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blackoutspoetry · 8 months

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CROSSROADS

GLASGOW, SCOTLAND

March 29, 2019

In a gentler reimagining of his life, John MacTavish might have had better prospects at the age of twenty-five.

If life had seen it fit, he would have stayed true to his faith, married a good woman and settled down somewhere in the Scottish highlands, not far from his parents. Not far from his roots.

He had the desire for it, really. He tried everything in his power to fit that mould. Before he’d even properly grown, he’d looked himself over and painstakingly cut away the parts of him that did not belong to that good catholic boy his mother raised, stitched on parts artificially outsourced that fit better.

He spent years curating the idea of John MacTavish. Close cropped hair, bright smile, perfect teeth. Always faithful, never curses, the good boy his mother raised him to be.

He’s not stupid, though. The body can be edited. Things cut off, sloppily sewn on, perfect teeth painted in place of those crooked ones he’d needed braces for, but the mind can’t be fooled into forgetting its own reflection.

He can paint himself in whichever light he wants, but he’s learned that some men are born with an intrinsic deficiency in their bones, a sickness.

So he honours that sickness, instead of plugging the rotting holes in his bones with cigarette butts and folded receipts, he lined his ribs with dynamite.

He rigged himself to blow the day he signed his name away, fresh faced, sixteen, already much too cocky for his own good. A bit spry, too much of a livewire for his COs.

Exactly the way they want a boy to be before they train him into obedience like a dog.

He didn’t mind that training. He’s gone through enough sculpting as a teenager to make him into the perfect blank slate to impose a soldier’s death wish onto, and once he’d managed to get into basic, he knew it was time to cut and carve those undefined muscles into the sculpted body of a strong man. A man who would make more of a difference in life than poster boy, skew teeth, watered down Scots MacTavish.

He’d always been a half assed, bastardised version of the boy he was raised to be, so maybe he could excel at being something else of his own choosing, if he willingly let himself over to the system and handed them the knife to take and stitch on as they pleased.

He abandoned all measure of value he used to have to his old life, but there’s still a lingering bit of that Catholic wisdom there, he still counts his blessings, he still prays for fallen friends.

On his mother’s insistence, he carries a small metal cross on a ball chain necklace, similar to the one of his dog tags, though this one had been around longer than the latter. He’d worn it since the day he signed those papers at sixteen, a small consolation to his distraught mother that could do nothing but watch as he turned himself into a pawn in a much larger, scarier game than she would ever be able to comprehend.

At first, he hated the way it itched against his skin, odd angles pressing in and leaving sunken reliefs in his chest when he slept at night, waking to a warning red mark pressed into his skin in that familiar cross shape. He hated the way it felt under his shirt, but he learned to love it as time went on, learned to stop seeing it as a tether to a past life after a while, and more of a reminder that there was something more than warfare out there for him, that there was something somewhere to come home to, for all it was worth.

He’d lost his religion as a teenager, but those first few years, all the lives he’d taken and the friends he’d lost on the way pushed him to find solace somewhere.

It's funny, really, how easy it is to hate something that once was a staple food of your childhood, how easy it is to shy away from what had seen you through your formative years. He’d abandoned it that day, with paper and cheap ballpoint pen and determination in hand, used the abandonment of it to draw a clear line in the sand to mark off where his youth ended and his adulthood began.

But then the dramatic irony lies in the journey back to the table, when the body has dissolved the muscle and destroyed itself in that fasting period. Because no matter how far you stray from your roots, the mouth is forever bound to the sweetness of that meal served in childhood, no matter how nauseating it had been in those days.

It finds comfort in the familiarity, and the taste once despised becomes closure, in famine, through hardship.

So even when he’s no longer willing to go on, he keeps that chain on, letting that cross sit next to his dog tags because he’s become accustomed to the comfort it brings him. His old life cast in metal, and his new life beside it, pressed into it in name, in rank, in blood type.

It is like this, with the weight those two chains carried leaning as a palpable feeling over his heart, that he has to make a decision.

He and a man he thought he might never see again, were seated in a booth at a small, packed coffee shop in the heart of Glasgow.

There are more papers on the table now and he scans them through once more, a second time, a third and waits for the waitress to serve them their coffee before he asks the man across from him a question that might have seemed redundant, but served a very specific purpose in his mind.

He made somewhat of a promise to his mother the last time he’d seen her, that he would avoid playing hero and running into fire when it could be avoided, and Captain John Price, the man that had arranged for them to meet here after years of not speaking, was asking him to do exactly that.

“This Makarov guy, he’s dangerous?”

Price chuckled a bit as he stirred sugar into his coffee.

“He’s dangerous, alright.”

“And no one else can do this?”

Price shook his head with a solemn no, but there must have been someone up for the challenge, someone that didn’t chain themselves too much to a past that no longer suited their lifestyle.

“There’s a few that might be up for the challenge, but it's been years and I haven’t seen a single soul be able to do what you do. They don’t call you Soap for nothing.”

That was perhaps only a partial truth, because Soap is sure he’s not the only sorry soul Price has ever had the privilege to see go to hell and back without crumbling under the pressure. But there was a reason for it, though, the name. That might be exactly why Price had come to him and not anyone else, though.

He knows how he is, he trusts Soap, and the fact that he needs someone reliable, that he knows will be able to do the job, tells him all he needs to know.

Price was eliminating margins of error and he needed someone he knows for certain won’t screw it up.

He’s not going to pretend that the implication doesn’t knock his ego up a notch, but he won’t say it out loud.

Still, he’s hesitant. If the man’s actually as dangerous as Price is insinuating, he’ll be breaking that promise, and if there was one thing he valued well over government orders, it was loyalty to his family, no matter how distant they were from each other.

“I’ll need a bit to think about it.”

“Well, you better make that decision fast, because the situation’s much more time sensitive than it looks on paper. If Makarov manages to achieve what we suspect he’s planning, we could be looking at a world scale disaster.”

“Shit,” Soap murmured, looking down at the dark swirl of his coffee and finding his own clueless reflection looking back at him. He needs to do this job, just this once, and then he can go back to honouring his mother’s wishes by trying not to get himself killed too eagerly.

As if that’ll hold up that long in this line of work anyway, but he supposes agreeing to it and sticking with it for as long as possible puts her mind to rest more than leaving it in fate’s hands.

Instead of looking at his unsure expression longer than he needs to, he dumps milk and sugar in and begins to drink it, despite how hot it is. He just needs an excuse not to make that decision this very second.

“Do you have anyone else in mind for the job that would be going in with us?”

It's a filler question, he knows this and he’s sure Price does too, but Price humours him with a proper answer.

“I have. Now, the information about this situation’s controlled to a tight circle, one that you are now a part of,” Price begins, he checks over his shoulder and around the space of the coffee shop to see if anyone might be listening in, but the mingling of the voices and the retro eighties track they’ve got playing on the speaker puts his mind at ease that no one is listening in at this hour of the morning.

Soap looked out the steamed window and onto the windswept street outside, raised his coffee to his mouth again.

“So far I’ve got two people on this. Unless you agree to this, I can’t divulge any names, but I’ve got someone overseeing the operation and another guy that goes way back with me, a lieutenant I trust with my life,” he goes on to explain in somewhat of a hushed tone.

Soap felt something in his chest tighten. Something about this felt off. Call it intuition or his sixth sense, or even divine intervention, something about this situation made it seem like this choice would have far more impact on the rest of his life than Price was making it sound like.

He owed his life to Price and in a past that wasn't quite as distant as he wanted it to be, he'd have jumped at this opportunity in a heartbeat, but he's stuck between two worlds now.

What he says here now would carry just as much weight and be just as legally binding as those papers he signed at sixteen.

But as the thought occurs to him, Price adds in a dire tone, “listen here, Soap. This guy, Makarov, he’s a snake.”

Soap looked down at the file again, the photo pinned to it. There’s a recognisable darkness in the man’s eyes, like he’s hollowed himself out to be a vessel for violence and it seems to seep from every pore in his body in a metaphysical way. On a surface level, he was underwhelming, but he knows that look when he sees it.

It's the same look he worries he’ll find one day in the mirror and it sends a chill down his back.

“He keeps himself hidden, but if you do enough digging you’ll find him tangled up with almost every single international shitshow that I’ve been working on over the past five years, some of them you've been a part of. He gets other people to do his dirty work for him, finances, executions, minor scale attacks on things that seem inconsequential, but there’s a pattern. He calculates everything to the fucking T. So I need you to know I wouldn’t be asking this of you unless I really needed to, and I am not sure I know anyone else who would be able to pull this off.”

Soap gritted his teeth and locked eyes with Makarov on the paper, looking up at Price.

"You're not giving me much of a choice here, sir."

"Course I am. You can choose to do this and save the life of countless innocent people, or, you can decide not to, and run the risk of this very moment being responsible for a child's entry into the foster system, the choice is yours."

Soap gritted his teeth, hand coming unconsciously to clutch at one of the two chains around his neck at a terrible attempt at grounding himself. He doesn't know which one it is when he says, "fine. I'm in."

Price gives a self assured little smile, tips his head in Soap's direction before taking a sip of his coffee like he's just landed himself a good deal. Soap doesn't know whether to be offended or impressed with himself at the idea that Price considered his compliance a win.

One again, he looks down at the papers on the table, frowning at the text, though his mind is reeling too much to really take any of it in.

"Just for the record, how off the books is this little charade really?"

"What made that idea come to mind?" Price asks, intonation flat, but still as though he expects what Soap is about to say.

Soap swept a hand to gesture at the space around them, all the way from the olive green back wall their booth was propped up against, across where the kitchen was behind a closed wooden door, the counter with the pastries in the glass cases and the empty tables by the windows. Even now, they're seated in a position where the security cameras wouldn't be able to properly pick out what they're looking at and they're far enough from the barista that she wouldn't be able to hear them either.

"Just have a feeling that discussing a high stakes op at the asscrack of dawn in a coffee shop with a man who's supposed to be on leave isn't exactly the proper way to go about things."

Price grimaced with a little bit of a shrug.

"Wouldn't say it's off the script, but if we're talking about records, I'd say half the things we discussed here won't end up in the mission report. So we're playing by all the rules, but we keep it off the table for anyone else to see. Never know if Makarov's got a songbird among our men."

This piqued Soap's interest. "You're worried about a spy?"

"He's Russian."

"Aye, that's a stereotype, sir." Soap raised an eyebrow as he down the rest of his coffee like an espresso shot. It doesn't have the kick he needs from it in order to settle the nerves in his stomach.

"Stereotypes are somewhat rooted in truth, sergeant."

"So when is this thing actually happening?"

"The 6th."

Soap's eyes widened. "That's almost a week from now. I'm still on leave until the fifteenth."

"Well you better make a plan to explain to your mother why you're heading back so soon."

Damn it. The chain itches against his neck.

"Alright then. Now that I'm on this, who else is in on it?"

Price lowered his voice. "As you expect, I'm not the top of the food chain here. If I'm going to be really honest with you, I'm only here to speak to you specifically because General Shepherd trusts my judgement."

"Shepherd?" Soap raised an eyebrow. "And your other man?"

Price looked a bit uneasy. "We go way back, I'm sure you've heard of him. Simon Riley?"

Soap shook his head. "Doesn't ring a bell, sir."

"Well then, perhaps you'll know him as Ghost."

You can find it on ao3 here:

#soapghost #call of duty #fanfiction #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #cod #this fic is on ao3 #ghoap #the anatomy of starved dogs

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yiga-hellhole · 7 months

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TFTK CHAPTER 19: TWILIGHT KING'S REVERIE

there's some real utena type shit happening here i think (special thanks to @orfeoarte for the lettering and also the beta reading!!)

CHAPTER 19 IS DOOONE thank you all for your patience. this time we're diving into the depths of zant's mind again. what's he thinking about so soon before (what may be) his final battle? well, read and find out!

AAAAGGHH I'm sooooo excited to drop this chapter!! I've been looking forward to writing it ever since i started making this fic into a full-length, multi-chapter story!! i really hope you'll enjoy it. thanks again to @bulgariansumo and orfeoarte for giving it the once-over!

CW this chapter: Suicidal ideation, self harm, graphic violence. once again past the three asterisk *** mark the chapter gets erotic undertones, but with high plot relevance, i hope you'll give it a look either way!

ao3 mirror

“If there is anything you desire, then I shall desire it, too.”

So spoke the colossal face before him. Zant stood there, frozen in a gaping stare as this massive, golden specter hovered before him. He had run to this balcony to shout his woes to the skies, losing himself in flagellant grief, in the fragile hope enough beatings would keep his anguish at bay. Perhaps if he cried out long enough, something would answer. Either something that would, by some miracle, save him from his predicament…

Or, more likely, grant him the willpower to fling himself off the balusters.

Yet, when he raised his face, the dreary ombre skies were nowhere in sight. Instead, there was a swirling, black orb blotting out the clouds, droning deeply to chatter his teeth in their sockets. It swallowed him whole.

After bidding him that promise, the sea around him shifted. From its depths, a shadowy hand surfaced to part the waves. It reached out to him, claw outstretched. Large, sharp enough to impale him with a single prod, yet Zant felt not a scrap of fear. He knew all it would do was fulfill its words. The tip of its finger touched his forehead. Souls touched, one so, so grand, dwarfing his, and chained together. Through this tether, a bolt of power crossed, and shook him to his core.

It was euphoric, a pure, blinding bliss as this being of pure magic entered him. He was his savior, his guardian angel, watching over him in his darkest moment and deciding He would help. With every breath, foggy ambrosia filled his lungs and leached into his veins. It clouded his thoughts, dulled his every sense, and smothered it all with a warm, tingling numbness. He had never felt more full, yet emptier all the same. His every nerve coiled in on itself – had he any breath to utter it, this ecstasy would have unlodged a whimper, to echo into this space of all spaces. Whatever being he had just communed with, it was in him and snaked its way into his every inch. One finger twitched, then another, until his hand moved on its own. With tenderness he didn’t know rested within his flesh, his thumb stroked past his, their, cheek, and rid it of its tears.

In this single second, he felt more divinity than he’d ever had, in all his years praying to his lesser gods in the palatial temple. How he wandered the wastelands clutching and clacking beads in search of a solution to their plights. What he worshiped then were mere vestiges compared to this all-encompassing force, little pieces of holiness his forebears dragged with them in tatters when they were condemned to this dying world. That world that had gurgled its last breath in its septic lungs before they’d even entered it, and hacked and coughed it out as they made their home there.

This Being – Ganon – laughed within him, His manic glee spreading through him like a rot. There was no doubt about it; true, pitch-dark malevolence had made him its host, a being of pure vengeance that tangled with his own as if by fated embrace. But even as his mind darkened, a faint glimmer shone, kindled there by his own hand.

Hope.

More hope than he had ever felt in his life. This was no mere ancestral spirit. Far more, even, than a curse. This was a God.

Just as he adjusted to this new force, convulsing and embracing himself, true darkness shrouded him again. When the haze cleared, he did not find himself on the balcony. Instead, he was hovering in the air, looking down at a most familiar scene. There stood Ganondorf, heaving in pain against the Master Sword lodged in his chest, facing two beings of Light that antsily waited for him to die. Zant knew they needn’t wait much longer.

Zant blinked, tilting his head curiously. The man below him winced, but did not perish. Watching the dreadful stillness at his feet, he spoke. “Why did you bring me here again? Are you truly so fond of dying?”

He spoke off-script. The illusion broke, the curtains of their stage torn, not drawn. Ganondorf growled, gazing at his clenched fist that bore a faintly glowing mark, until it did not. “This is the moment I first wished to seize my power back from you. This time I will not fail.”

Zant smiled as he watched his flesh-made God raise his hand toward him. “Once, I may have said you would have to wrench it from my cold, dead hands, but even then, you did not manage it. It is time that you learn, Demon King, that this power is mine and mine alone. As is this vessel. And they shall forever be!”

The illusion broke when he descended, landing before the towering man and grasping the grip of the burrowed sword in his hand. A wet giggle escaped him as he tested the blade, watching as it dug deeper into the gaping wound in Ganondorf’s chest. Ganondorf growled, cutting his laughter short with a fist clenching around his throat, but only enabling his amusement. Such violence begged for retaliation! Both hands wrapped eagerly around the grip and pushed. The master sword sunk deeper into Ganondorf effortlessly, earning him a wheeze of pain, and a once-king before him on his knees.

Zant kicked him over, straddling his chest with the sword before him. His fingers trailed up the blade — just as sharp as he’d remembered it, slicing through his fingertips and blending their streaks of blood. Just that little bit of unity could be indulged, he supposed.

“No wonder the Ganondorf who torments me now remembers me so little. The piece of him that knew of my vengeance has rested right here, with me, all this time,” he giggled, sentimentally holding a hand over his chest. “And now, here you are. Does it vex you?”

He could only laugh at the burning hatred that glared up at him. Hands grasped over his, attempting to pull the sword out that he so playfully kept pinned down into him. The grip would break his fingers awfully soon, but Zant didn’t care. He had to make this perfectly clear.

“You have passed your torch, old man, and will walk the living world no longer. The only one to control this body now, is me!”

Zant wrenched himself free and grinned toothily as Ganondorf frantically pulled at a sword that would not move. Odd-angled fingers ignored, he grasped his head in both hands, cackling in pleasure and pain, and twisted.

A dream… A memory? Oh, only if it were.

