Any prey animal would have run already, so we can rule out a yerik. Kiri is watching from the other side of the tree, gripping my forearm tightly with one hand and the other grips her hunting knife. We are almost stuck in place while the rustling comes closer, still skillfully hidden by the thick foliage. I can’t help the gasp that leaves my throat when a pair of yellow eyes locks with mine. 

“Nantang.” Kiri mutters as the viperwolf begins slowly moving forward, revealing it's hexapedal limbs one by one as it climbs over the stump it was standing on. I try to look away from the intense eyes but an invisible force causes me to stay rooted down. I am still staring at it when two other pairs of eyes join the first, causing Kiri to start pulling on my arm.

“They are out in the daytime… run! We must run, (Y/N)!” It takes only a moment before I am snapped out of my stupor and I take off after Kiri. The wind whips past my face as I jump over roots and plant, scrambling to catch up with Kiri. This causes the biggest one in the middle to come rushing after us, using its extra forelimbs to grapple over the ground around us. The wind is knocked out of me as the largest one slams into my back, its mouth wrapped around my tail yanking me to a stop and onto the forest floor. The next few moments are a blur as I wrestle with it, forcing my arm up under its throat to keep it from biting my face off. Kiri heard the sound I made when I went down and whips around, she shouts something but I can't hear her as the adrenaline has the blood pumping loudly in my ears.

Vaguely I register her calling out for Lo’ak as I wrestle with the largest of the viperwolves, its teeth sink into the flesh of my forearm and I cry out in pain as we roll over and over again. The other two viperwolves circle me and their packmate while Kiri yells something at me in Na’vi, but in my preoccupied state I can barely even  understand English. Eventually she yells one word in English. Catch.

She throws the knife towards me and it lands a few feet away. I use the arm that isn’t clamped between the viperwolves jaws like a vice grip to try to reach it. I stretch as far as I can go and my fingers only push it farther away from me. I strain against its gleaming fangs, which causes the flesh on my arm to tear slightly, but allows me to finally reach the knife. Gripping onto the leather handle I face the viperwolf. It releases my arm when my eyes meet its piercing amber eyes. The muscles on its face ripple as it lets out a loud snarl, fast as lightning it lunges toward my throat and my instincts kick in, sinking the knife up into the dip of its throat. It falls only a few inches from my throat and it thrashes a few times, horrific wet gurgling sounds leave its throat as I push it off of me. 

One of its packmates lunges towards me in retaliation, running on pure adrenaline I kick it squarely in its torso but before I have the chance to attack again with the knife now firmly in my grip an arrow whizzes past my face, landing in the torso of the poor animal. My gaze traces the arrows path and I spot Lo’ak between the trees. 

“Lo’ak!” Kiri shouts, and he readies his bow with another arrow, aiming it at the last viperwolf but it runs off after looking at its dead and wounded packmates. Lo’ak drops his bow to his side and runs forward toward us with Tuk chasing his heels. Spider follows a few feet away grabbing Lo’ak’s bow and calling out my name when he notices the crimson blood flowing down and pooling in several distinct spots around my feet.

“TawTaw are you okay?” Tuk says worriedly, rushing to my side and grabbing my injured arm. I wince and make a noise of pain when she grabs onto a part of the open gashes. She apologizes quickly and lets go, allowing me to hold the arm up to her.

“Yes, TukTuk I’m fine. It will scar, but nothing major.” I answer, my voice softer than I expect. Spider crowds around me and pulls my arm to him to examine it for a moment. He and Tuk ask a couple more times if I’m okay while I reassure them while her two siblings fuss in the background. Once he is sure that I’m okay he tries to lighten the mood.

“Yeah, Tuk. That’ll be like the coolest scar ever, right? Badass!” He says in an attempt to reassure her, placing a comforting hand on both our shoulders. I agree quickly and try to put a smile on my face to appease her. Before she can agree or disagree Lo’ak is storming over to us with an intense look of concern on his face. His eyebrows are furrowed and his mouth is in a downturned scowl when he opens it to speak.

“(Y/N). Are you okay? You need grandmother.” Lo’ak says, in a tone that's honestly more serious than I have ever heard him use.