He awoke in a bed that was not his own, but at this point, it may as well have been. Still sheltered from the sun, he lay buried under the covers, with merely the crown of his head poking past the cloudy white, duck-feather comforter. So dreadfully cold it was in the North this time of year… And how warm he lay here now, with steel knees tucked against his bottom and an arm draped lazily around his chest. The dark beneath the blankets kept him in that fluffy, hardly-woken daze, leading him to think with instincts first, and rationality second. He grasped the hand that laid across his stomach, and with his eyelids fluttering back shut, ran the pads of his fingertips along his beloved’s. No longer as cool as they were during the day… Ghirahim’s skin always warmed, bit by bit, whenever he’d join him for a night, only growing their old frigid when pursuing some pastime or other while Zant lay sleeping.

His thumb quested further, stroking across his glossy nails, before finding the tops of his fingers. Each was diligently inspected, rubbing from knuckle to knuckle. He could visualize those hands behind his eyelids just from touch, by now. How delicate and elegant they were, not a callus in sight, even if he bore the brunt of much labor, and tore through so many in bloodshed. He could drift away again like this, lacing their fingers together, and inching back to nestle closer to him. How much time until dawn, he wondered?

Lips that pressed into his shoulder shook him into a wide-eyed stare, his cheeks growing hot. His private little moment of affectionate touches was not so private after all… Not when he remembered Ghirahim did not sleep and was perfectly aware of his fiddling.

Ghirahim hummed, voice hushed as he spoke. “Another nightmare?”

A tight, joint-popping stretch of his spine and legs forced a groan from him, settling him back in his arms soon after. “Oh, not at all. I found myself in the loveliest dream,” Zant yawned.

Ghirahim huffed behind him, unconvinced. “You’re certain? You sounded tormented.”

His hand laid over his, Zant peered over his shoulder, smiling contentedly. “How could anything come to haunt me, when I am protected like this?”

This answer pleased him. “Come to me, my lover,” Ghirahim purred, tugging him closer into his embrace. His fingers now pressed firmly into the supple skin of his stomach – surely, how fiercely such a term flushed him did not pass his notice, clearly felt in the arteries of his gut. “Haha! You asked me to call you such, and now, you fluster?”

A whine escaped him, prompting him to burrow further into his pillow. “To hear it fills me with such glee, Ghirahim-ili. I cannot help it.”

Yet his escape did not prove fruitful. Wherever he hid himself, the heat at his back pulled him back into their intimate contact. Zant was captivated, then, by how warm his core felt, how each churn of energy sent a buzz up his spine that made his face heat up all the brighter. Ghirahim seemed not aware of this, but that enigmatic gem, his heart, his brain, his soul, it made a sound. Like a knife being sharpened, dragged against whetstone as a bow and violin – a crystalline hum. Zant needed only to listen to gauge his mood these days… That is, if the demon could stop being so enamored with the sound of his own voice, to let him hear that telltale song.

Through his musings, Ghirahim held him, cheekily grasping at his breast in the hope of evoking a laugh in them both. Hands that wished to hold, that wished to be held, made part of something greater than himself.

Were he to linger in them any longer, he was sure to never rise. How lovely, how adored! His heart fluttered to and fro like a songbird caught in a cage, and his body reacted all the same. Besieged by a fit of giggles, Zant kicked his feet and wrestled his way out of his embrace. Once he sprung free from that iron grip, he launched himself across the bed, stanced on all fours as if Ghirahim might pounce him any moment. If his heartbeat, sending the blood racing through his ears, was to be believed, he would.

For a moment too bewildered to speak, Ghirahim stared at the grinning creature across him. He grit his teeth in a smirk of his own, before hunching down to prowl towards him. Zant darted from his advance, leaving the sword spirit to thud face-first into the sheets behind him. Sanding down his skills for the fun of it, surely! Else he would have caught him!

Ghirahim huffed, meeting his panting and snickering with a pout. “How juvenile. Pray tell, how old are you again?”

He clawed himself forward twice in a crawl, again playfully scurrying away, until the question prompted him to think. How long since their advance..? What day did he die? 8496 turns of the Twilit Hourglass, three-hundred-sixty-five turns of the Sun in this odd world. Side-by-side, how many days apart, would be…

Zant blinked in their little stand-still, pulling free from his absent gaze. “Ah. Twenty-nine, as of two weeks ago.”

A quizzical expression crossed Ghirahim’s face. Did such a number mean anything to him, he wondered? Would he think him young or old? But he had little time to pick apart what he might be thinking. For soon Ghirahim grew bored of internal queries, and was upon him in a flash, tumbling the both of them back into the pillows.

After the protesting squeaks were over with, Zant relented. Now happy to be huddled up with him again, Ghirahim questioned him. “Is the passing of another year not typically celebrated among Twili?”

Zant groaned in thought, squinting his eyes shut. Idle hands drummed on the back splayed across him. “It is, but what a pointless affair it would be. Who would I celebrate it with?”

“What about me,” Ghirahim cooed, prodding a finger at his hostage’s cheek.

“Tracing the days back, I’m sure on the day itself you were once again in my quarters, sharing my company. This, I am plenty content with.”

Such an explanation seemingly bored the Sword Spirit to no end, with how it made him sigh and sink further into the blankets. Zant supposed he was always more of the lavish type, and would not be sated by an answer so sappy and mundane. Perhaps he could think of a gift of sorts to neg him for, but for now…

“We have lingered enough. I would much prefer to dress myself before the sun rises any further. After all, Master needs us to accompany him to the desert sooner than later,” he sighed, nudging at the heavy form atop him to hopefully shake him into action a bit. Zant was perturbed by the gaze that caught onto his. For once, Ghirahim was called to duty and met it with reluctance.

Their arrival at Gerudo Desert was one of eerie calm. Ganondorf awaited them by the gates, watching bemusedly how his chamberlains fussed over the supplies necessary for what would only be a short stay. In warping together, they would have to combine their powers. One hand for each lieutenant, he reached out for them to accept in open palms. A rustle, a chime, a blaring hum – all overlapped in a striking chord. In an instant, the Temple was out of sight.

Zant reflexively wheezed when the new scenery came upon him. Oppressive heat, smothering him from all sides. The dark shelter of his helmet only offered some respite from the dry, sweltering air that crept in through his visor slots. How he cursed the possibilities of an ambush, forbidding him from dressing lightly!

Permitted by Ganondorf’s advance, the pair of lieutenants turned, watching the Gerudo traverse the sands that led to the city gates mere paces away. To once again be in the desert, watching him march to his goal in this sea of gold, evoked a memory of not long ago. But when the world around him looked far, far different.

—

Weightlessly he hovered in this void expanse, knowing not how long, remembering not how to even care for such a thing. Beckoning again beyond the veil, stirring him from the deepest of slumbers, a shimmer of gold plucked at the strings of his soul. The Sorceress again? It couldn’t be. This was its own power, dark and primordial, of which a mere echo once lingered within Cia. He recognized it, he…

The golden light raced past him now, enveloped him like curtains had been drawn. With a ragged gasp, dry, warm air filled his lungs once more. The tips of his fingers, his ears, his cheeks, all felt red hot with the newly returned sensation of pumping blood. He was alive again.

Before him, there he stood, fulfilling his promise of centuries past.

Ganondorf, King of Thieves, King of Demons.

Yet, this was a different man. The thrum of past power confirmed it. Somewhere, the beaten and defeated fury of an older Ganondorf still weakly snarled from the very void he was just ripped from. A realization struck them both at the same time, causing one to smile, and the other to recoil. Where his supposed God had failed to revive him, his descendant did so without persuasion.

Whether from his weakened legs, or the force before him commanding it so, he fell forward into a kneel. Ganondorf approached but Zant could not muster the strength to raise his head and witness more than his boots. He felt his fingers shake in their sleeves. With the shouting in his mind, he couldn’t possibly bear to look at both of them at once.

“Shadow Lord Zant, Demon Lord Ghirahim. I have released you from the bounds the Sorceress has placed upon you, and with it, freed you from your imprisonment. From this moment forth, you will follow my every command. Your life is in my hands as the Demon King, and I will snuff it out when I see fit.”

Ganondorf paused, scanning the pair before him with burning eyes. This descendant was forceful. He did not arrive with bribes and promises, he demanded subordination within seconds.

Seemingly satisfied with the lack of protest thus far, he continued. “The Triforce of Power was stolen from me by the Sorceress’ former half. I enlist your military prowess to assist me in this campaign to seize it.”

Something was missing… Zant realized it, as did the man clawing at the back of his eyes. Only then did the Twili dare lift his face some, to study for an additional spark of austerity, or some telling that he was to be beaten more thoroughly into submission.

Nothing. There was none at all. Ganondorf glared them both down equally.

How very interesting… This Ganondorf remembered him in name and power only, but not the feud that tied him and his predecessor together for all eternity. Did the shock of death rid him of the memory of his betrayal? Such ignorance could only work to his advantage. If this reborn Demon King needed a servant, he could certainly play the part. What did he have to lose? Arisen anew, he couldn’t let this opportunity to have Hyrule at his feet slip through his fingers again. This third chance could be his last.

The man beside him was clearly much less amicable to the idea. Ghirahim, as he was introduced, had not moved a muscle since surfacing from the gate beside him, his features tightened into a scowl. Zant looked on curiously as the pristine white being burst into laughter.

“Perhaps Cia will be desperate enough to beg for your alliance, but I will not. How low the Sorceress has sunken!”

A peculiar energy buzzed forth from this man, lashing out angrily as his hair bristled and his fists clenched. “You dare to bear the title of Demon King? You are but a mere human! In what realm do demons bow to mortal men!?”

Hands threw up in the air, massive pupils narrowed to slits and his teeth bared in aggression. Certainly an animated character. “It is an insult… A disgrace to my Master! I’ll have your head for such a transgression!”

With a snap of his fingers, a rapier was summoned in the Demon’s hand, but before his fingers could fully curl around its grip, Ganondorf burst toward him like lightning. A swift strike of his fist sent Ghirahim tumbling, skidding through the dust. He came to a halt by the Demon King’s hand, who had gripped his throat with golden-clawed fingers. Sword lost in the dust a few feet away, Ghirahim was powerless against the mighty hand of the Master slamming him into the ground. A choked groan rang from his throat with each impact, his struggles in vain. He was pounded once more into the sand, and Ganondorf held him pinned there, leaning over him with a growl. Ghirahim kicked his legs in a show of defiance, until suddenly, he went still. Even beyond the kicked-up dust, Zant could see it. From his left hand, a faint golden glow shone through his gauntlet – empty but waiting, matching the deep black aura that wafted from him like licking flames.

“I have no use for a peon that will not obey me,” Ganondorf snarled, pulling Ghirahim closer to his face before dropping him to the ground. “I will not warn you again, Blade.”

Zant followed him with his gaze as Ganondorf marched back to his former place. Their eyes met briefly, gold stumbling upon gold, and in an instant, that familiar scowl drilled into his consciousness. The same man, but not quite… Yes, with such a display of power, he’d decided. It was in his best interests to have this Ganondorf trust him. And so, he smiled at him in return, bowing his head in respect of his Master. Ganondorf grunted and continued his march, setting out for the tents that stood in the shade at the edge of the desert.

“My home has been ravaged by vermin in my absence, and I intend to reclaim it. I expect you to join me in my tent for reconnaissance. Should you refuse, I will not hesitate to crush you along with the rest of the intruders.”

After nodding affirmatively, Zant turned again to where his fellow to-be commander was left, and found him sat up, panting and clutching his chest. He stared out in front of him but his mind was someplace else. Curiously, he approached him, cocking his head. He could only guess that Ghirahim had a similar revelation to himself, but was taking it far less in stride.

Tentatively, he held out his hand, offering to help him rise. Someone ought to snap him out of it. “You recognized it too, didn’t you? That power.”

Ghirahim blinked, a haze clearing from his deep, large pupils. Before fully meeting his eyes, he had already swatted his offered hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

Zant straightened himself, towering above the man sitting before him, and retracted his hand to clasp them behind his back.

A squint locked Ghirahim in eye contact almost too easily, and somewhat nervously, he stammered again to speak. “I did, but… How..?”

Zant broke the trap of his gaze and looked toward the tent, where Ganondorf had just disappeared into. “The very same curse that brought the Princess and her guard dog back for another round, I assume.”

Ghirahim rose to his feet, joining Zant in staring at the tent. He didn’t speak, still, just glared in deep conflict at the sight before him. It was almost pitiful.

And so, Zant decided to take off and kick his plans into motion. “You can do as you wish, but I am hesitant to make an enemy out of the Demon King. I suppose I will meet you on the battlefield, one way or another.”

Quite a few paces he walked alone, his helmet reassembling itself to spare him from the burning rays of the sun. Now thoroughly concealed, he felt safe grinning when footsteps joined behind him, slowly but surely.

“Zant? What’s keeping you?”

In just that split second, the sword spirit seemed to turn into an entirely different being. The Ghirahim he knew then was all points and edges, eager to drive his endless wit under his skin until he had no choice but to bite back at him. And while this urge to annoy him never left him, he was different, now. There was an undeniable softness to him. Words that once would have left his lips in a sneer now warmly lingered with genuine concern, sweetly sticking to his tongue like honey.

It was a testament to how blades were not merely used to destroy, but also to mend, to cure. Bit by bit, he’d taught a sword how to care.

When Zant smiled at him in return, picking up after him in a rush, the desert sun sparkled in his deep black pupils. Zant joined his side soon after, relishing how his attention did not leave him even once.

“The heat must have gotten to my head for a moment there,” he hummed. “We’ve come all the way from the North, after all.”

Counting on being out of earshot of their Master, Ghirahim chuckled, jabbing at the Twili with his elbow. “You can survive martial combat, but the climate gets the better of you? It’s embarrassing to wear your weaknesses on your sleeve like this, Zant.”

Zant scoffed. “Ah, yes. As opposed to wearing them with a target on your chest, of course.”

Were they subtle in their dawdling at any point, Ganondorf surely noticed his servants bickering behind him from that point on. With only a brief pause in his gait, he marched to the Palace. The Demon King was off to settle his final arrangements before bidding his most loyal men farewell, for good.

The evening of Ganondorf’s arrival was as celebratory as it was solemn. The governesses were as pleased to see their King in his full power as they took his arrival as an omen. The final stand was at hand, and the strategy briefing of mere hours earlier conveyed that Gerudo Valley would not come out of this battle unscathed. Any bit of leisure and merrymaking was precious, and as such, the wizened Court was masking themselves with as much cheer as they could muster. Ghirahim and Zant, seated at the end of the table reserved for those of higher military ranking, overlooked the governesses squabbling over opportunities to converse with the man who would change their lives for good. In between filling their cups and chattering amongst one another, on occasion, one of the women would rise, and approach Ganondorf’s seat to give him their blessings. To which the King, of course, took to with great warmth and integrity.

Among them was a woman with an empty stare, who gradually darkened and secluded in her own mind as the night went on. Zant recognized her as the head of foreign trade, who left an impression on him as a boisterous, steadfast woman. None of her usual sparks could be seen as she stood up from her seat and approached Ganondorf, who was caught in conversation with the governess beside him.

“With the Seven to guide me, this ends today.”

Candlelight reflected off a polished surface not there seconds earlier. Taking shelter behind the backrest of Ganondorf’s chair, the Courtswoman pulled a dagger from her robes and thrust it toward the Demon King.

It was a mess of bodies. Those who cowered in fear, and those who threw themselves at the assailant to wrestle her off of their King. Among the latter were even elderly women of the Court, whose feeble arms tore like paper under the meticulously sharpened dagger, the King’s retainers, and of course, his very own Ghirahim, who bolted toward her the second he smelled steel.

But before an obsidian blade could run her through, Ganondorf himself clenched his massive hand around the Chancellor’s arm. With a sweep, he flung her over the table, sending her skidding across the floor and into the hall’s central corridor. A streak of blood followed her, the ominous sign of falling upon her own blade. Groaning and heaving, but still fueled by rage, she rose in spite of her injuries. Blade in hand, her fierce drive to kill had not yet ceased.

The commotion all around the mess hall soon tested her resolve. As if melting into a single being, the shrieks and cries of enraged troops dawned upon her like a tidal wave, claws and calloused palms reaching for her in a mob’s desire for violence.

“Halt,” shouted Ganondorf’s thunderous voice, sharp enough to crack air as if it were a thin sheet of glass. He raised a hand, forcing every single being in that hall to freeze on the spot. “None may approach her. We will hold Chancellor Meherat’s trial right here, and now.”

Those who were injured in the scuffle were promptly escorted from the hall, and a deathly silence befell what was once an infernal atmosphere. Though Ganondorf had forbidden anyone from nearing the accused, there was a shuffled footfall in the servants’ entrance, leading to the courtyard… The preparations for her execution were already underway.

And what a foolish act it was! With the Triforce under his command, no mortal blade could truly harm Ganondorf. No, not even Zant dared dream of such a hands-on approach, now. The consequences of such a fit of passion were unfolding before him, a lesson of their own.

Those left in the mess hall arranged themselves in cold, courtly fashion. The commanding and governing forces seated in their makeshift magistrate, and the crowd of soldiers, their jury. Ganondorf leered, his eyes scanning the room to command its silence. Gazing at the center of it all, the trial commenced.

An odd tone of pity stained his rigid voice with mockery. “Now, speak. What has clouded your judgment, Chancellor? Only pure madness could drive a woman of your stature to defy her King.”

“The only madness in this room lies within your own Court, Ganondorf,” the Chancellor snapped, resulting in a scandalized, furious heckling from the crowd behind her. She paid it no mind. “All our people wanted was peace – dignity! And you have befouled the noble name of the Gerudo by aligning yourself with demons. Monsters! Your actions are beyond the retaliation for which we rallied behind you. They are annihilation! There is no salvation in the death you rain upon Hyrule. What use is there to be found in a land we cannot thrive in? Every single one of you is blinded by vengeance! I will stand for it no longer.”

Ganondorf straightened in his seat, solemn, yet unimpressed. His countenance was calm, but the racket from the crowd surely could only stem from their King’s inner rage. “Then I take it there were no conspirators?”

“None that had to persuade me, Demon. My sisters are innocent. But mark my words – With every settlement you scorch, every monster you set free on your homeland, our people’s trust in you wanes. The streets of Gerudo City are ripe with whispers of your cruelty. There will be more like me! If I must die to set this example, then I shall face the Heroines with a smile!”

Meherat was manic, burning with conviction, even as the loss of blood rid her of the strength in her legs. Her eyes desperately sought support, or at least recognition in the eyes of the Court before her. Whether she found any, Zant could not discern from this angle.

Ganondorf sighed, crossing his hands before him on the table. His tusks bared, a flash of aggression amidst his air of grave stoicism. “It is a pity, Chancellor. I hoped to grant you a swift death.”

It was thus – Chancellor Meherat was to be put to death. Her bridges burnt, the love of her sisters lost, and the sound of her name condemned. A rich life suddenly thrown away in an assassination attempt that would never have worked, forged as it was in the blinding darkness of despair and twisted justice. All for the sake of peace. Peace. Peace. Peace! What hideous neglect, what decay, and what fetid blood had been spilled for that wretched word! Oh, how she had almost pinpointed the wrongs in this selfish King’s leadership, but as many before her, concluded so terribly misguidedly. A conclusion once shared by a woman of equal beauty, equal love in her heart, and equally bright, amber hair.

Zant was snapped out of his train of thought by the splinters that jabbed into the underside of his nails. Fresh grooves tainted the dining table at his hands. His eyes tracing the pale wood he’d uncovered, he decided he refused to sit idle, and took the seat of Magistrate.

“If I may, King Dragmire.”

All eyes vested on him in an instant. He ignored the dark scowl already brooding in the shadow of Ganondorf’s bushy eyebrows. “Why not simply… Send her in exile? If it is peace, or dignity, as she says, that she desires, I gladly invite her to seek it with our enemy. Perhaps then she will fully realize how our brutality serves to shield Gerudo against that which the Hyruleans would happily inflict.”

Ganondorf clicked his tongue, but a smirk crooked the corner of his lips even still. “Your offer is as absurd as it is intriguing. I will not risk sending a traitor that threatens my army for the indulgence of a satisfying punishment.”

“I beseech you to consider,” Zant stated, his fingers interlacing on the table before him. “How many of our commanders have been captured, and when has this ever hampered us? All this crucial information they have doubtlessly forced from their throats, and yet, the Triforce is still secured in your palm, My Liege. There is nothing she can tell them that will harm you now, not when Hyrule Castle is so close to falling at your feet.”

Ganondorf narrowed his eyes. Whether he was genuinely considering it, or merely playing along to placate him, was difficult to tell. It kept him talking either way, so Zant didn’t quite care. The Gerudo continued picking apart his plan, perhaps to catch him in a fumble. “Who is to say she will not become a willing collaborator, rather than their prisoner?”

“We have sent spies before, Master, and nearly every single one of them has had their head mounted on a pike. Hyrule will consider her no different, surely.”

Ganondorf scoffed in laughter, “Very well. Guards! Seize the Chancellor. You are to escort her to the desert and ensure she does not return,” he demanded, his hand outstretched in the final verdict, emphasized with a clenched fist. His attention turned to the court member to his left. “Furthermore. Grand Mistress Kotoji, her name is shunned from this day forth. See to the eradication of her records from administrative documents. We will appoint her successor at dawn.”

The cogs in the machine started turning in an instant. Armed and shrouded Gerudo marched up to drag away the sentenced Chancellor, whose angered cries for the Court to join her cause splattered against the walls of every room she would traverse. The crowd was tense, her claims of more traitors running amok and the possibility that her enervated speech would hatch more of them, doubtlessly sowing suspicion. Surely, Zant’s suggested verdict, and the baffling acceptance of such a bloodless sentence, undoubtedly had a similar discordant effect.

The consequences of which soon beckoned him. As the table returned to a semblance of calm, Ganondorf summoned him with a snag of his eyes and a wave of his hand.

“You are walking a very fine line, Shadow Lord,” Ganondorf growled at him, sheltered by the uproar of the dining hall. “This battlefield is not yours to play games in. High treason, and you set her free? I will send men in her pursuit before sundown.”

“There is no need to worry, Master,” Zant smiled, bowing in submission to have his whispers easily heard. “On her own, without supplies, the desert will claim her before making it even a quarter of the way. Besides, to butcher their once-beloved Sister before their very eyes will give us an ill will from your remaining Court. Certainly, you know this too, My Liege, or you would not have accepted my terms.”

Ganondorf furrowed his brows at him, before leaning back in his seat, contemplating the hall before him in deep scrutiny.

His every breath was a test; Zant knew very well that Ganondorf suspected him. Did he not, he never would have sent the two of them here. Zant was peering into his open grave and awaited the firm-handed push that sent him down there with a grin. Not a shred of his reasoning just now had been a lie, but the plan itself was audacious – essentially an offer to send out a counter-spy scot-free. And yet, Ganondorf agreed with it. What did he have to lose, at this point? Very likely, he would do no worse.

This Ganondorf was powerful and charismatic. He tore down keeps with his bare hands, wrapped countless court officials around his finger. His own Ganondorf had been lonely and bound himself to him thus – this One was less stubborn, in that way. But in that strength lay a fatal flaw: he was cocky. In taking them to this damned place, to protect a mission that could only fail, surely he thought he was rid of those thorns in his sides.

It was all too merciful. No, he was not soft, he was naive. Clearly, Ganondorf saw neither of them as a threat big enough to dispose of on short notice. So, before he could depart, what else could he do to burrow himself deeper in his ire? What punishments would they evoke? Reduce the number of his troops? Bait out an ambush? Would he see him poisoned, or cursed? Master, what could I possibly do to you, for you to slay me, right here, and now?

Zant would never get his answer. The adrenaline now worn off, Ganondorf had noticed a minor flesh wound by his upper arm and sought to have it treated. Just in case the blade had been poisoned. Bit by bit, the mess hall drained of people, and at some point, Zant had wandered out with some other crowd of them. The metallic clanking of his soles just barely made it past the ringing in his ears.

Oh, indeed. Ganondorf needn’t worry. Not about Meherat, at least.

As he’d predicted, there she ran. So far away from the city, the gibbous moon and sea of stars shone vibrantly above, joining hands to light the way of this condemned runaway. Three hours since her banishment, and the sands already took their toll on her. Trudging through silky sands filled one’s legs with lead, he knew this intimately by now. Yet, she was making decently good time. Of course, Ganondorf hadn’t listened to his final call and sent an executioner’s party after her the minute his wound was flushed out. To no avail, however. The Chancellor was clever and well-informed, so much so that she’d swerved out of sight of the Demon King’s outposts that scattered sparsely throughout the deeper sand wastes.

But not out of his.

With no more rock outcroppings to hide behind, Zant could only shelter in the skies, a black smudge hovering against prismatic blue. But hours in the dark had made her eye too keen. She looked behind her once, twice, just to check, before opening her mouth in a soundless scream and breaking out in what she hoped to be a sprint.

He would not let his Master’s troops take this from him. Wind soared through his helmet, sand whipped up around him, and before he’d known, that panicked face was mere inches from his own, his fingers wrapped tightly around her throat.

“You are a kind woman, Chancellor Meherat – Too good, to survive in our midst. But that is precisely where our predicament lies. Hyrule would listen to you, for good people like you are exploitable, even if the chances of your rescue are slim…” Zant hissed between the two of them, looming over her while squeezing ever-tighter. “Forgive me, forgive me…”

Under the fierce grip of his hands, the Gerudo struggled, clawing at his arms and kicking at his gut with every ounce of might she still had. Before long, she at last grew limp and dropped to the floor, now free of him.

He recalled another being just like her, whose misplaced kindness in the end spelled doom for her people. And though his goals aligned with this one, he could not afford her getting in his way. So swiftly he struck her, his scimitar driving between her ribs, simultaneous mercy and execution.

“May the sands reclaim you, Chancellor,” he muttered in idle prayer, before kneeling down to hide a piece of parchment among her robes.

He stood there, watching as the desert winds gently buried her, the light of the stars above brought him clarity. Now that he beheld her beyond the fog of his mind, her hair wasn’t as orange as he thought it to be. It was really more of a carmine.

Zant sat at his triptych mirror, begrudgingly accepting the assistance of the morning sun as he applied the black lines to his lower eyelids. His Dagger lingered about him as if he had any input on the matter, but soon found some way to fuss over him nonetheless. Fingers threaded through his hair, scratching pleasantly past the grown-out fuzz at the back of his head.

“I think we ought to preen you a little before we head to battle again, Zant,” Ghirahim hummed thoughtfully.

Finishing up his one eye, Zant puckered his lips, looking back at him through the mirror with a bit of a frown. “Already? Is it so drastic?”

“Your shave is growing out again. Just a touch-up, is all.”

And yet, he couldn’t help but indulge him. His eyes darted between his reflection and that of Ghirahim’s in the mirror, before he leaned back to resume accessorizing his other eyelid with a smirk. “Hmmm… Without Yuga to safeguard me, will I be alright, I wonder…”

“Hah! You doubt my skills, now? Some nerve you have,” Ghirahim sneered.

A dip of his brush in the bottle of pigment. “I wouldn’t dare. Yuga simply is a bit more amicable to my wishes, is all.”

“Only because he can’t stand the pout you give him when you’re uppity. Is this about those odd bangs you insist on growing out? Never did I know why you keep those,” was the response, emphasized by the grasping of his longer locks, which fell through his parted fingers like flowing water.

“... Well, ah,” Zant hesitated. Was such a subject appropriate? If it was, would it anger him? How forward it would be. In any other circumstance mere ethnographic fact, but with the bond they shared, carrying such implications! But perhaps the truth would settle the matter.

He placed his brush down and rested his hands in his lap in a reserved gesture, avoiding his gaze. “In my people’s customs, that is where I will receive my braid, if I am to be wed.”

Ghirahim perked up at his words, his face subtly tugging at its sculpted features. He quickly retracted his hands to fold them at his chest. Picking at the edges of his gloves, he seemed conflicted as he considered his next words. “Right. Such matters will be of concern to nobility, once the war settles, of course.”

Zant turned to him now, gauging his expression in full. A worry lingered there, of neither wanting to impose nor be imposed upon. Did Ghirahim assume himself to be excluded from potential marriage candidates? To which degree did this trouble him?

Yet this troubled state joined hands with its twin, leaching into Zant’s mind. Though his own wishes on the matter were not quite aligned, to wed another than him could prove more politically efficient, down the line. He could never bear it, Zant decided, to degrade the first to profess his love for him to the ranks of a mere concubine.

So he banished the thought from both their minds, pulling Ghirahim into his embrace. For a moment, Ghirahim flinched, startled that the action could serve as a confession. These fears were quickly cast away when Zant craned his head up to grin broadly at him.

“How you fret over mortal matters! Ghirahim-ili, the red on your cheeks may fool me into thinking you might be of the same flesh and blood as I,” he teased, resting his chin against his chest.

The flush of his cheeks and ear only grew stronger. “If you so intend to mock me, you would do better to do so after fixing yourself. Your cosmetics are completely asymmetrical!”

Zant laughed, freeing him from his grip and turning back to his mirror to resume his daily grooming. “Alright,” he chimed, holding the brush to his cheek with care. “You ought to make yourself scarce either way, Yima Dinifen. My chamberlain will arrive with my breakfast any moment now.”

With just one knock at the door, a jingling of chimes announced a departure behind him, and the white shade in his mirror erased its presence.

And so, their days resumed. After Ganondorf returned to his post in the Temple, the pair were left to their own devices to prepare for the Hyruleans to take the bait. And take it they did, for mere days after the Demon King visited the Palace, the first scouts were sighted scurrying about the desert. Undoubtedly to catch a glimpse of their developing formations!

Those glimpses would be allowed. The first days were ones of deception, of placing troops haphazardly in a feint, only to slaughter every last vanguard that would come looking from thenceforth. Zant’s hand trailed the map – they would have to route cages for their beasts to each corner of the field. That way, they could adequately trap their foes in the center of the valley, and whittle away at their composures.

So deep in thought was he, that he had not noticed his co-lieutenant joining him in their strategy room, laying a hand on his elbow. “Off in your own little world again? You mustn’t forget to relay your schemes to me, Zant.”

His mind struggled a moment, forcing itself through the barricade of his focus to direct his attention to the one beside him, instead. Yet when he looked upon him, with a gaze so tender yet hiding tantalizing conflict behind a shroud of yearning, that reluctance faded in an instant.

“All in due time, Ghirahim-ili,” he murmured, laying his hand over his. “What do you require from me, to approach me in such solitude?”

To be addressed suchly took Ghirahim aback for a moment. Ah, he knew this look. These were the characteristic signs of a very specific mood of his; where his mind was troubled, but he hoped to assuage it through physical affection. To correct his course elsewhere, where he needn’t think or discuss his woes.

With their lives treading on such a fine line, Zant wasn’t interested in such avoidant behavior. Ghirahim was snagged on by the question a little too easily.

“With our Master’s true coronation so close on the horizon, Zant, I’ve been occupied with far more thoughts than are becoming of me. You’ve experienced the same, I'm certain.”

“Oh, when do I ever not sit and worry,” Zant giggled. He was tempted to press a kiss to his cheek but decided not to interrupt him.

“As you say,” Ghirahim laughed at his quip. “Among these thoughts were that of my future, but moreso of our past, and what it will come to mean. It’s childish, but I was reminded of the first words of love I gave to you. I thought then to have deceived you in giving you that promise, but now I know it is not so.”

Taking advantage of the loose occupation of his hands, Ghirahim guided his arm, making room for himself in-between, and stepped into his embrace.

“This love, as you have described it, long I have assumed it as being entirely alien to me. Yet, with every minute I spend with you, Zant, my doubts about this long-held belief grow ever larger. I cannot ignore them now, because the contrary could not be more clear. The way you love, Zant, aligns with my own with every passing day. As does my love grow to resemble yours,” he began to wax, fondly amused by the red tinge he awakened in the Twili’s face. “And I find it perplexing, for us to be connected this way, for in being made of flesh and blood, you and I could not be more different.”

Ghirahim paused, taking a moment to capture his hand and behold their contact. Observing thoughtfully. “What makes us different, mortals and I, is that I know my purpose. The second I was forged, I knew what my existence meant for me, and I delighted in it. Mortal men- humans, I believe, you are listless,” he emphasized, now lacing their fingers. His expression darkened, losing its shine to a sullen face. “Fickle. Because there simply is no purpose but to live. Your myriad of choices blinds you, burdens you, whereas I have none, and I adore the way I am supposed to be. I thought I would never understand that restless sort of existence. But now I do. Master will not wield me.”

To Zant’s mortification, yet soul-stirring delight, Ghirahim grasped his hand tighter and placed it on his chest. In that moment of silence, where both of them held a breath, there was that song again. It chimed and pulsed so strongly he could feel it in the pads of his fingers. Those saccharine shocks resonated through his arm, pressing kisses to every nerve and sinew it tore past, and in its crescendo delivered its fiercest affection to his heart. It was a call, a plea for a matching pulse, saying far more than Ghirahim could ever dare to. Now, guarded as they were amidst the glittering shards of Zant’s mind, he would never have to.

Ghirahim winced as those fingers indulgently dug deeper into the skin of his chest, but soon grew to relish in it. “I cannot promise you my entire self, Zant. The thought alone could shatter me. A piece, however, I can afford.”

With a flourish of his hand, his velvet cape scattered into a glittering whirlwind of diamonds, warm like embers as they brushed by Zant’s skin. As his garment disappeared, Ghirahim leaned back, resting more and more of his weight in his arms, and baring more and more of his most vulnerable places to him. His lean neck, the underside of his chin, and more prominently so, the diamond keyhole at his chest.

His breast heaved, taking a breath that never reached any true lungs, then dipped back down in a shudder. Zant felt his own chest tighten, his heart pounding to his ribs, as Ghirahim spoke his offer.

“Reach within me, Twilight King. Take part of me, as you have taken a part of our Master. It is yours.”

***

Zant swallowed. He felt the pulse of his core behind his chest, concentrating at its center. With a jolt of Ghirahim’s body, that ivory surface cracked, revealing at last that silver gem, his hand curled around its facets. Anticipation tightened their bodies, for this contact alone, as profound as it was, would only grow more intense. To breach inside would require magic.

A deep inhale, wind brushing past a dry throat, expanded Zant’s chest. Such a feat could not be done without hurting him. To plunge his hand within him, even if done with utmost gentleness and intimacy, would not leave him unscathed. Months ago now, he’d picked inside the labyrinth of his core, but only ever with a proxy of himself. No, this was much coarser work. He would have to use his magic to pry him open and force his hand through the jagged crevice. To wrench free whatever he offered him.

Such a violent act… And Ghirahim trusted him to do it. He wanted him to. No, within his eyes, he saw. Ghirahim would be heartbroken if he didn’t. If he declined this offer, he’d bear the gift prepared for him like a lodged arrow until it festered out from him.