“I can treat her, Lo’ak, like I said. She will be okay, many have suffered far worse.” Kiri assures him, placing a hand on his arm to calm him down.

“No! Grandmother needs to see her.” Lo’ak argues, eyes still wild with fear. I've never seen him look so scared before, and I saw the look on his face when he accidentally stuck Kiri with a poisoned arrow when they were just thirteen. He was really scared to go home after that, even though it was easily reversed with the help of Mo’at. I stand up, wobbling only slightly from my lightheadedness from my lack of adrenaline and the loss of blood. I  reach out to nudge his shoulder and he whips around to face me. Looking into his face he seems even more freaked out than I am at the moment. 

“Lo’ak I’m okay. Look I’m barely even bleeding, it will heal easily. And… thank you for protecting me.” I try to convey this while looking into his eyes. After I say this his ears droop and I can practically see the adrenaline leave his body. Again he surprises me with a fiercely protective hug, grasping onto my neck to avoid my hurt arm. I can feel his heart beating next to mine as I raise my arms to embrace him, enjoying one of his rare hugs.

“Okay. But, I still want you to see Grandmother. It’s not that I don’t trust Kiri to treat you, I just…” He whispers, trailing off as he lets go of my shoulders. Reluctantly I agree, knowing how hard headed he can be he will not let it go. Usually that would be just fine, but I didn’t really want the famed tsahik to know about how I almost got us killed by being dramatic about my new body. Tuk takes our embrace to mean it's time for hugs and practically jumps on me after he steps aside, carefully making sure to avoid my left arm. Silently I send thanks to Eywa for sparing my right arm, which is my dominant.

“We heard growling and Kiri yelling bad words. I was so worried.” She laments, squishing her face into my abdomen. Kiri steps back into the conversation, having sent the animals off to Eywa with a prayer with Spider trailing her like a much smaller shadow.

“We will head back. Grandmother will want to know what happened.” Kiri says, sheathing her knife back into its holster after wiping the blood of the creatures on a cloth. I can see Tuk visibly droop at this, obviously upset to miss out on a day of swimming and fun instead of the usual chores and training.

“No, Kiri, you go have fun with Tuk and Spider. Me and Lo’ak will go back. You rarely get time off, please enjoy it.” I insist and it takes a few more back and forths of arguing until Kiri relents and takes them to the intended destination, but not before rolling her eyes with a big fat dramatic sigh. While I had said the reason was because of Tuk and Kiri’s non-existent work-life balance, I really just wanted to talk to Lo’ak. He still seems shaken up from the attack and I want to address his worries in privacy away from his sisters and Spider, who would definitely tease him for caring so much about me. They have always thought it funny to tease him and imply that he cared for me more than a friend. I know that it would only make him more upset, causing him to retreat back into his tough guy shell. He needs a more gentle touch than any of the three can possibly provide him. While Lo’ak feigns being a macho unfeeling warrior he is really a sensitive soul. The trip back is silent and he jerks his head around at the slightest sounds, his body is rigid with tension like he expects something to jump out at us. 

“Lo’ak,” I start softly, placing a hand on his back and wincing when he jumps slightly. “Are you okay? We’re okay now. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing is wrong.” He responds curtly, refusing to look back at me. I sigh and shift my hand up to his shoulder, grasping softly causing him to stop dead in his tracks. 

“Lo’ak, c’mon, you know that I know you better than that.” I mumble softly and he finally looks back at me. I see a surprising amount of pain swimming in the depths of his eyes and his face sears itself into my eyes. With eyebrows drooping and his ears bending at and ears drooping lowly he responds.

“You could have died, (Y/N). If I wasn’t there you could have died. What would I have done if you had died on my watch? You have always been the only person in my life I knew was safe. The only person that I knew I could count on to come back to, the only one that this world couldn’t take. Now that you have this new body that isn’t a guarantee anymore and that… scares me.” He admits, looking away in shame at his words. My eyes sting as I realize what this is really about. My voice wobbles with emotion and my eyes grow misty as I try to respond to his words, struggling to find words that would comfort Lo’ak without dismissing his feelings.