Summoning every inch of will in his body into this one hand, he prepared his incision. The magic such an act required made his peripheral vision turn pink and the sight in his heat pits red-hot and useless. Ghirahim winced when that barrier keeping him – him, his essence – safe from the outside world began to crumble. Yet it did not crack, it simply faded beneath his hand. Zant gasped in awe as his hand dipped beneath this permeable edge, and its disappearance bore to him a sight untold.

Crimson. Not sterile silver but a fiery red. What an astute metaphor it was! Beyond that cold, icy surface, to hide something so burning and true! Within him, a gem of cycling colors tucked carefully into a burning, molten cavity. It was black – no, red, or perhaps a golden, changing every second under the candlelight and the lively fire of his own being. A garnet, a ruby, a brilliant red diamond. He could only liken him, for doubtlessly, he was one of a kind.

“Ghirahim. You’re beautiful.”

He reached inside, and it was warm. His hand sunk in effortlessly, circling his wrist with a bright white light. By the time his senses figured out whether that inside his core was an icy cold or searing hot, Ghirahim had tipped back, only barely caught by the arm hooked around his waist. Warm pinpricks tickled his skin, filling his hand with static at every twitch and curl of his fingers. Any sensible instinct that would tell him to recoil from the heat was smothered in an instant, snuffed out by the soft groans from Ghirahim that teased him for so much more. His fingers bumped into something. Leather-bound, and long, and… It fit in his hand perfectly.

It could only be a sword. How could anything else rest within his heart?

“Ghirahim,” he whimpered, “you must be certain of this. Once I pull this, you cannot take it back.”

The scabbard in his arms laughed almost belligerently as if annoyed for being addressed. Yet the big, black pupils that met his eyes were fond. “I know.”

Gritting his teeth, overtaken simultaneously by feeling and the burning of his skin, Zant pulled. He keened, for despite the blade being offered to him, it would not be unsheathed without a test of mettle. The very sword began to pull at him – not his flesh, but at his soul, draining him of his magic. It was then that Zant realized that Ghirahim did not trap him, or any of the sorts. The weapon was simply not finished.

He needed his help.

His magic were like antennae, poking and coiling around the abstract shape of the sword. With every drop of energy that poured from him, he felt it sculpt into being beneath his touch. Double-edged, they decided, but with curvature. Corners and edges to hook rival swords and rip them from lesser hands. A weapon that favored brutality over elegance, but would prove to be both in capable hands. Hands that were now worthy of such a blade, molded into a swordsman by the very forge they stuck within.

Both men cried out in exertion with the final pull at the sword. Ghirahim arched as its pommel surfaced from him, followed by the grip, the crossguard. White-hot and glowing, the blade came free from his chest with a single draw.

But before he could set his eyes upon it, overcome by his intimacy, Zant pulled his limp body closer and pressed a kiss to his jaw. A piece of him, in his hand, freely gifted, and smithed by their joint efforts. Here he now held his most prized possession. A stream of incoherent Twilit and Hylian bubbled forth from him, singing his praises about his beloved, about their bond. It was time to witness what they made together.

Zant held it before him, watching its prismatic white darken into a deep, all-consuming black, So dark was it that its surface hardly shined, save for its sharpened edges, for little light could leave it once touching it. Interrupting this deep dark was a pattern of glowing cyan, bleeding out from a magenta gem that graced its crossguard. A legendary artifact was made today, fit for the palatial treasury.

The Demon Scimitar.

Ghirahim turned his head to look at his shaking grip and let out a faint laugh. “It is a two-handed blade, you oaf.”

Delighted to hear him speak, Zant turned to his weakened lover, but frowned at his suggestion. “I do not want to drop you.”

“I’m right in your hand.”

Yet, he compromised. Leaning him onto his shoulder, he pulled him back upright. Just as when they lay together, Ghirahim was warm when he pressed his back to his chest. His heart was open, bleeding molten metal into itself. Such a precious thing must be handled carefully. Zant reached forward with both hands now to behold his gift, the sword spirit in his embrace holding himself upright by leaning his arms on his. His legs slumped, but his gloved hands laid gently over the ones grasping at the hilt.

Zant blinked, a smothered sob wobbling his lip, unable to take his eyes off their creation. “Ghirahim, it’s…”

“Beautiful? Breathtaking? The most perfect craftsmanship you’ve ever laid your eyes upon? Of course it is. It’s a piece of me, after all,” Ghirahim waxed, his voice tongue-in-cheek where it would normally be completely serious.

“Yes, Ghirahim, but not so simply,” Zant laughed, peering at the blade past the tender slope of Ghirahim’s neck. “It’s beautiful because it’s us.”

Tears ran down his cheeks. No one had ever done anything like this for him, nor would they ever, for Ghirahim was the only one who could. How he entered this land with vengeance and bitterness in his heart! Now, here he stood, holding the one he never expected to care for. After such years of loneliness, to be then coaxed into comfort, affection, and declarations as mates… How could he do anything but fall in love?

The sounds of his whimpers and the tears dripping on his shoulder drew Ghirahim’s attention. A gloved hand stroked Zant’s jaw, as Ghirahim planted a kiss on his cheek. “As easily moved as ever, aren’t you?”

Zant could only swallow, wheeze out a laugh. Between his hiccups, he took his one hand off the grip. Shaking out this arm, he lowered his sleeve, and bared his wrist.

Ghirahim’s amusement faded instantly. His voice left him in a snap. “What are you doing?”

“Should anyone else be the first to taint this new-forged blade, I would carry my envy for them with me to whatever wretched afterlife awaits me,” Zant spoke coldly, but a maddened spark tugged at his features. “The first blood to feed this sword must be mine.”

Shaking hands were stilled by a perverse drive for this vow, to carve into himself in a clean slice that honored such a blade. Its edge, sharpened so meticulously it shone silver, cut through his skin as if merely lingering in the air. Were it not for the sting of friction, and the dark blood pooling out from him, he almost didn’t notice being cut. A sharp gasp, sucked in through bared teeth, tore through them simultaneously as he stained their masterpiece red. Sated by the cold sweat in his neck, and the comforting, downy feeling that lulled his mind into silence, Zant smiled. Grasping the hilt in both hands again, he held it skyward before them, swelling with pride over the visceral union now proclaimed.

Two pairs of eyes stared at the fresh blood coursing down the sword’s pristine edge, as though the world around it had ceased to exist. There was only them, their embrace, and the pieces of them each had ripped out the other, in their joint hands. Crimson rolled down, staining grey fingers and white gloves alike. Zant sharply inhaled through his nose, but Ghirahim stayed deathly silent. Yet his back grew warmer, hotter, scorching pressed against his chest, and that song from his core returned. By no means a symphony, it screeched in one unanimous tone, his mind set on but one thing.

In an instant, the blade was dispelled – shared, but Ghirahim’s body, first and foremost – and with it took its gift of blood. Swirling, churning, for as long as it could hold, to leave his trace inside the essence of Ghirahim’s self in near-permanence. It was a memento, a shred to attain immortality, to remain long after his flesh has rotten and his bones turned to dust.

His hands now free of a sword, but within his arms still holding another, Zant was frozen in place. A fierce grip broke him from his self-petrification and yanked him down by the collar. Lips crashed against his, clacking teeth and poking stray strands of hair into his eyes. But for all its aggression, to the Sword Spirit, no show of love could be more earnest. He drew his eyelids to a close and locked him in a reciprocated embrace, only to deprive this dark, stuffy room from any more of their affection. Shadows crept up on them from every corner of the room, hurrying to their master’s command. Shrouded in this black, the rustling of this magic enveloped them, to finally leave the strategy room empty.

#zant #ghirahim #ghirazant #ganondorf #tftk #tloz #hyrule warriors #bearwrites #beararts

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dollyyun · 6 months

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𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍𝒔 | chap 13

SYPNOSIS: wherein Hwang Stella's life is tangled in a predicament involving her clandestine identity as a racer, her seemingly daily life as the official heir to the Hwang Empire, and seven guys with whom she has a complex history with.

PAIRING: enhypen members x fem oc.

GENRE: 18+ (mdni), reverse harem, chaebols, semi-college & racing, eventual adulthood, non-idol au, eventual enha being f1 drivers, multiple pov (this fic is written in first pov).

WARNINGS: expletives, angst, heartbreaks, drama.

WORD COUNT: 10k+

FEATURING: ITZY Yeji, LE SSERAFIM Yunjin, STRAY KIDZ Hyunjin

TAGLIST: @aishigrey @kgneptun

🍒MASTERLIST🍒

Four years ago, I never would have thought that the trajectory of my life would change drastically. The twenty-two-year-old me never would have thought that the shackles that chained her to the ground for years would be destroyed. Hence, allowing her to finally be free, as she was no longer tethered to the environment that often brought calamities throughout her life.

I, Hwang Stella, am no longer the heir to the forsaken empire, and no longer do I reside in Seoul.

New York is the place where I chose to start my life. However, I can't say that the beginning of my new journey here was easy.

After I miraculously recovered from fatal injuries and woke up from a coma a month later, Yeji was there beside the hospital bed. Her eyes were red and full of tears. Yeji read the news article about the major incident that happened in Seoul, and the details included Rena being an attempted murderer as well as Minhyuk having blood stained on his hands for years. Thus the downfall of the Hwang empire.

And so, I made a firm decision that I would move to New York. Yeji was more than glad to hear that, and she welcomed me into her home, where she was also living with her fiancé. But even as I had recovered, my mental health was ailing.

At that point in time, my past was catching up to me, taunting me in my slumber and even as I went about my day. The major incident that happened four years ago, and my past when the people I thought were family─ they had scarred me for life, and I've become traumatised by them.

I was mentally ill, always screaming and sobbing in my sleep, and would often have mental breakdowns at any time of the day. There were days when I couldn't physically do anything. Yeji and her fiancé─who I've eventually become close with and regard as an older brother─were more than worried about me and decided to bring me to therapy sessions where I used to attend daily.

As I recall, a grimace covers my face. To say the beginning of my new chapter here was bad is an understatement. I can't even imagine how my illness must have affected Yeji and her fiancé.

The drought was the very worst, then came the rain pouring down with storms, but eventually the dreary skies turned blue with streaks of sunlight peeking through the clouds, and flowers bloomed.

As the years passed, I'd become better. I've learned to embrace each scar, be it a physical or mental scar. As my therapist had told me, I must change my perspective on the ugly scars I bear and instead embrace them, as they are proof that I am a survivor.

No longer was I affected or traumatised badly by the scars that will forever imprint inside of me. No longer do I look at these ugly scars with such disgust and feel begrimed.

I was finally clean.

"Stella! Over here!"

As soon as I enter the two-story cafe establishment, my ears perk up at the sound of a familiar voice I haven't heard since her schedule was packed for the last two weeks. My gaze settles on two figures from afar, with both their heads turning to me.

Arriving at their table, I am startled when she embraces me in a hug—a tight hug at that. I groan. "Aera, it's only been two weeks."

Aera, the girl whom I can call my best friend and sister. Four years ago, Aera made a firm decision to follow me. According to her, she could do whatever the hell she wanted since her family had disowned her. Yeji welcomed Aera and had her live in their penthouse too.

Since Aera and I were living together, she had seen the worst and ugly side of me, but she stayed throughout, and most of the nights when I couldn't sleep, Aera would be by my side all night despite the fact that she would have classes in the morning the next day.

Four years ago, Aera decided to enrol herself in the Parsons School of Design, as she had always dreamed of becoming a fashion designer. Now, as she has officially become one and is currently working for the same company as Yeji.

As for me, I had some thoughts on becoming an F1 driver as I've always been a huge fan since I was young, but I couldn't. I couldn't even race like I used to, because the word race itself would remind me of them. So, instead, I enrolled in a private school and continued to study.

Hence, I am now an external travel manager in the F1 industry and have been for about six months now. The responsibilities and work itself are tougher than expected, but I stayed resilient. Yes, it's tough, but I love what I'm doing.

Aera pulls her newly dark raven hair into a high ponytail. "So, any juicy news?" She asks us with her eyebrows wiggling before she looks at the person who is seated across from me. "Jen! You're always the one with juicy news! Anything to share?"

My eyes shift to the gorgeous red hair, and as our eyes meet, I immediately look down at the drink on the table.

Huh Yunjin, or rather, Jennifer, is a year older than Aera and I, but we get along well with her. I first met Jennifer when I enrolled in the private school here, where she was one of my peers. As we got closer, she had become a close friend of mine, and I decided to introduce her to Aera. Now, they're even closer than Jen and I were.

Well, probably because I had a one-night stand with her. Even till now, I can't seem to look at her straight in the eyes without feeling embarrassed. Jennifer is a gorgeous yet intellectual woman. She is also the daughter of one of the bosses in the F1 industry. She even had admirers, but she rejected them.

We used to be close until the one-night stand happened just three months ago. We were drinking at her apartment, talking about our first kisses and boyfriends, and laughing without a care, but then came this unexplainable tension and the shift in the atmosphere. Before we knew it, clothes were discarded, and we were in her bed.

Jen even assured me that it changed nothing about our friendship, but why does it feel like it has?

"I went on a blind date recently." Jennifer starts off, her eyes no longer on mine. "It was my mom's idea. He turned out to be a misogyny asshole."

"Isn't that your third blind date?" Aera chuckles.

"Fifth." Jennifer corrects her as she rolls her eyes. "The woman just won't give up that I'm not into relationships."

"Actually, I have something to share." I speak up as soon as I remember. "You guys remember Henry? He informed me recently that he managed to find my brother." I sigh. "He's here, in New York."

Both Aera and Jennifer soften their gazes as they look at me. They know about my attempts to search for my brother. As for my uncle, who turns out to be my biological father, I already know he's here as well, but I don't have the guts to meet him yet. Mostly because I'm not ready and I know that I will burst out everything at him. Even though the reasons were valid, he could've told me in the beginning, and I'd do anything to keep his secret safe.

When Yeji found out about the revelation, she cried and hugged me, assuring me that I was still her baby sister despite having different fathers. I wonder if my older brother would feel the same way.

"Well, when will you officially meet him?" Jennifer asks me softly, and I find myself being able to withstand our eye contact.

I bite my lip. "I'm thinking of visiting his workplace at the New York Performing Arts Academy on Friday."

"He's a teacher there?" Aera asks, her eyes widening.

"Not exactly. According to Henry, Hyunjin works as a dance director and a professional dancer who has won many competitions." I tell them with a small smile on my face, as I feel proud of him. "He would share his knowledge and teach the students whenever the academy needed him to come down."

"So, how are you feeling?" Jennifer prods, her eyes appear to be examining my face.

"I honestly don't know." I sigh. "Sure, I'm relieved, but I feel a little hurt because he didn't bother to search for Yeji and me, even though it's been many years. He could've at least found some ways to contact me."

Aera pats my back in a comforting manner. "Maybe he had his reasons."

"Maybe." I smile weakly. "But whatever. What's done is done. I'll meet him on Friday."

Jennifer raises her eyebrow at me. "You mean you'll be surprising him with your unexpected appearance?"

I chuckle. "That works as well."

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

"Sure, I'll send in the report by tomorrow." I inform one of my bosses on the phone before I end the call. He had just informed me about the upcoming Grand Prix in Brooklyn that will happen this year, where all of the F1 teams will be participating.

Presently, I'm at the art museum. I don't know why I'm here, but something just tells me that I need to be here. As I appreciate the beautiful, intricate masterpieces in my view, my mind begins to drift towards certain individuals.

My lips flatten. Although I have officially cut ties with them, I know for a fact that my heart refuses to move on from them. Heck, I even asked Henry if there was any news about them just months ago. All he got was that they had separated as well.

My heart begins to ache. Cutting ties with them is for the best. Some of them have been gravely hurt by the major incident, all because they wanted to save me. I didn't want to bring more misfortunes into their lives, and so I left. Besides, they are better off without me.

"This origami architecture is beautifully intricate with such precision, isn't it?"

My heart beats with uneven momentum while I freeze in my spot. It is as if I have been paralysed. The sound of his voice must be my imagination. But the moment I feel warmth radiating from his body at my side, I know that I'm not imagining things.

As I turn my head, my eyes are trained at his side profile, which still looks divine as ever. His hair, which used to be blonde, is now jet black, making him appear more handsome than ever. He is decked out in an all-black fit, the blouse of his sleeves pulled until his elbows, revealing his golden wristwatch.

He probably knows that I'm staring at him, but his eyes are still fixated on the origami architecture. "I had no idea you were into the arts." He says calmly.

"Jay." I finally release the breath I have been holding.

He turns his head and meets my eyes. When a small yet gentle smile touches his lips, I can feel myself slowly crumbling on the inside.

"Stella." He greets me. Such longing and sadness reside in his gaze, which makes my heart ache once more. "I'm glad to see you're doing well and healthy after all these years."

Guilt washes over me like a tidal wave. When I said that I officially cut ties with them, it meant that I left them behind without any closure and disappeared without any traces of me left behind. All because I was a coward.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, my voice sounding shaky.

"Don't worry. I didn't stalk you or anything. I just happened to be here and spotted you. I'm here in New York solely because of business." Jay says politely, almost too formal, as though I'm one of his business associates.

"Oh," is all I can manage. I swallow down a painful lump while the backs of my eyes start to burn. I manage to give him a smile despite my quivering lips. "Welcome to New York. I hope you have a wonderful time here, Jay."

"Thank you." Jay's smile doesn't falter.

I can't stay here any longer. Seeing Jay again hurts me more than it should, especially when they probably felt hurt and angry at me for disappearing.

"I have to go. Goodbye, Jay." I look away from him before walking away in a brisk manner. I feel my fingers trembling while my throat is starting to hurt. Alas, a teardrop has fallen from the corner of my eye.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

eeing Jay yesterday brought back memories I had buried deep. Because of his unexpected appearance, I was completely distraught that I had forgotten about something. As Jay mentioned that he's solely here for business, it means that he's here for the Grand Prix in Brooklyn.

How could I have forgotten that he's an F1 driver? If he's here in New York, then that means so are the rest of them. I have totally forgotten about them being F1 drivers, albeit on different teams.

After I entered the F1 industry and began working as an external travel manager for different teams, that was when I discovered them to be official F1 drivers. I was fortunate that I didn't work directly with them, but it's enough to knock the air out of me. Especially when they looked good in their gearing suits and were considered esteemed drivers.

"Shit." I groan, rubbing my tired face. Since I'll also be involved in the Grand Prix, there's a high chance that I might bump into any of them.

My phone chimes on the table, prompting me to glance down to see a notification.

JEN: Hey, are you free tonight? I was thinking of inviting you and Aera to dinner at my crib.

Just as I'm about to reply to her text, my ears perk up at a familiar voice. "An iced Americano for takeaway."

I whip my head to the side. My eyes trained on his back, which is draped with a beige coat, facing me. I recognise those broad shoulders of his. He looks taller than I remember.

I immediately turn around as soon as he receives his order. I hold my breath as I see him walking away from my peripheral vision. I don't know what to feel. Do I feel happy? Sad? Mad? Because the last time we talked was on the night of that gala four years ago.

Stella, don't.

But I ignore my better instinct as I grab my coat and quickly make my way out of the cafe. My eyes scan this crowd of people by the street, and then I manage to spot his figure from afar. I don't waste time and start chasing after him.

I know I shouldn't, but my heart stubbornly wants to know about what he's been doing and how he's doing. Is he already married? If he is, then does he have a child?

Thankfully, there are not many people by the time I'm getting closer to him. I pant heavily as I stop with both hands on my knees. "Jungwon!"

He visibly flinches as he stops dead in his tracks. I can only hope for the best that he won't ignore me. He doesn't disappoint when he turns around, but I'm too stunned to see how mature he looks compared to four years ago.

"Stella." He utters my name in shock.

Despite my heart aching terribly while my mind recalls the night we talked, I manage a smile—a nervous one at that. "What are you doing here?" I already know why he's here, but I needed to start a conversation.

Jungwon visibly gulps. "What are you doing here?" He counters, and I can't help but to discern how his voice sounds a little deeper.

"I live here." I tell him, my voice coming out soft. "I've been living here for four years."

"Oh," He appears to be deflated, but his face remains stoic. "I'm here for business."

"I'm glad to see you again." My eyes glance down at his fingers, noticing how empty they are. "How's marriage life?" I ask awkwardly.

Jungwon looks away from me. "I didn't." His voice is barely above a whisper.

My face contorts into confusion. "You didn't?"

I see the way his jaw clenches. "I broke off the engagement. A lot of things happened in my life, Stella." He tells me with a deep sigh before he takes a step back, looking at me with eyes that hold such inexplicable emotions. "I have to go."

"Okay." But he doesn't hear my reply as he proceeds to walk away, leaving me in the cold just as he did before.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

I am finally meeting my older brother for the first time in years. With each step I take as the academy's secretary assists me in the classroom where he is presently teaching his students, my heart pulsates, and there is a certain ambivalence about my feelings towards him.

I'm not certain how I'll react once I see him, but I know for a fact that there will be tears. Finally, the secretary pushes open the door to where there is more than one massive dance room arrayed by the hallway.

"His class is ending soon. You may wait for him here." The secretary informs me with a smile. I thank her before she proceeds to head back. As I turn my head, I spot various students inside the dance room through the acoustic glasses. My eyes finally shift to him, and I feel a pinch in my chest.

Professionalism masks his face as he teaches his students with exceptional dancing skills, but I can discern how happy he is, as if he was always meant to be what he is now. I continue to watch in silence without realising how close I am to shedding a tear.

Not too long later, the door swings open with students exiting the dance room with sweats trickling down their skin, but there are smiles on their faces as well as the chortles emitting from them.

I wait patiently at the side until he finally exits the dance room. With his back on mine, I quickly jog towards him. "Hyunjin Oppa."

Hyunjin freezes, as though hearing my voice sends him a whiplash. He slowly turns around and meets my eyes. The way he is staring at me is as if he doesn't believe that I'm real.

"After years of no contact with me, is silence all you can afford?" I force out a laugh while my chest feels constrained and my eyes are starting to sting with tears.

"Stella." He utters my name, and his face looks torn, as though seeing me hurts him. "I'm sorry."

Instead of feeling aggrieved towards him for abandoning me even though I knew that he didn't have a choice, I feel sorrowful. He left when I was only fifteen, and he had missed out on a lot, including not being able to watch me grow up. All because we were unfortunate to have fucked up parents.

Hyunjin's eyes appear to be assessing me before a small smile touches his lips, despite the sadness in his eyes. "My baby sister is all grown up."

I hold myself back from bursting into waterworks while a sad chuckle leaves my lips. "I'm not your baby sister, at least that's what I thought four years ago."

"What do you mean that you're not my baby sis? You are." Hyunjin steps forward and doesn't hesitate to place his hands on my shoulders. Tears glisten in his eyes. "I'm truly sorry for abandoning you. I had my own problems to deal with, and a lot has happened throughout those years."

"Yeah, a lot has happened, including the fact that I found out about the truth behind my birth." My voice shakes. "I'm not Minhyuk's biological daughter. Mother cheated on Minhyuk with Minjun."

Oddly, Hyunjin doesn't seem surprised. A sigh leaves his lips. "I know."

My heart drops. "You knew? When?"

"Since you've managed to find me, you probably must've found out about Uncle Minjun living here in New York as well. A year after I was disowned, Uncle Minjun brought me with him to move to New York." He explains, though he looks sorrowful. "He took care of me and supported my dreams until I managed to sustain myself after I achieved what I've always wanted. When I turned 18, that was when he revealed the truth to me."

A fallen tear trickles down my cheek. "Do you still see me as your little sister? Do you still love me the same after learning that I'm the result of Mother's infidelity?"

Hyunjin takes me by surprise when he pulls me into his embrace. The familiarity of the comfort and warmth of his arms hits me, and alas, I break down, clinging onto him as I weep. The long-awaited hug from my older brother was desperately needed.

"I promise you that nothing changes. Even if we have different fathers, you are still my baby sister." Hyunjin speaks softly beside my ear as he allows me to cry into his arms. "I'm so, so sorry for leaving you and Yeji behind."

I don't respond, and instead, I remain in his arms, feeling thousands of emotions pouring down on me.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

"Are you absolutely sure that it's okay for me to crash to this dinner?" I ask Hyunjin as I unbuckle my seatbelt. "What if Uncle gets a heart attack once he sees me?"

Earlier, Hyunjin and I decided to catch up on what we've missed in each other's lives, and to say a lot would be an understatement. Apparently, Hyunjin and Minjun knew about the major incident I was in, and he told me that they wanted to fly over to see me to know if I was fine, but due to unforeseen circumstances, they couldn't.

As for me, I informed him of everything, which included Minhyuk's abuse, Rena being an attempted murderer, and the fact that I used to race. I even told him about my career, to which he was happy for me as he knew that being the heir was never what I truly wanted. The only exclusion on my part is about a certain bunch of individuals.

Hyunjin turns off the ignition of his vehicle. "It's fine. Besides, aren't you family as well?"

I turn downcast. "But it's been years. He even has a wife and a daughter."

"And he's your biological father." Hyunjin counters firmly. "You know that you don't have to call him uncle anymore."

"I know, but it feels weird." I sigh exasperatedly. "Throughout my whole life, I thought he was my uncle, but then came the revelation. It feels weird to call him 'Dad'."

"You'll probably get used to it." Hyunjin ruffles my hair. "Now, come. We're thirty minutes late to dinner."

Soon, we've arrived at the porch, with me taking my time to observe the two-story modern architecture. Something stirs within me. His house looks cosy and homely. It's difficult to describe, but from the way I discern it, this house is most likely filled with a lot of love and a healthy environment.

As soon as Hyunjin presses the doorbell, we hear rushed footsteps before the door swings open, revealing a little girl who looks about eight, smiling widely at Hyunjin. "Oppa! You're here!" But then her eyes trail behind him before they settle on my face. Her smile falters. "Oppa, who is she?"

Hyunjin darts his eyes between us before he bends down to her height with a small smile. "Her name is Stella." Then he looks at me. "Stella, this is Sophia."

"Stella?" She tilts her head, examining me briefly before looking at Hyujin with a grin. "You mean, like a star?"

Hyunjin chuckles. "Yes, sweetie. She's like a star."

"A beautiful one!" Sophia's gleeful disposition brings a smile to my face. She takes me by surprise when she steps forward and takes my hand. "Stella Unnie, it's nice meeting you. Are you Oppa's friend?"

Before I can answer, another set of footsteps draws my attention, as does the familiar voice that makes my heart pound harder. "Sophia! Your mother is calling for you!"

"Kay kay!" Sophia releases my hand as she runs back into the house.

"Uncle." Hyunjin greets him as he engulfs him in a hug, while I am left stunned. My heart aches as I stare at my biological father. Despite hitting the age of fifty-five, he still looks as healthy as he was the last time I saw him.

"Your aunt was worried sick about you." Minjun rolls his eyes playfully while he still hasn't noticed my presence yet. "She thought that something bad happened to you."

"I'm here now." Hyunjin chuckles, but there is silence before he speaks up in a quiet tone. "Uncle, there's someone I think you would love to meet."

Hyunjin steps aside and reveals me to Minjun, who is staring at me as if he had seen a ghost. His eyes seem to glisten, though I'm not entirely certain to decipher the expression on his face due to how my vision is blurring with each blink.

"Stella?" Minjun utters my name in a broken whisper. "Is that really you?"

Although I initially held grudges against him, they dissipated the moment our eyes met. I choke back a sob. All I want now is to hug my real father.

"Yes." My voice cracks. "Uncle─" I am cut off when he takes a big step forward and embraces me in his arms. His arms envelope my body, feeling akin to a safety blanket that went missing for years.

"I'm so, so sorry, my daughter." His voice holds so much emotion as I tighten my arms around his figure, weeping into his shoulder. We stay in this position for awhile before he pulls away, but his hands are still on my shoulders.

He smiles through the tears. "You've grown up into a beautiful woman. I'm just regretful for not being there for you and for not telling you the truth. I truly wanted, and I did, but─"

"I know." I interject, my voice comes out soft. "You couldn't and weren't allowed to because of that monster, Hwang Minhyuk."

His hands tighten while his eyes harden at the mention of him. "He robbed me of my happiness."

I chuckle sadly. "I wanted to hate you when Minhyuk revealed the truth, but I couldn't. I could never hate the man who took great care of me, unlike the man who I thought was my father."

"There is so much I want to know, sweetheart." Minjun kisses my forehead, and his gesture is enough to bring back the tears. "But first, let's have dinner. I'm sure you must be starving."

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Minjun's wife, Kelly, is a beautiful woman in her late fourties'. When she first saw me, she was stunned, but then she wholeheartedly welcomed me with a hug, as though she had known me forever. Apparently, Minjun told her about me being his biological daughter, and she had always wanted to meet me.

The two got married two years after Minjun settled in New York. They were friends until Minjun fell in love with her. He swore that he wouldn't fall for another woman, but then Kelly managed to weasel her way into his heart. Now, they are happily married and still going strong with an eight-year-old daughter.

Sophia, on the other hand, was genuinely confused when we revealed to her that I was Minjun's biological daughter, and that made me her half-sister. But Kelly and Hyunjin explained to her with lots of patience, and when she finally understood, she ran to me and gave me a big hug, telling me that she was more than happy to have an older sister since she had always wanted a sibling.

The ambience in this house is lovely and safe, unlike the Hwang Mansion. It's what I've always wanted: to be surrounded by such a loving family and a safe environment where I could talk about how my day was going, just like any other normal family.

"Allow me." I offer my assistance to Kelly in washing the dishes.

"Oh! It's fine, sweetie!" Kelly attempts to do so, but I remain resilient. Reluctantly, she yields, but a small smile dances on her lips. "You're so much like your father."

"Really?" I ask, glancing at her briefly while my hands multitask while washing the dishes. "I don't think we're that much alike."

"You two are more alike than you thought." Kelly's smile turns sad. "I'm sorry that you've had such a hard time almost throughout your life. You deserve to have a family that loves and accepts you for who you are."

As I wipe my hands with a cloth, I turn to look at Kelly with a faint smile. "It means a lot to me to hear you say that. Thank you, Kelly."

Kelly grabs my hand and holds it tenderly. "You must know that Minjun was heartbroken that he didn't get to tell you the truth and to be apart from you for so many years." She tells me with a shaky breath. "He thought he would never see you again."

"I thought too." I whisper. "I almost wanted to give up searching for him, but I knew I shouldn't."

"I'm glad you don't hate him." Kelly pats the back of my hand. "You're always welcome here, Stella. This can be your new home, too. I'm sure Sophia would be thrilled."

"Thank you so much, but I'm afraid I can't due to my job." I sigh. "But I'll be sure to visit whenever I can."

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Instead of heading to my apartment after dinner ended, I requested Hyunjin drop me off at Central Park as I wanted to clear my head. Though the time now strikes 11 p.m., there are still some people at the park, but most of them are couples.

I glance down at my phone, which displays an invitation virtual card that was sent through my email. It is regarding a communal party where every professional F1 driver, the teams, and other members of the organisation are invited to attend. It will happen tomorrow night.

As I keep my phone in my pocket, I am contemplating whether to attend. A part of me is alarmed by the fact that there is a chance I may bump into any of them. If I do, what do I do? Do I run away for the second time? Do I greet them and maintain professionalism?

My heart aches again at the thought of them. There is no denying that I miss them dearly, but I know that I can't afford to be in their lives again, as I do not wish to bring misfortunes into their lives anymore. Though I love them, I've always hoped that they would find their significant other and be happy.

My steps seem to slow down as I look down, but my ears perk up at another sound of footsteps approaching, prompting me to slowly look up. I stop dead in my tracks as soon as we lock eyes. My heart begins to palpitate while my throat goes dry.

He looks more mature than the last time I saw him, and under the lamppost, I see that his hair is a new shade of magenta purple. His hair looks longer, looking like he has grown a mullet and tempting me to run my fingers through his locks.

We stand a few feet apart, just staring at each other while the ambiance feels melancholy. I don't know how to decipher the expression on his face, but as our gazes deepen, I recognise the emotions in his eyes, making my heart ache tremendously.

"Stella." He breaks the ice between us, and the mere sound of his voice is enough to have me in shambles. The way he utters my name is just the same as it was. He is still soft-spoken, as is the gentleness he emits. It's one of the reasons I fell for him.

My eyes glisten with tears, but I manage to utter, "Heeseung."

The corners of his lips upturn. "Isn't it dangerous for you to stroll in the park at night?"

"This isn't my first time." I reply, my voice becoming shakier than intended. "You're here for business as well." My statement seems to surprise him.

"I was, but seeing you here now, I guess I'm not here only for business anymore." He says softly as he takes a step towards me, and he doesn't seem to stop. I want to run into his arms so badly, but I refrain myself.

"Don't, Hee." I shake my head as my lips quiver and the tears well up in my eyes. "You're supposed to walk away from me."

But Heeseung doesn't relent, and before I know it, he is standing close to me with his hand cradling my face. "Just like you did years ago when you decided to disappear?" He asks quietly while my stomach churns with guilt. "You don't get to tell me what to do, Stella."

I can only look him in the eyes through my tears. "It's for the best, Heeseung. You know that."

"I know for a fact that your disappearance broke my heart." He whispers, bringing his face closer to mine before he leans his forehead against mine. "I never would have thought that you'd be the one to break my heart."

I remain silent as I allow the tears to flow freely. I watch as he holds my hand and raises it before planting a soft yet lingering kiss on my palm. "I've missed you dearly, sweetheart." He mumbles, placing my palm on his cheek and his hand firmly on the back of my hand. "You didn't even wait for me to wake up. You didn't even wait for me to tell you how much I loved you." He whispers brokenly.

"You shouldn't have missed me." I sob softly. "I'm not worthy of being missed by you, let alone being loved by you." I attempt to break free from his grasps, but he only holds me firmer.

"Don't." He pleads, making my heart shatter once more. "Don't disappear again, sweetheart."

"You don't understand, Hee. You can't love me, and we can never be together." I tell him with such desperation. "You deserve better than me. You'll only hurt yourself if you're tied to me."

"But I want you." I feel his arm snaking around my waist, pulling me closer until the space between us is nonexistent. I can feel his warmth with my body against him. He presses his forehead on mine, his eyes never breaking contact with me. "My body, my heart, and my soul desire only you, Stella. You're the only woman I want to be with for a lifetime."

"You must let me go." I whisper brokenly as I find myself growing weaker in his embrace. "You know you have to."

"No." I feel his lips on my forehead, kissing me. "I'm not letting you go again this time." It's a promise, and a promise he intends to keep.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The strong temptation to kiss Heeseung and how weak I got made me snap out of the trance last night. Thus, I forced myself to escape from his firm grip and fled from him, despite how my heart was aching tremendously. I didn't dare look at his face because I knew that I had hurt him for the second time.