“I know Lo’ak. This is scary for me too, but I need this. I can learn to protect myself. Hell, I killed a damn viperwolf! Shouldn’t you be proud of this meyp skxawng for that?” I finally get out, resorting to humor once again to avoid the big feelings that we are both laying out on the table. You see, me and Lo’ak have always been each other's constant. I was the only person in Lo’ak’s life that didnt see him as a fuck-up, the only one that he felt safe going to to cry. While we never talk about it (due to his usual attempts at stoicism), I have helped him through more than a few nights after Jake or Neytiri have really ripped into him hard. My joke seems to land when he smiles a little and nods.

“You are right. It was impressive that a useless baby like you could kill just one.” He says and his lips finally curl up back into their rightful place, into that signature smirk. I let out a faux offended noise at his comment and pushed his shoulder, telling him to shut up. I see the lines on his forehead disappear and can't help but mentally pat myself on the back for calming down my best friend. After a few more exchanges of friendly banter we continued on back to the clan, only stopping once when he let go of a huge leaf that flung backwards as I tried to stop it with my torn up arm without even realizing it. I got a few stares and sympathetic looks on the way through camp, but it was relatively uneventful until we stopped at the entrance of the healing tent.

I take a moment to prepare myself for what I am sure to be an endless barrage of questions. After taking a deep breath such as one would before jumping into water I step into the marui. Mo’at seems to be packing up some sort of tea into a small satchel. I catch the tail end of her instructions to the young man that looks to be not much older than me as he sits next to her, nodding dutifully along as Mo’at drones on. 

“... Let it brew for 20 minutes. Do not add anything. It is supposed to taste bad, you will deal with it.” She says looking him in the eyes and raising her eyebrows for a menacing effect. The young man looks away awkwardly and says thank you to her before shuffling out. Finally her eyes land on me and immediately go to my shredded arm. Her eyes slide back to mine and it's like I can feel palpable exasperation pouring out of them.

“Sit.” She commands and motions to the mat in front of her with the fluid sweep of her arms, adorned with a jeweled top that clinks as she moves. I gulp and hesitate before Lo’ak clears his throat, as if to tell me to hurry up. Hurriedly I sit down cross legged and hold my arm out to her as she greets Lo’ak with a hand, motioning down her face.

“What happened?” She asks, pulling harshly on the arm to adjust it so the light pouring in from the hole in the ceiling hits the still oozing wound. I try not to flinch as she turns the arm back and forth, trying to see both sides to assess the damage caused by the bite.

“Grandmother, Kiri and (Y/N)-” Lo’ak starts to explain before she cuts him off with the raise of her hand, silencing him effectively as the words die in his throat.

“I was asking her. Let her speak for herself.” She commands him and he shrinks back, going to sit in a darker corner of the marui.

“Well, Spider, me, Tuk, Kiri, and Lo’ak we’re headed out to one of the watering holes to swim and we got separated. They left me and Kiri behind and we took a moment to stop because Kiri said she had something she wanted to teach me. After we talked and meditated we heard a branch snap and then a pack of nantang jumped out and attacked us. Luckily, Kiri was faster so they didn’t hurt her. The biggest bit me and I had to defend myself before Lo’ak came and shot one of them…” I explain while she stares at me, showing absolutely no emotions, which only serves to terrify me. She says nothing so I continue rambling on.

“And I’m sorry. I had to kill one of them to stop it from doing this to my face instead. I do not know the prayers, so Kiri sent the animal off to Eywa for me.” I continue on before she raises a hand to stop me from word vomiting up more apologies. 

“How many nantang?” She asks, already pulling out some cloth and water to start cleaning each individual wound.

“Three. One large adult male and two juvenile males.” I respond, trying not to pull away from her harsh dabbing. She looks back to my face and tilts her head slightly, raising what would be her eyebrows in surprise.

“Hmmm.” She hums and I can feel my ears start to wilt under her scrutinizing gaze. “A sky person has not killed a nantang since Jake Sully. They do not usually attack in the day unless they are threatened. Did you threaten it?” She notes and starts grinding up a poultice to use on my skin, my nose twitches from the acrid smell so it takes me a moment to answer. 