I must remain steadfast and cannot afford to feel vulnerable, just as I did upon meeting Heeseung, Jay, and Jungwon. I must allow the old Hwang Stella to come to surface─when she was perceived as a cold, heartless bitch who didn't care about anything other than herself and her goals. I must make them hate me, even if they already do.

"Stel." Jen's voice brings me back to reality as I blink my eyes at her. She is staring at me with such concern. "I've been calling you many times, but you were staring into spaces. Are you okay? You look distraught."

I manage a faint smile. "I'm fine, really. I just have a lot on my mind lately."

Jen raises an eyebrow, and I notice that there are dresses draped over her arm. "Like, which dress should you wear for tonight's communal party?"

Right, I forget that Jennifer will be going with me since she's invited as well due to being the daughter of one of the bosses. Hence, she will be going with me. I expected awkwardness to envelope us when she asked me to accompany her to buy some dresses, but it has been rather pleasant. Maybe because I've been preoccupied by other things.

"I'll just wear whatever I have in my wardrobe." I shrug my shoulders.

Jen looks at me as if I had offended her. "I've seen your wardrobe before, and as much as I love your fashion sense, you have to buy a dress as well. Plus, I'm going to make you look drop-dead gorgeous and become the main event of the night."

"Jen." I heave a sigh, but she simply pats my cheek with a grin on her face.

"Trust me, babe. You'll be attracting attention. After tonight, expect to get a number from one of the F1 drivers, or more than one." Jen shoves one of the dresses into my arms. "Now, go and try this. It suits you."

I glance down at the dress and examine it. It's an off-shoulder midnight blue dress that reaches probably above my knees, and it is also adorned in glitter. I look back at Jen with uncertainty. "I don't know, Jen. This dress looks great, but─"

"Nu-uh. I'm not hearing any excuses from you." Jen proceeds to drag me into the changing room, quite literally.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Earlier, Jen insisted on doing my make-up, and so we decided to get ready in my crib instead. It was chaotic despite the fact that there were only two of us, but at the same time, I enjoyed getting ready for a party with my best friend.

Jen booked an Uber for us to get to the main headquarters, where the party is held at the reception. Presently, we are nearly reaching the location. I decide to open my phone camera to check my face another time. Jen really did a great job, especially the eyeshadows with the final touch of glitter.

"You look gorgeous, babe." Jen compliments me for the third time, probably annoyed by how often I keep checking myself on every mirror or pair of reflective glasses we are passing by. I can't help it. Somehow, I feel anxious and conscious about my appearance.

A shaky breath leaves my lips before I give her a tight smile as we enter the elevator. "You look gorgeous yourself too." I return, realising that I haven't really given her any compliments.

I dismiss how her cheeks look pinker than usual, but they are probably her blushes. In return, Jen gives me a smile, displaying her pearly teeth. "Of course! Which is why if I go missing and don't pick up your calls, I'm most likely busy with some other F1 drivers."

I simply raise my eyebrow. "Busy? Really?"

Jen smirks. "Yup. You can't really blame me. It has been awhile since I've gotten laid." She pauses, as though she realises something, before she clears her throat in an awkward manner. "Aside from our endeavour months ago"

"Hey, listen," I place my hand on her shoulder with an apologetic smile on my face. "I'm sorry for making things awkward between us."

A peculiar emotion flickers in her gaze before she assures me with a small smile. "It's fine, Stel. It's natural because we're best friends, and what happened was unexpected, but as I said before, nothing is ever going to change."

I exhale, feeling relief. I engulf her in a hug, though she appears to be flinching at my sudden affection. "I love you, Jen."

She stays silent for awhile before whispering. "I love you too, Stel." Maybe it's just me, but I sense hesitation in her tone.

Finally, the elevator chimes as it opens, prompting us to exit and make our way to the reception. As soon as we enter, I spot familiar and unfamiliar faces mingling around. The music reverberates throughout the massive reception, as do the laughter and cheers emanating from the guests.

"Oh! Tequila!" Jen stops by the drink section, prompting me to stop as well. She grabs one of the glasses before downing the content in one go. She looks at me with a grin. "I bet you'll love it! Here!" She offers me another glass to me.

As I'm about to accept it from her, my eyes widen when I spot Heeseung by the entrance of the reception. He is decked out in an all-black fit, and the turtleneck top he's wearing looks good on him. He appears to be in a conversation with two people, whom I recognise as other F1 drivers.

I immediately look away and snatch the drink from Jen before downing it in one go. As I wipe my lips with the back of my hand, Jen is staring at me quizzically. "I've never seen you drink like that. Are you really Stella?"

"I'm just really thirsty." I grab another tequila, drinking down my feelings.

"Woah, slow down, babygirl. We haven't even gone to the buffet yet." Jen places her hand on my back. Her eyes seem to be scanning behind me before they lit up. "There's my dad! You wanna follow me?"

"You go ahead. I'll catch up with you later." I tell her before she immediately weaves her way through the crowd.

As I'm walking, some familiar faces greet me and even engage me in a conversation, but I know I can't stay at one place any longer, and the chances of bumping into any of them are high.

"Team McLaren will win this round. I'm positive of it." I freeze at the sound of a familiar voice just behind me. Kim Sunoo.

"We can't be too complacent. We still need to continue practicing." Jay.

Act normal, Stella. I tell myself as I walk at a normal pace, despite the fact that my heart is pounding hard. As I'm hearing their conversation, it seems like they are too engrossed, and so I take this chance to quicken my pace.

But then, I stop dead in my tracks when I spot Jungwon from afar, with his fellow teammates. I turn in the other direction, and when I do, I curse silently. The universe must be hating me. Sunghoon and Riki. They don't seem to notice me yet, as they, too, are engrossed in their conversation.

My chest feels constricted. They look utterly handsome and gorgeous, and it hurts so bad. Though the only differences are that they look mature compared to four years ago, they do look different, and I'm not talking about appearance-wise only.

I must get away from their sight. And so I quickly make my way to the ladies' restroom. Seeing the sight of them tonight makes it harder for me to breathe, as though they stole my breath away, and my heart aches so much. All the memories I had with them, which I've buried, resurface, almost as if I'm reliving those moments all over again.

God, do those memories hurt so bad.

"Although it was just a practice, they can't screw up like that again."

I guess I'm walking too fast and too caught up in my head to recognise his voice, and before I know it, I bump into his solid chest. So much for wanting to avoid them.

"I'm so sorry─" He apologises, but the moment our eyes meet, recognition flickers in his gaze while his lips go parted in shock.

"Stella?" His voice is barely above a whisper, but I don't waste time heading in the other direction and walking away briskly. Thank God that I'm not wearing heels, or else my feet would already be hurting.

"Stella! Wait!" He calls for me a little louder from behind, which drives me to quicken my pace. I grit my teeth. Damn it, Sim Jaeyun.

It's ironic how fate wanted me to meet him, just like when I first met him back in college. How uncanny. My eyes skim through the crowd, trying to find Jen, but she is still with her father, engaging in a conversation with other fellow associates in suits.

My stomach churns with unease while my heart rate doesn't seem to be slowing down, especially when another pair of eyes have me locked, unable to look away. Sunghoon. To make it worse, he's only standing a few metres from me.

The expression on his face is akin to Jaeyun's, as though he can't believe to see me here out of all the places. He steps forward, and I can see the way his hand is trying to reach out to me. "Stella." His deep voice is discernible amidst the music that is playing.

It is ironic how the music fits the situation. It's 'we can't be friends' by Ariana Grande.

♪I don't want to tiptoe, but I don't wanna hide♪

I shake my head at Sunghoon, warning him not to get closer to me, but he's hesitating. I turn to the side, and my heart almost lurches when Sunoo and Jay spot me with their eyes widening.

"Stella!" Jaeyun stops just a few metres from me, and his gaze is fixated on me with such intent while despair sheens in his eyes. "Please, love."

♪Just want to let this story die, and I'll be alright♪

"Don't, Jake." I force my voice to come colder, and it seems to work as he visibly flinches. I must remain unwavering, and I must not forget my goal, which is to get them to hate me.

"Stella." I draw a sharp breath when Heeseung calls for me from the other side, and I'm now surrounded by them. They all look and sound genuinely shocked to see me. Of course, they would be. They never expected that I would be one of the major external travel managers in the same industry as them.

♪We can't be friends, but I'd like to just pretend♪

It's getting harder to breathe, and I feel overwhelmed by them. I know I said that I would remain unwavering, but right now, I just want to curl up into a ball and bawl my eyes out. Seeing their faces up close only hurt me deeply, like a knife slicing my heart.

"Stella, what are you doing here?" Sunghoon asks as soon as he recovers, and his eyes harden as they stare right into mine. "After disappearing on us four years ago, you had the audacity to show up like this?"

The sheer hatred he emits feels familiar, reminding me of when we used to be enemies. I guess we are enemies again, especially with the way he looks at me.

I don't respond, and even if I wanted to, I couldn't, because the next thing I know is that someone has dragged me out of their sight in a swift manner, as though he knew I needed some saving.

"Jungwon." I mutter his name numbly as I allow him to drag me somewhere else. I can only stare at the back of his head, wondering if he feels just as shocked as they are.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

We are at an empty meeting room, which is situated in the reception area, but just a little further from where the people are partying. I watch Jungwon in silence as I sit by the window sill while he paces back and forth with his fingers running through his raven locks.

I hold myself back from flinching when he directs his sharp gaze at me. "What are you really doing here out of all places?"

"I've been invited, of course." I answer curtly, hating how his intimidating disposition makes me feel small. "If I weren't invited, I would've gotten kicked out."

"I get that, but how?" He asks, looking bewildered, but then realisation hits him as his eyes go wide. "Unless you're working for F1."

I manage a bitter smile. "There goes your answer." I stand, smoothing down my dress. "Anyway, thanks for helping me to escape. I should head back now."

Just as I'm about to open the door, Jungwon puts his hand firmly on the door, preventing me from opening it. I shoot him a glare. "Yang Jungwon."

"I'm not done with you yet, Stella." A muscle ticks in his jaw, looking oddly attractive.

I scoff in disbelief while my mind recalls the last time we've ever talked. "We've been way done since that night at the gala. You said so yourself, or have you forgotten?"

"I know what I said, and there hasn't been a day where I don't regret it." Jungwon steps closer to me, prompting me to back up against the door. I maintain eye contact despite how flushed I feel by the distance between us and how the air around us shifts into something a little more dangerous.

"Then why did you do it?" I ask coldly. "I even insisted that we remain friends even though you would be engaged to another woman."

"Don't you get it, Stel? I don't want us to be just friends." His eyes darken, making me deflate by the intensity. "I didn't want to marry anyone that wasn't you, but you seemed nonchalant about it and the fact that you still insisted on us being friends."

My breath catches in my throat as the distance between our faces is dangerously close. I find it getting harder to breathe. "Jungwon."

"I didn't want you like a best friend, and even now, I desire only you." He caresses my cheek gently, but I sense danger still lurks beneath it. "I want to be yours, Stella."

My eyes flicker at his lips. Just one movement, and our lips collide. Just one. But I know better than to fall into the temptation.

I force myself to shove away any affection or familiar sentiments as my eyes turn colder. "Step away from me, Jungwon."

He doesn't deter. "Not until you give me your answer."

"There is no answer." I grit my teeth. "I suggest you drop this. From the moment you left, we were no longer friends or best friends. You're just a stranger to me now."

Hurt resides in his gaze as he staggers a step back. "You don't mean that. The Stella I knew wouldn't say those."

"The Stella you knew is dead." I continue to speak with such resolution. "Move on, Jungwon. Because I did."

I swing the door open and immediately leave him in the room. I can hear my heart breaking as I realise how I managed to hurt him. I blink away the tears that collect on the rims of my eyes.

As my eyes drift to the view in front of me, my lips flatten once more while my stomach churns with the previous unsettlement. I have a feeling that tonight is going to be a long night.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The advantage of throwing the communal party in the massive reception is that the majority of the guests are within the main section of the party, so I won't have to worry about anyone stumbling into this area or listening. The last thing I need is for anyone to learn that I have an intricate history with the Formula One stars.

The music sounds faint as I maintain unwavering eye contact with them. Though my facade must've been cold with such resolution, my heart is pounding hard against my chest. I should've known better than to assume that this night would be going just fine without having to face them.

But something appears in my mind amidst the melancholy brimming in the atmosphere. Are they finally on good terms with Jungwon, who didn't bid them goodbye or even closure?

"You were with Jungwon. Where is he?" Sunoo asks, and even as he is the first to break the silence, it isn't enough to dispel the melancholy in the air that seems to feel suffocating with each passing second.

"I don't know." I reply, maintaining my poker face. "Surely, you guys have his contact information, right? Then call him."

"You think it's that easy?" Sunghoon scoffs, the hostility he emits feels nostalgic. His eyes are so cold and filled with hatred. "You don't even know the things we've all been through."

"Because you chose to disappear, like a coward." Riki adds as he leans his back against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, and for the first time, he looks just as resentful as Sunghoon. "We would've been fine if you'd told us that you didn't want to stick around us any longer, but no, you chose the same method like Jungwon did to us."

"Ni-Ki." Heeseung looks at him, as though he is warning him, but Riki doesn't relent as he leans away from the wall and stalks towards me with his glare burning straight into my eyes.

"Let him." Sunghoon tells Heeseung. "She deserves to hear what he has to say for all of us."

Riki continues, and with each word he speaks, it is as though it is venomous. "Instead of checking on us to see if we were okay after we had saved you, you chose to abandon us without a second thought. You're just the same as Jungwon. Both cowards."

"Ni-Ki, enough." Jay says sternly, but earns a glare from Sunghoon in return.

"Was Ni-Ki wrong for saying all those things? Look at her! She doesn't even look the slightest bit remorseful!" Sunghoon exclaims.

I choose to remain silent as they start to bicker amongst each other. Little do they know that they're wrong. In fact, I did check on them. I did have second thoughts.

"I just don't get it." I speak up, drawing their attention. My hand curls into a fist at the side. "Why are you all acting this way? Why are you all hurt by the fact that I left?" My voice is resounding as I try to remain unwavering. "We weren't anything beyond friends. Just like what they all used to say, I'm just one of your girls."

"What has happened to you, Stella?" Sunoo asks sadly. "Why are you being this way?"

"I'm right, aren't I?" I ignore the stinging pain in my chest. "I was there to satisfy your wants and needs. I was just─" A painful lump appears in my throat while the back of my eyes are beginning to sting. "─a slut to entertain you lot until you'd get bored of me."

"You're not a slut, Stella." Jake doesn't bother to hide the fact that he is hurt by my statements as he stares at me with such devastation.

"How could you ever think like that?" Heeseung asks in a broken whisper. "We loved you. I loved you, and I still do."

Don't cave in, Stella. I mask my true feelings as I release a humourless chuckle. "You still don't get it, do you? You can't love me because─" My heart starts to bleed, "because I don't love you." I ignore the way most of them visibly flinch, as if I had hit them. "Just as I said before, we weren't anything beyond friends, and we certainly can't be friends."

"I hate you." Riki's whisper is resounding, enough to reach everyone's ears. He stares at me with such resentment, but he can't hide the pain written on his face. "The Stella I knew wouldn't be this heartless. I hate you."

"Ni-Ki." Sunoo sighs exasperatedly as Riki leaves the area before he chases after him.

"You're being cruel, Hwang." Sunghoon clenches his jaw, and amidst the hatred, I can see glimpses of heartbreak in his beautiful eyes. "Did my confession four years ago mean anything to you? Did we even mean anything to you?"

"I'm not being cruel. This is me slapping reality on all of you—that you are better off without me, just as I am." The lie tastes like poison on my tongue. "Whatever feelings you have for me, I'm not going to reciprocate them. We wouldn't work out, anyway."

"You don't know that." Jay steps forward, his hand reaching out for me, but he pauses before letting it fall to his side.

I shake my head. "It would be wise for you to forget me and move on with your lives."

As I turn around with the intention to run away for the ninth time, I feel a hand latching itself around my wrist firmly. "You think it's that easy for us to forget you?" Sunghoon's voice cracks in between, tugging at my wrist. I feel tears prickling in my eyes, but I don't turn around to look at him or any of them, or else they would catch glimpses of my true feelings.

"Please, just move on." I plead, gritting my teeth. "You'd only hurt yourself if you continued to stay hopeful that I'd return."

"Guess what, princess? You've already hurt us by breaking our hearts four years ago." Sunghoon says. "They're not going to mend by themselves unless the owner who broke our hearts mends them."

I forcefully yank my wrist away from his grasp before looking at him through blurry vision. "Then find someone else to mend your broken hearts." I tell him harshly, though my heart is screaming at me once more for hurting them.

"Stella, please." Jay pleads, looking as vulnerable as ever. "Don't be difficult."

"The only ones who are being difficult are you guys." I turn my back on them, but as I do, I spot Jungwon just a few metres away from us. The expression on his face is hard to decipher, but I'm certain that he heard everything. "Don't approach me, and don't talk to me again. If you do, I'll pretend not to know you." I say my final piece, and my voice wavers at the end.

I don't waste time walking away from them briskly with a fallen teardrop sliding down my cheek. As I busily try to wipe it away, I halt my steps when I see Jen in my view. The way she is looking at me tells me that she has been eavesdropping on us.

Jen glances behind me before she grabs my hand and takes me somewhere.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Jen brings me to one of the lounge rooms, being careful that no one follows us. She closes the door while I settle myself on the mini-couch, feeling numb from whatever happened. My eyes remain fixated on my hands, and I don't look up as Jen sits next to me.