“I think it was because I met its eyes. It was staring straight at me, I… I’ve never felt like that before.” I admit and she does nothing to respond except nod. Before long she is done with the poultice and starts to apply the goopy salve to my forearm. It stings quite a bit but I slowly relax into the pain, which is honestly not much worse than my normal days in my other body. While the burning pain is intense, it’s not anything I haven’t felt before. In fact pain is one of my longest friends, beating even the Sully siblings. She seems to notice and tilts her head inquisitively.

‘Does it not hurt? It is concerning if you do not feel the wound.” She looks at me expectantly and I shake my head.

“No, it definitely hurts. But I am very used to pain, so it does not bother me.” I almost mumble out my answer, trying to avoid her fiery gaze that is boring into my side profile.

“But you grew up in the lab, did you not? Why are you familiar with pain? Even my strongest warriors will complain about this salve.” She motions to the remains of the poultice in the mortar she used to grind it up, curiosity edging into her voice.

“Oh. Yeah, I forget that most people don’t know. My other body is… weak. There is something wrong with my legs, and they often cause me very intense pain.” I explain, using my hands to point at my blue legs. She chides me for moving my afflicted arm and pulls it back towards her to start wrapping it. She uses some unusual type of cloth to wrap around it a few times, securing the poultice to my skin.

“You are strong… for a lab rat.” She says in what I can only interpret as approval. Once again I somehow win approval from the hardest member of the Sully clan and my stomach feels like its flipping as I smile shyly at her compliment. 

“Thank you. And, thank you for treating me… and I really am sorry to have disturbed the balance of life without proper training, ma’am.” She waves off my worries, clicking her tongue in dismissal.

“It is fine. Now keep this on for a day and clean it thoroughly twice a day for a moon cycle. If it starts to burn or is hot to the touch, come back, or check in with Kiri. Now go, I must get ready for the returning hunting party. There is always an injury for me to tend to when they return.” She says dismissively, with such little expression that I cannot truly gauge her feelings on my actions in the forest. Lo’ak and I exit the marui, slowly shuffling out in tense silence. Once all the adrenaline wears off I realize I’m feeling pretty tired and just want to go home to my other body, this one is in sore need of a rest. Stopping Lo’ak I tell him I’m going home and thank him for taking me back, but insist that he can go now. He asks me a couple times if I’m sure and I assure him that I’m all good now and the walk back to the lab is very short. Finally he nods in agreement and we part ways. 

I take my time on the way back to the lab, trying to delay the inevitable scolding I will get from Norm and Max for my forest trip. As I stroll by the cooking area I take a deep breath, enjoying the scent and how empty camp is at this time of day. As I look around at the few people sitting outside I notice the screeching sounds of many ikran in the distance getting closer, signaling the return of the hunting party Mo’at mentioned. I walk to the edge of the cave mouth and watch the hunters as they return, noting how they all start lining up to carry the prey to the area where they butcher their prey. Among them I spot the tall figure of Neteyam. He seems to be instructing a few younger men and vaguely I wonder if he will be the one returning with a wound this time. I let out the breath I am holding when I note that his blue skin doesn't seem to be  marred by the crimson signature of an injury. 

It crosses my mind to wave to him or call out his name but I stop when he turns to one of the other young hunters and starts to discuss something with her. I continue walking past them and find myself sort of relieved at having successfully avoided him. We hadn’t really said more than two words to each other since our awkward dinner encounter. I’m not sure what it is but I just can’t bring myself to look him in the eyes since, unable to even think of how to apologize to him. What would I even be apologizing for, really? There's just something in those eyes of his that stirs something in me, they stir some part of me that I wasn’t even sure really existed. I’ve always felt like I am an animal in a cage, stuck, with everyone around me looking at me with pity and lingering distrust in their eyes. It is always one of the two. But when I look into his eyes, I feel like I am looking into the eyes of another animal in a cage all of his own. His duties form his own cage, making sure he does not take off in flight to get away from here. Much like me, many pass him with the same pity because of his harsh father, but instead of distrust it is fear that lingers after, fear of angering him or his powerful parents. However, when he looks at me it feels like he is seeing me, and me only, not my legs or my demon blood, just me. My pure soul untouched. Our cages fall around us, and there is only the other animals eyes boring into our soul. Such a tantalizing paralysis. I've never felt anything like that so it is obviously fucking terrifying to me, because I know that thought, that hope, which I will leave unsaid, is entirely impossible. 

I am lost in trying to find an apology for the next time I see him while I stand there watching that I don’t notice the first few times someone calls out my name. On the third time I hear it it finally registers that someone is actually calling out my name so I look around to see Neteyam waving me down. I hesitate for a moment and he waves a little faster, beckoning me to him as he waits by his ikran. Bracing myself for a moment, I begin slowly striding to him. As I approach I can see the agitated swing of his tail and the look of panic on his face.

“Hello, Neteyam. Is everything okay? Did something happen during the hunt?” I ask, finally sparing a quick glance into his eyes to see his reaction. His face morphs into a look of confusion and he shakes his head.

“No, no. I wanted to see if you were okay. What happened to your arm?” As he says this it makes me realize that most of the pain from the wound had actually subsided from the poultice. I will have to thank Mo’at for the care, maybe I will weave her a nice satchel, if Kiri can help me.

“Oh, yeah. Honestly I forgot about it for a minute, your grandma is such a talented tsahik that it barely hurts.” I offer up in response, too embarrassed to lead with the fact that I nearly got myself killed my first time outside of the Omaticayan stronghold. This only serves to make his grimace deepen and I can tell he is not satisfied so I continue on. “Your siblings, Spider, and I were headed to the swimming spot when me and Kiri got separated. She was helping me with some spiritual guidance when out of nowhere a pack of nantang attacked us, er well actually attacked me I guess. Luckily Kiri had her knife and Lo’ak showed up or I’m pretty sure I’d be running through a nantang’s guts right now.” His brows knit in concern when I finish my rambling explanation. “Oh, and don’t worry, I’m the only one that got hurt. Kiri was far enough ahead that they didn’t attack her.” 

“What? How many nantang? They do not usually attack during the day. Maybe I should warn father that there might be a pack of rabid nantang running around attacking people.” He says thoughtfully, rubbing his chin with his pointer finger and thumb. I can feel his eyes as they scan my body again to see if some new injury beside the one on my arm would mysteriously pop up.

“There’s no need. There were only three and two of them were killed in the fight. The other was scared off when me and Lo’ak defeated it's packmates. I doubt it will be back to the area anytime soon, and they did not seem rabid, just… hungry.” I say to try and ease the tensions that have gathered in his broad shoulders. I see them sink down for a second before perking right back up.

“You and Lo’ak? You killed one?” He asks and I get the feeling that he meant that he was impressed but the word kill instantly deflates any burgeoning pride I can feel. 

“Yes… I did not want to, but it was lunging for my neck. If I had hesitated any longer I would have…” I trail off and look to the side mournfully. I know that realistically Eywa and the clans members wouldn't blame me for my actions, but I feel like I've upset the balance of life in the forest without having learned the proper way of doing things. From watching Jake’s video logs I am aware that there are certain customs and traditions when it comes to the extinguishing of life in the clan. They did not even allow Jake to participate in hunts until he had proved himself as a member of the clan, something I have yet to do and have no idea how to accomplish.

“You need not worry, you were protecting yourself and my sister. Mother and father will know that and appreciate it, and so will the Great Mother…” Neteyam reassures me, and I let out a sigh of relief when he pointed out that I was also protecting Kiri. That’s definitely something that could help if Neytiri hears and starts to disapprove of me. I had only just gained her trust enough for her to allow her children to go places with me completely unsupervised. Plus it is a soothing balm for the guilt I’m feeling about it.

“I know, but it is still bothering me. I am not used to death and the flow of life I suppose. My world was so small, I feel unprepared for this huge new world.” I’m not sure why, but Neteyam makes it feel second nature to talk about the thoughts I haven't even shared with Kiri yet. Everytime I see him it’s like he does something to me that obliterates all of my self control and the waters of my thoughts flow through my mouth like rushing rapids. My normal defenses are no match for the charm of this gentle giant. Neteyam seems to chew on this for a few moments, gathering his thoughts into something easy to say. After a moment he places a large hand on my shoulder, something that seems to simultaneously ground and unnerve me.