"You've probably heard everything, or at least most of it." I say quietly.

"I'm sorry." Jen sounds apologetic. "I was searching for you, and when I saw you with them, I couldn't help but to eavesdrop." She places her hand on my back. "The Formula One stars—they're the guys you told me about before."

I nod my head sullenly as my lips quiver. "I managed to hurt them." I look at her with a wavering smile while tears are brimming on the rim of my eyes. I chuckle brokenly. "It's what I wanted, and it's my goal. To hurt them so they won't have to be tied to me just as they did before."

Jen's eyes soften. "I understand, and I'm not picking sides, but from the way I perceived it, they do seem genuine, and they love you, Stella."

"That's the problem, Jen. They can't." I croak out, the tears are finally spilled. "It's for the best. I don't want anything to happen to them like the incident four years ago."

"But that was in the past, when you were in Seoul." Jen counters as she brushes a fallen lock from my frame. "Now that you're out of there, you can do whatever you want now. You're no longer tied to your past."

"You don't understand. Even if I'm no longer tethered to the Hwang name, my past will eventually catch up to me." My hands tremble on my thighs as I recall a certain memory that engraves deep in my mind. "I don't want to risk anything, especially when Hwang Minhyuk isn't done with me."

"Wait, what do you mean?" Jen's face turns serious. "Stel, what are you not telling me?"

With one look at her face, I burst into more waterworks, prompting her to bring me into her warm embrace as I cling to her while my mind drifts off to flashbacks.

▰▰▰▰

As soon as I recovered, the law enforcement officers paid me a visit and informed me that Minhyuk had made a request to meet me. Yeji was hesitant, but something told me that it would be wise to meet him before I left Seoul for good.

So here I was, facing the devil himself, with a clear glass in between us. It felt good to see him in his prison uniform after knowing the amount of blood he had spilled. I felt nothing but pure hatred and resentment as I glared at him, especially after knowing that he had killed Mary. What's worse was that he didn't even look remorseful.

"So why did you want to meet me?" I broke the ice, and my voice had no traces of warmth. "Surely, it couldn't be an apology, especially coming from a monster like you."

"You are right." Minhyuk smirks coldly at me. "I heard that you'd be leaving Seoul for good, but did you really think that you'd be safe even if you decided to fly to another country?"

"Your threats don't scare me, and you can't hurt me anymore." I stated in a monotone manner. "Seriously, you're wasting my time─"

"You ought to be careful, Stella, because trust me when I say that I will rise again, and this time, I will not fail and I will not miss." Minhyuk cuts me off sharply.

I sigh, rubbing my temple. "Let me guess, you're going to kill me again."

"Not only you. I'll kill the people you hold dear. Starting with those guys who you spread your legs for!" Minhyuk sneers at me, and this time, I felt chills down my spine. "You ought to be careful, Stella. You may never know when I'll rise again."

"The law won't allow you." I counter firmly.

Minhyuk chuckles. "You have no idea how influential and powerful the Hwangs are, do you?" He slowly rises from his seat, looking down on me with such animosity. "Heed my words, Stella. Wherever you go, they go, and when I find them, I'll be sure to carve out their hearts and deliver them to you on silver platters."

This time, I didn't hold back from the anger I was seething with. I abruptly stand, my seat flinging away. "Don't you dare hurt them, you sick psycho!"

Minhyuk took pleasure in seeing me in this state. "I was right. You love them. This makes everything easy and delightful."

I gritted my teeth. "I'll have you imprisoned until the day you die, Hwang Minhyuk."

Minhyuk startled me when he slammed his hand on the glass, and his erratic behaviour alerted the guards. "Don't underestimate what I can do, Stella!" He struggled in the guards' grip as they attempted to bring him away. "Mark my words! I won't let you have your happy ending! I will find you! You hear me, Stella?!"

I staggered a step back as my chest started to hurt while Minhyuk was still shouting in the background, cursing me, until he began to fade.

▰▰▰▰

Yeji was being careful as she eyed me cautiously with the way I walk, though I was still limping slightly due to the injury on my thigh, thanks to Rena, who was currently behind bars. Like father, like daughter.

"I just need to see them one last time." I told Yeji as we stopped outside of the room where the guys were in separate beds. Just earlier, I stopped by Jaeyun's private room, where he was regrettably still in a coma. I watch with my heart aching at the sight of Riki, Sunoo, and Jay conversing with small smiles on their faces. Sunghoon looked asleep, whereas Heeseung was still in a coma due to the fatal injury to his stomach.

"I'm done." I said shakily as I wiped the tears away from my cheeks. "Let's go, Unnie."

"You know, you don't have to leave them like this." Yeji held my arm as we walked away. "Yes, they hurt you when they revealed their involvement in their parents' schemes, but even I can tell that they genuinely love you."

Yeji didn't know another reason why I was doing this. She only thought that I was still reeling in hurt from the revelation that they became closer to me due to their parents' schemes. She didn't know about the promising threat Minhyuk told me yesterday.

"It's for the best, Unnie." I told her as I held back my tears. "They will move on and forget about me eventually."

Yeji could only sigh at my adamant behaviour. No matter how much she tried to persuade me, I would remain steadfast. Besides, I'd rather have them hate me for leaving than risk their safety just because they got tied to me once more. Yes, I believed in Minhyuk's warnings. That monster was capable of anything.

I'd rather die than allow anything to happen to them a second time.

PREV CHAP | NEXT CHAP

#enhypen #enhypen fanfic #enhypen poly #enhypen reverse harem #enhypen x fem oc

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podcast-official · 2 months

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Old Partner In Crime, Chapter 1: Running Away Just Made Sense

Author's Note: This fic was inspired by Arms Unfolding by dodie so y'all should go listen to that first. Also this is my first fic that I've written since my middle school LoTR phase so please be nice, haha. It's not super heavily edited, so some things might not be worded quite how I want them to be, but all my grammar and punctuation should be good because personally that pisses me off lmao.

Relationship: Juno Steel/Peter Nureyev

Tags: Cuddling/Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Angst, Juno Steel is a Good Significant Other, Peter Nureyev is a Good Significant Other, Healing, Recovery, Communication

CWs: Mention of SH (cutting), mention of alcoholism, (everything turns out okay, I pinky promise), arguments, miscommunication, very non-explicit sex, references to past trauma, unhealthy coping mechanisms

It started all fell apart one night when Juno was out late and didn't call. The last few months had been... tense. More arguments. Less communication. When Juno was an hour later than he said he'd be, Peter started to spiral. He's left before, his mind told him. And he was right to. Peter went to the mirror in the bathroom, clutching the edges of the sink, letting the cold porcelain dig into his skin. He felt sick as he looked at himself.

Not so pretty anymore, are you? the voice in his head taunted. He deserves better. He swallowed. "I'm being ridiculous," he said aloud. "Juno's coming home. He's going to come through that door and wrap me up in his arms and kiss me like he has every single day for the last year and a half. He's just running late."

He shut his eyes tight. "He's just running late," he whispered, trying to quell his fear. He twisted the ring on his hand, the one that promised that Juno would never, ever leave. It felt too tight all of a sudden. A chain instead of a tether. He turned from the mirror and grabbed his coat from where it lay on the couch. He had to get out. He had to leave. He had to run. Every single nerve buzzed with the message that he was in danger.

He walked for two hours before he made it back to the apartment, spiraling deeper and deeper. He'd already made up his mind to go back and get the emergency bag he kept packed in the back of his closet. It was better than sleeping in an empty apartment. When he got back, however, he saw Juno on the couch, head in his hands, a glass and a half empty bottle of whiskey sitting in front of him on the coffee table. Peter would've sworn that bottle was full this morning. Juno had been drinking more than usual, now that he thought about it.

Juno looked up at him. "Nureyev, where the hell have you been?" Juno snapped and Peter flinched.

Then something hard and angry and bitter lodged in his heart. "I could ask you the same question, Juno. I went for a walk, that's all. You were late and I was worried and-"

Juno gave a little disbelieving laugh. "You were running away, weren't you? Or planning on it, at least. God, Nureyev, it's been, what, three years now, and you still can't fucking trust me? I come home an hour late and you completely lose it?"

"Why are you angry at me?"

"Because you can't seem to believe for a moment that I'm not going to leave. And now I can't trust that you weren't. I bet you were just about to grab that bag you think I don't know about from the closet and run off to who knows where if I wasn't here."

"Juno, I'm sorry, but you didn't call or message or anything and I had no idea where-"

"Oh, grow up, Nureyev."

"Juno, I don't want to fight-"

"Fine! Then we won't! I'm going to Rita's."

Peter's face hardened a little. "Fine."

Peter thought in that moment that if this was one of those romantic dramas Rita watched he'd realize that if he let Juno walk out that door right now, their marriage would be over, that he should run after him and grab his arm and tell him he loved him.

But he didn't. He watched Juno leave and then silently poured himself a glass of whiskey from the bottle on the table, downed it, and poured another. He stared into space for a long while, feeling the urge to do something he hadn't done since he and Juno had reunited. He wanted to feel cold, sharp metal against his skin, to-

No. He couldn't do that, because Juno would notice next time they-

Wait.

It's not like he loves you anymore. You've known it for months now. It's not like he'll see you with your clothes off anytime soon.

An hour later, Peter was glad that Juno had bought bandages recently.

He curled up in bed and wept until he fell asleep.

#peter nureyev #juno steel #jupeter #tpp #the penumbra podcast fanfiction

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themournwatcher · 1 year

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“You could go anywhere,” Fenris said, leaning against the doorway; he swallowed the space like a shadow. “You could turn into one of those birds and fly away. Is that not the kind of freedom that being a mage gets you?”

“Maybe,” Jurian sighed. He watched the seagulls soar past the window of his bedroom and out to the sea. Dark skies revealed a storm heralded on their wings. “But it’s not really true. I could fly away, but I’d have to come back. There’s so much keeping me here, so much I have to do.”

Jurian whipped his head around to look at Fenris. “There’s so many people I owe; this life is like a debt I can’t pay off. I could leave. But could my soul come with me when it’s tethered to so many other people? And if it can, how much could I have claimed to love?”

Fenris appeared to consider this question but didn’t answer, not at first. Instead he swirled the bottle of wine in his hand as though it’s murky depths would reveal some hidden truth. “That sort of sentiment keeps you trapped.”

“I know it’s not a chain,” Jurian said; a mess of silk and brocade on the bed, he buried his head and hands between his knees. “But it might as well be. My heart is what damns me. I can’t look away—so what if I’m free? What about everyone else?”

Silence came from the doorway, and then a long sigh. “You cannot save everyone, Jurian.”

“But I can try,” Jurian murmured. “That’s why I stay. I want to save everyone I can. I could save them from what I couldn’t save myself from.”

“You would burn yourself out.”

“I would be free.”

“You will be dead. I would rather not have to carry your corpse to Hawke’s door. Have we not all lost enough?”

Jurian sighed, falling back against the messy sheets of his bed. He stared up at the cloudy night sky through the wisps of fabric that passed for curtains. “I would take you with me. If I left.”

Fenris paused with the bottle of wine half-raised to his lips. “I would ask no such thing of you, Jurian. I fear that I am not capable of changing shape, as you can, to fly away from here.”

“I said flight,” Jurian murmured. “I meant flee.”

“You said yourself that it would not rid you of your obligations.” Fenris sipped at the wine. Jurian had to have been drunker than him for this sort of talk. Fenris found that he wasn’t drunk enough for it, either.

“It wouldn’t. But if you said the word, I’d run. I’ve grown up running. I don’t know anything better.”

“And what if I asked you to stay?”

#nonsense posting honestly #enjoy this WIP that isn’t really a WIP #more like a ramble #I’ve been really anxious all day #money issues and stuff #so I decided to whip up this for comfort #I think their relationship could be really cute #the slowburn #the desire for freedom #but also togetherness #we could leave #but what if we built a home here #idk it’s kind of a ramble #dragon age #dragon age 2 #da2 #fenris dragon age #jurian amell #Cas writes

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landprince · 1 year

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this is a modern au vampire!riku/sora fic honestly when I get better at art I'll probably make a small comic about this instead of trying to write it

Fear held him tightly in its icy grasp. It was a chain that wrapped around his torso and kept him tethered to the kitchen floor, it kept him from running even if he currently had the ability to realize that he should really be running.

His heart, such a frantic thing now, fluttered about inside his chest worse than a bird with a broken wing. It battered itself against his ribcage, bruising and wounding with each pump of blood that coursed through him.

Is this what it feels like before people die? He thought as the looming figure in front of him dipped its head closer.

A sharp inhale. The scent of sweat and copper.

Sora shut his eyes as cool lips pressed against the tight column of his bowed neck. A shudder wracking down his spine at how careful and genuine the kiss was. It was almost as if he wasn’t about to be devoured by a monster and instead was receiving a lover’s kiss.

His fingers dug into the fabric of a shirt, tugging closer the cold body that was hard and unyielding against him. His head lolled even more to the side, abundantly baring pliant flesh to the creature that pinned him against the rickety fridge in his apartment. He could feel the heat of the blush blazing across his skin, and when the blood bloomed underneath the tissue he could feel how Riku became more excited and pressed him harder against the front of the fridge.

If he wasn’t seeing stars before he surely was now.

Magnetic letters clattered to the floor as the appliance creaked in protest the weight of two men against it. He wondered if it might be best to move somewhere else, but before he could continue that train of thought something cold and wet dragged along the juncture where the neck meets the shoulder.

“I promise to be as gentle as I can…” Cool breath blew over saliva slicked skin and this time his knees nearly gave out. The gentle graze of teeth followed Sora whimpered out a pathetic noise caught between a whine and a moan. “But I can’t promise no pain.”

His eyes squeezed tight as he gave a sharp bob of his head once in acknowledgement, desperately trying to will his heart to pause it’s marathon long enough that he could suck in some air without his chest aching. He looked up into pupils blown wide while surrounded in a sea of blue-green.

“I know. I trust you, Riku.”

Hands were on his face, tilting it upwards enough that he could connect with the lips that were on his skin mere seconds ago. His racing pulse finally settled and for a moment he thought it stopped altogether as two mouths melded perfectly together.

It was heaven.

It was torture.

Distantly he was aware of the affectionate gesture of his hip being stroked by Riku’s free hand, but he didn’t have long to ponder on the notion before the tang of copper filled his mouth.

He was bleeding and a sudden panic flared to life inside his chest. The broken bird of his heart once more clashing against the bars that were his ribs as the vampire pulled back, eyes no longer holding any trace of that lovely shade of seafoam he adored and now a deep inky black.

“Sora--” Riku’s voice was strained, the blood on his lips honestly probably too much for him at the moment. His gaze was darting back and forth between Sora’s eyes and mouth. “Are you really sure? If you tell me to stop, I’ll do so.”

Warmth now spilled down his chin while the vampire stared at him with a starved expression.

A low rumble sounded from deep within Riku’s chest and seemed to reverberate into his own. The scrape of metal made him wince momentarily as Riku dug his nails into the seemingly fragile door of his fridge as he no doubt fought to control the bestial urge to tear into his throat.

The vampire had his teeth bared somewhat, fangs poking out past curled lips. He was hungry, and Sora knew that if he said no Riku would be okay with his answer and stop immediately. He truly did care for him and didn’t want to hurt the fragile human.

He’d never really seen Riku’s fangs before now. Sure, he caught a glimpse a few rare times, but up close they looked so much bigger. Sharper. And, oh gods, they were going to sink into his neck and the thought excited him if anything.

What could be more intimate than sharing your life with someone you deeply cared for?

“I told you: I trust you,” he mumbled, sounding even to himself just a tad unsure. His tongue darted out to lick up some of the blood on his mouth, suddenly self conscious of the potential rudeness of bleeding openly like that.

The rest was wiped away, leaving a crimson stain across the back of his hand.

He knew it was unfair to Riku to just bleed like that in front of him. But Riku had him pinned so tightly against the fridge all he had to work with was his own tongue and the back of his wrist to wipe away the last sluggish flow of crimson.

Digging up some more resolve he let it saturate his next few words. He wanted this, he really did, and he wanted Riku to know he wanted to be bitten. “What kind of a boyfriend would I be if I didn’t help you get food? And I know you would stop before I-- well, before I could die.”

His body once sang with tension, but now every muscle felt leaden as the adrenaline crashed and he slumped against Riku’s chest, knowing his weight meant nothing to the vampire, and allowed Riku to just hold him upright for a while. Talking about death, about dying, was terrifying, but he truly did trust Riku with his life.

But the admittance sucked everything out of him momentarily and he needed the sturdy support that was always offered in order to continue on with this weird dinner date. Sora was to be feasted upon first, then Riku planned on making him dinner in order to help replenish the blood loss.

“I promise to always treasure this, Sora. This gift, this moment, all if it will become a very dear memory for me,” Riku vowed as he resumed his gentle stroking of the sensitive skin right above his hip.

The urgency of the need to feed seemed to have settled down into a stable simmer once more. The rumbling in Riku’s chest no longer something loud (and scary!) but a soft rumbling that resembled a content cat’s purr. If they were on his bed Sora could fall asleep to the soothing sound.

“That’s so sappy.” Sora scoffed out a little snort as he shoved his face into Riku’s shoulder. As embarrassed as he was, he couldn’t let Riku see the silly grin that was now plastered onto his face. “You’ve been reading terrible poetry again.”