“You will. You are brave, that much is clear to me. This world is large, but you will make yourself big as well. You have a desire to learn, and that is how you will do it. Learn well, Taw.” He responds and I am blown away by his confidence in me and the maturity of his response. Oh, and also the fact that he used my nickname. For a second it feels like he has stuck a live wire in me, electricity surging through me, making my heart beat loudly and my thoughts shift into overdrive. Placing a hand over my heart I try to quiet the cacophony of thoughts that attack me and I find myself saying a single word in question.

“Taw?” Is all I manage, almost breathless. Neteyam’s intense gaze falls and he starts to fidget, looking at the song chord at his waist. He fumbles with it to alleviate the nervous energy that is clearly filling him.

“Is it okay for me to call you that?” Neteyam asks, his voice unsteady and unsure. “It’s just… that is what my siblings have called you for a long time, so I thought you might like it if I also called you that. It suits you very well.” I cough a little from surprise and can’t help the smile fighting to show on my face. My tail almost wags for a second before I can still it.

“Yes. Yes, you can call me Taw… Just don’t call me TawTaw, Tuk might try to poison you. One time she tried to feed Lo’ak kllpxillw seeds after he called me that, even though they hurt his stomach. She is very protective of her special name for me.” I giggle as I tell the story, remembering the distinctly mischievous look on her face as she tried to hide the seeds in the dish they brought to eat at the lab with us. My story makes Neteyam let out a hearty belly chuckle, and he grins as he imagines the scene between his siblings. 

“Yes, she seems to be very protective of you in general.” He comments and opens his mouth to say more before a very irritated looking young man calls out Neteyams name from a distance away.

“Come on, man! We need help carrying these yerik. You can flirt with girls when you’re not on hunting duty!” He shouts across to us, his tail lashing back and forth in agitation. Neteyam’s grin drops and he rubs his temple soothingly, rolling his eyes at the voice.

“My apologies. That is my friend, Rinu. He does not have any manners. Thank you for the conversation, but I must go now. See you again, Taw.” Neteyam says his goodbye before setting off toward his friend. I let out a laugh at his friends before saying my own goodbye as he retreats. Taking a moment to recuperate from the second use of my nickname I start walking towards the direction of the lab again. Luckily I come back when Norm is out helping in his avatar so I am spared from one of his famous motherly sermons of being careful, instead I only get a small lecture from Max on the importance of being aware in the forest. He makes me promise to take one of Kiri or Lo’ak’s extra hunting knives next time before I lay down to wake in my new body.

A/N pt 2: Again thanks for all the love so far, and sorry if this part wasn't my strongest, I've been dealing with a lot so sorry if that same through my writing. Anyways I just wanted to share a piece of fanart I drew of Neteyam as Olo'eyktan while I had writers block. Enjoy!

@skeletondeerart @jackiehollanderr @anxietydrogz @farleyis @soleilmoon

[bohemian-nights]

I thought I had seen it all until I realized there were people who actually thought Laena killing herself in arguably the most painful way possible (burning to death) was okay. Not only was the way she died different from the book (still tragic btw) but also a lot more traumatizing. Making the decision to burn yourself to death really says something about your mental state (and the fact that this happens after she admits to Daemon she knows she’s his second choice 🥴).

This situation really traumatized everyone. Daemon who watched (not really Laena’s fault because she didn’t know he was there but still) her daughters Baela and Rhaena (losing a parent especially a mother is hard enough but to loose a parent by means of suicide is ten times harder) and then of course Laena herself who choose to burn to death!

It seemed as if through episodes 5-7 the writes weren’t sure whether they wanted Daemon and Laena to be happy together. Because you can see in a few scenes where Daemon and Laena genuinely look happy to be around one another and then there are others where they look miserable. Also another thing that bugged was how in the book after Baela and Rhaena are born Daemon returns to King's Landing to get the crown’s (Viserys’s) favor bestowed upon his children. Whereas in the show the last time Daemon has talked to let alone seen Viserys was ten years ago. It’s almost as if it was another subtle (but effective) way to say how Show!Daemon is constantly putting his pride above the betterment of his own family.

When it comes to Balea and Rhaena the way I've had to hyper analysis both (but especially Rhaena’s) body language in order to get a sense of their personality because they barely talk is infuriating. The way they are being used as arm candy is infuriating. Their relationship with Daemon is infuriating. We have not seen Daemon interact with daughters in six years. Not only that but one of those daughters feels as if he ignores her while he shipped the other one off to Driftmark (I know warding is a common thing in Westeros but when you take into account Daemon’s relationship with his daughters it really makes him appear more shitty).

His relationship with Laena was also so poorly portrayed. Not only did it serve no purpose but to make Daemon look like a ass but it also made Laena (a black women) seem like the miserable second choice (to the white woman).

If that was infuriating/disappointing enough after her death (that he very traumatized by) he not only fucks Rhaenyra but also marries her. Laena and Harwin both just died. Laenor (who Rhaenyra claimed to love) just lost his sister, Balea and Rhaena their mother, and Jace and Luke (Joffrey too but he’s too small to understand) their biological father.

Speaking of Laenor I was not of a fan of how they made him appear to be a druken bum who abandons the children he swears he loves (especially since said man is a black man🙄).

Yeah, they loved it and thought what she did was okay and bada** and yah know not 100% because she was likely severely depressed herself/out of her mind from a difficult labor because they wanted Laena out of the way for their ship(in large part due to racism).

Yes, Laena dies in the book(s), but she dies with her husband by her side after he helps her ride on the back of Vhagar one last time per her wishes. She’s loved by him. She’d never traumatize him or their children because she's not some poor pitiful unwanted woman. They cut that out in favor of “let me go light myself on fire because my husband doesn’t love me.”

The treatment of Laena by the showrunners and the fandom is so foul considering how before her race-bending people said that she was Daemon’s most beloved wife(and the woman he loved the most cause they liked to pretend that Nettles was just lust). People acknowledged her importance to him, but since she became Blackish she was his second choice and Daemon never loved her as he did Rhaenyra(the woman he ended up choking out after she gave birth and will eventually abandon in favor of the actual woman he loves but I’m getting ahead of myself 😗).

Her relationship with Vhagar(a literal dragon) was her most important relationship. Or it’s so sad that we didn’t get to see Rhaenyra and Daemon slobbering on each other as Laena sat back and watched I mean it’s sad that we didn’t get to see Laena worshiping Rhaenyra I mean it’s so sad that Laena and Rhaenyra didn’t happen(little evidence for that it happened in the book). That’s what we should really be focusing on.

Who cares about her relationship with Daemon or her girls(which Rhaenyra’s rachet fans like to claim as hers because Queenie gave birth to a lizard and Laena was the only one who actually gave Daemon daughters. So they cope by saying Baela and Rhaena are her legacy and not show!Laena who birthed and raised them). Laena’s such a bada** 🙃

Sadly because of the fandoms meth induced delusions, I mean 100% canon observations/commentary on how Dumbnyra are soulmates and Daemon changes for Rhaenyra his one true love didn’t pan out how they wanted to(choke gate was instant karma🤣), they still harp on about Laena even though she’s second choice.

The show screwed Laena and her girls all the way over and the fandom used that to further their delusions. It’s not okay, but there is still hope for Baela and Rhaena and in the end, they've done a crap job with all the characters(so I feel a little less salty about the situation).

(I do hope that Daemon acknowledges how he didn’t treat Laena how he should’ve to them and says that he was distant because they reminded him too much of her. Again it’s not okay, but a conversation like that is needed).

Laenor’s characterization🫠 The only reason why they didn't kill him off(and why they made him into a “deadbeat”) is that they wanted to make Rhaenyra look better. It looks extremely bad to have her ordering her husband's death(or if she turns a blind eye to Daemon murdering him) so that she could marry Daemon.

Allegedly he’s going to die off-screen this season so that whole plotline was done solely to protect Rhaenyra’s image.