Cool breath washed over his ear when Riku laughed, causing Sora to let out a soft hiss as gooseflesh broke out across his skin. “Wrong. Those penny dreadfuls you hate so much.”

“Ugh, those are awful. You would think after living so long you would have taste.” The words dripped sarcasm, but both men knew there was an inkling of truth within it all as well.

“I chose you,” Riku drawled out as he nudged Sora’s face out of the crook of his neck. “Surely that makes up for my terrible choice in literature?”

“You made one good choice and that’s it.” Sora looked up at Riku with a half lidded expression.

Sucking in another breath to steady his nerves he pushed the jelly from his legs and managed to hold himself upright once more. His arms laced around broad shoulders and his fingers gently tugged at long strands of silver hair in an urging manner. “Please, eat. Before my heart tries to fall out of my chest again.”

Another laugh spilled from Riku. Their noses brushed together in an affectionate way.

Riku kissed him again, tongue pressing into one of the no-longer-bleeding divots in his lip and coaxing back some semblance of blood flow. The twang of metal once more splashed against his own tongue as the kiss turned into something macabre, but Sora couldn’t care as the vampire pressed hard kisses against him that ran down his jaw, his neck and a few stray ones peppered across the top of his chest.

The scrape of something solid against his jugular made him jolt momentarily before he felt fingers gently scratching his scalp in an attempt at alleviating the sudden nervousness that flooded his system. Riku could no doubt hear the sudden upkick in his heart rate and was trying to keep Sora calm in order to keep himself in check.

His own teeth dug deep into his lower lip, the blood now staining his teeth and lazily dripping down his chin. He breathed in through his nose, fingers digging into the strong muscles of the vampire’s back as he steadied himself.

A barely audible moan had him arching eagerly towards the cold body.

Sora barely managed to muffle the cry that escaped him when Riku bit into him.

One Year Earlier

He wasn’t a regular, not really, but Sora had seen his face enough to be able to pick it out in the small crowd that always seemed to appear inside the bookstore he worked at.

They shared one, maybe two, conversations in the few months since he started seeing the man around the place. Simple little sentences that tapered off after only a handful of followup comments.

Did you find everything okay?

That’s a good book. I’ve been meaning to reread it actually.

Let me know if this is any good next time you come in?

In truth he knew the bare minimum about this customer.

He knew he had silver hair. He was ridiculously tall. He had very pretty eyes and a voice that would be perfect to be serenaded by.

Or maybe the last bit of information was just wishful thinking and he had a voice just like any other person that visited the bookstore. Sora didn’t think too much about it, the thoughts about this handsome customer only available when he was actually in the place. As soon as he left, the man was almost instantly forgotten, lost in the sea of nameless faces that passed by on the daily.

Sora was content to never knowing more than the bare minimum of what he knew.

But it would be a lie to say he wasn’t curious at times. Sometimes he wanted to know more than just the surface of this man, he was intrigued by him, maybe even captivated if he had to choose a word.

#ark.txt #Kingdom Hearts #Sora #Riku #soriku #this was my favorite unfinished wip tbh

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elkenbulwark · 9 months

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@wildskissed cont.

Of course she still infuriated him just enough for him to keep that stubborn streak of half-orcish pride from being swallowed for the room in his mouth needed to admit that as far as some of those with elvish backgrounds went, she wasn't entirely detestable. In fact, he thought he'd done an outstanding job so far of maintaining the idea that despite the tell tale tips of her ears that he, despite having no real reason to other than she'd simply offered to help him find his brother, tolerated her enough to drop her down right gently in the mud when he was done playing ferry to a supposedly sore ankle...or five-....she certainly had a lot of those recently.

Still, perhaps he was losing his resolve at what he'd deem the proper boundaries between him and the sort whom had made it their prerogative in the past to find the chain he was tethered to of his own violation and yank? And it was only after that night she spent holding him amidst their usual reflex-checking banter that he'd begun to feel as though his efforts were slipping as seamlessly as his tusks along her throat or his hands up her thighs. That he'd allowed her this close to clamp on in a way that dropping her was no longer a possibility spoke volumes in itself, even if what was recorded within them was simply noting that he'd truly let his guard down and what a mistake he was likely making for doing so as if fate was determined to find him in the same scenario before the orcs had attacked and have him suffer the consequences of privately indulging a noble's unsightly urges in favor of avoiding the consequences of failing to.

But even then, the part of his mind that told him to be wary seemed as smoothed down as her hands working their way down the peaks and dips of his chest when he remembered how careful they were holding him unlike that enchantment upon his brow and the way it could keep him held against the ground with a snarl stuck fast in his throat . There was only a low rumble of satisfaction there now, spilling forth from his lips into the light dip in her neck that seemed sensitive enough to draw forth a moan that tickled his tusks after he'd affectionately bumped them around.

"-that really what's gunna do ya in for, izzit?" He mused upon swinging her into the window's stone frame, a teasing twist of lips twitched into place as if he hadn't recalled that one nutter and their unsolicited advice given aloud outside the Sharess Caress about how weak elves were about their necks and the spots behind their knees-...weirdly enough.

Though he simply had to grapple there whilst moving them some place that could help support her while he handled his buckle situation. After the transfer, his hands were more than obliged to slide back up, spreading her thighs some along the way as if she'd either forgotten how much room he needed, or she simply wanted him to do it again.

Either way, his tadpole had something to say about it, or rather show about it when it's interfering brain waves broadcast the post rage-brained idea of his to settle the tightened leather over his crotch into the space opened anew and to see if bumping around there like he was with his tusks around her neck would produce any other forms of moans of her. Instead (and in spite of the worm's wishes) he grew a deeper shade of eggplant just from feeling her leg stick to the hardest section of his pants and wondering if she'd been subjected to the same flash of fancy the tadpole seemed to enjoy oversharing.

"And 'this' is...what, ez'actly?" An attempt at a low grumble was halfway husked out as her hands mapped out the assortment of white splotches along his chest and stomach, and he freed one hand from her thigh when a simple push of his weight forward through his hips helped to pin the abandoned thigh underneath them while he used his duty freed hand to rake up her nape and firmly tilt her head back so she could see the way he regarded her suggestion through his lashes and the way his tusks nervously chewed his lip. "What ev'n is there left to take off ya? Cept you takin' the piss've 'course." The half-orc added whilst delivering another careful grind of tusks against the sensitive dip in her neck while his hips itched forward to repeat the movement, though he paused and heated up plum colored once he realized.

#//im helping exacerbate the whiplash :'u #wildskissed #suggestive cw #nsft themed #nsft

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darkyuffie-blog · 1 year

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You Can Do Better

A Stranger Things ONE SHOT

CW: Mentions of being cheated on. Breakup talk. Brief name calling by the ex towards Tessa. Very mild violence. Brief mention of Alcohol.

As Tessa ran out of the doors of the hideout, fall breeze catching her red hair as she ran, she could only think of Her no ex boyfriend's cruel words ringing in her head. "Been cheating on you for a while babe, think it's time I break this...whatever it has been for the past year off with you. I wanna be with Tina way more than I ever have you." SMACK! she had slapped Andy so hard it left a bright red handprint. Tina went to hit Tessa but with a quick right fist jab to her jaw she hit the floor, Andy yelling out "You stupid bitch! You're sucha sore loser Tess!" and Tessa hit the door running out as fast as her legs would carry her. She slipped into an Ally a block from the Hideout and slid down the wall with her knees pulled to her chest as she finally allowed herself to cry. She felt so humiliated. He did that in front of all of his friends and some of hers to.

~~~~~~~

Corroded Coffin had just finished their set and the guys were all at the bar drinking their free beers. He heard Andy talking back behind him turning around just in time to hear the loud SMACK ring out and a moment later watched Tess slam her fist straight into Tina's smug jaw before she ran out. Eddie, Jeff, and Grant watched it all go down as well. "Fuck Lady Tessara has one hell of a right hook huh. Tina's gonna feel that shit for a week at least." Eddie said from behind Gareth. Gare stood up and took off without a word after Tessa, shooting daggers at Andy who picked up Tina from the floor. She deserved that right hook for whatever had made Tess go off like that. She was usually calmer and more collected unless it came to one of the Hellfire Club getting bullied.

He saw her silhouette down a block disappear into an ally It was dark so he couldn't see her but he knew she was there. He always seemed to know where she was. They had been friends for so long it was like they had an ethereal chain that tethered them to one another. The other always seemed to know when they were having a bad day or if the other was angry. He sighed and called to her as he stepped into the darkness of the Ally. "Tess! Tess come on talk to me I know you're down here sweets..." He took another step forward, waiting for her to respond. She didn't need to be alone right now.

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

She heard footsteps nearing the Ally and knew who it was. She heard him turn into it and his voice called to her. She lifted her head when he called her sweets, the nickname he had been calling her since they were twelve. "G...Gare? I'm h...here... by the fence." She heard him walk to her and he sat down beside her. "You wanna tell me what the fuck just happened in there with ass wagon and Tina, Sweets?" She sniffled and looked up at Gareth. It was dark but she knew he looked back at her. The moon giving just enough light to see the shine of his eyes. "Andy... Andy broke up with me and told me he has been fucking Tina for three months..." She sniffled again and more tears fell. Gareth wrapped an arm over her shoulder pulling her against his side lovingly. He hated to see her this way. He loved Tess so much and every time a guy broke her heart, he wanted to break their fucking faces in. "Hey, shh shh, It's okay sweets. I know you were dating a whole year but listen to me. He was a dick Tess. He hated all your friends. He told people you guys fucked even though I know you didn't do more than hand stuff cause you told me so and I know you never fuckin lie t'me. He never tried to be interested in the things you adore. He wouldn't even take you to the dance two months ago and then had the BALLS to get jealous when I took you instead because you didn't deserve to miss it when I know how bad you wanted to go... You had more fun that night than you had the entire year you've been with him sweets... You... You deserve so much better than ANDY." He huffed and kissed her forehead gently.

She giggled a little between sniffles. "Jeez Gare. You're so passionate when you get angry. It's...kinda cute." She smiled up at him the tears finally stopped. It was just her and her favorite person. Everything else in the world didn't even matter now. She reached up intertwining her fingers with the hand that was draped over her shoulder and pressed her cheek against his chest. Calming herself by listening to his breathing and heartbeat. She felt so warm being here like this with him.

"Hey...Remember who you are sweets. You are TESSARA of the light of Eldath. Cleric and Light of Hellfire! In our darkest moments you are there to close our wounds and keep us fighting, and when you need us we are there to lift you back up onto your feet. We have fought through Vecna's army, hoards of orcs, vampires, goblins, kobolds, mind flayers, demogorgons, and even a DRAGON together and when we thought we were surely going to perish you brought us back from the brinks of death. Lady Tessara the brightest light of all of Eldath's chosen." He grinned and kissed her cheek.

"Yeah....you're right! All be damned if I am gonna let some NPCs like Andy and fucking Tina take me down. Hehe I floored her ass with one hit, shows how weak she is huh Gareth the Great?" She giggled and nuzzled her face against his chest with a smile, breathing in his scent. He always smelled like pine needles, rain, and cedar. At least to her anyway and it was a smell she adored. One day she was going to confess her feelings to him but right now, right now she just wanted to stay in this sweet moment with him.

(thanks for reading loves!)

#gareth emerson #stranger things #gareth x oc #fluff #comfort

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electricbluebutterflies · 5 months

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JessLeto + you need someone. let me be that person. let me be what you need.

Early-era, PG-ish, also on ao3.

She is learning her place. Learning what she was thrown into and how to survive. Learning-

This could have been so much worse, Jessica reminds herself. A few months in and at worst that man is cold and even that rarely, nothing for her to fear or immediately correct or-

This could have been worse, but it stings anyways.

It is not personal; she does not dare to assume anything is about her yet. Or if it is… she is an off-planet unknown, apparently not as well-socialized as she or anyone else assumed, on the line of almost too young for her positions, and already something of a problem. Like it’s her fault, she thinks, like-

She’d hoped for a clearer assignment, something where she would have enough pressure to keep her interested. Instead this waiting game, an evening or two a week of being cooperative but otherwise no one asks anything of her, otherwise she has free run of the place and too much time on her hands and-

She’s learned some hiding places these past few months, different corners of the complex where no one would find her even if they wanted to, and exploring has become one of her pleasures. The place is due for a major renovation that won’t happen, her counterpart too apathetic to do so much as change the color of a curtain, and when she has more power-

When she has more power…

The idea tempts her, on a rainy afternoon she has decided to spend learning a hallway that hosts very occasional off-planet diplomatic guests but otherwise collects spiderwebs for years at a time. It would not be hard to manipulate her circumstances more than it was implied she was expected to. It would not be hard, perhaps not even requiring a shift in her voice, to become infinite here. That man would respond to her too easily, wouldn’t question her quiet desires, wouldn’t-

Oh, speaking of…

Of all people who might also be seeking quiet in empty spaces…

Jessica stands in the half-open doorway and watches the reaction she had not meant to provoke, her counterpart turning from an open window and bracing for just a moment before seeing her, before-

“I should have known-“

“I didn’t mean to-“

“Stay. Come over here. You’d like this view.”

He has tried to make this place a home for her, she reminds herself, consistently pointed out the beauty around them and she has little to compare it to but she has never seen a person so completely of their place in the world and-

She crosses the near-empty space to stand beside him, and it is a good view, almost as good as the room she’s tempted to reclaim in their own hallway because it’s pretty enough she’d abide a ghost for a roommate, almost-

On instinct, she reaches for his hand, needing the tether of it, needing something real before-

“You may not be surprised, but I am,” she murmurs. “You don’t wander as I do.”

“Not as often,” he corrects. “And not as aimlessly anymore, but… you have to understand, this has been my entire life, I know every quiet place in and around these walls and-“

“If I have disturbed one of yours-“

“I would not put it so harshly. You did not mean-“

“Exactly, and I-“

“Your presence may be an answer I did not know I needed. As you have often been in these months.”

She has pieced together the situation into which she was placed, what is said about her counterpart when he isn’t listening – a competent steward of the planet his family has held for centuries on end, an adequate link in a chain, no instability on the horizon but something directionless about him, still learning to focus, still-

If she is a solution, she thinks, then the whole place will be underwater in a year.

“Tell me what troubles you and I will-“

“It would be improper to burden you with-“

Jessica turns to face him, free hand on her hip and fire flowing through her and if she really is as fearless as her lover seems to think then let her be fearless now, let her be-

“This is what I was given to you for. You need someone. Let me be that person. Let me be what you need.”

“It would still be-“

“Is there any reason you hold your tongue other than-“

“No. You are… you have earned your place beside me, and that is why I struggle to-“

“I will not fault you. Whatever you need to say will not change-“

“What if there are not words?”

She can’t stop the eye-roll – already she has seen how he moves through the world, how his voice is all he really has, same as her but somehow so different and-

“Then let me be a comfort in the silence. Whatever you need, I am yours.”

She almost expects maneuvering, at least for his arms to wrap around her, but he barely moves. The fingers entwined with hers start tracing patterns, familiar enough already, but nothing-

“Does this make you happy?”

“Does it matter?”

“I can’t imagine this is what you thought you’d get. You seem like you were meant for something more…”

“I was not told my fate until it was aligned. I had hoped for different, but… this does balance out.”

“Oh?”

“I have not had to defend myself against you or anyone else since I came here. You promised me safety the first time we were alone, and you have not broken that promise.”

“Your standards are that low…”

“I would not describe them as such. I am meant to be adaptable. I would tolerate much worse before I would move against it.”

“I would hope for more than tolerance, but-“

“Why?”

He turns to face her better, clear eye contact and there is something hidden and haunted in that man, something-

“Because you hate everything and fear nothing, and I am fascinated by how you move through this world unlike anyone I have ever known.”

“You misjudge me. I do not hate everything. I do not hate you.”

She knows these are the kinds of words that bring pain later on, that any indication of affection will become a problem she will not want to solve, but-

“I had hoped, but… good to know.”

“Do you believe me?”

He pauses, takes a steadying breath, but still-

“Yes. Completely.”

#ebf writes fic #leto x jessica

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sparkly-key · 1 year

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Echo chamber

Aziraphale watch Crowley almost literally get dragged into Hell, leaving him alone on Earth. Well, not alone, but he might as well have been. Day 3 of Whumptober 2023. "Like crying out in empty rooms, with no one there except the moon."

Related but not related to Day 2's "Quite the Imagination" because if I get to physically torture Crowley in 1827, it's only fair to mentally unhinge Aziraphale in the same time frame, right? Right?!

“Crowley?!” the angel called, forcing himself not to yell as he stared aghast at the spot where the demon had stood less than a second ago.

(“My lot doesn’t send rude notes,” Crowley growled years ago as Aziraphale stepped away from the chains that had tethered him to the bastille’s stone walls a moment ago.

The gratitude stilled on the angel’s tongue at the reminder.)

If Aziraphale had a heart, he doubted he would have been able to hear the crickets and owls’ answers to his call over the necessary organ’s thunderous beating in his chest.

Crowley was in Hell.

The angel clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, and tried to assure himself that it was alright. Crowley was clever. He’d tell a tale worthy of Aziraphale’s bookshop to explain why he’d stopped a young urchin from committing the most grievous sin and chuckle about it with the angel, as they usually did after doing each other’s jobs.

Doubt filled Aziraphale’s mind, whispering that after all these years of worrying about what Heaven would do to him if they discovered the Arrangement, he should have spent more thought to what would happen if Hell discovered Crowley’s subterfuge.

The angel twisted the heavy gold signet ring around his pinky as he hastened out of the graveyard, the gesture doing nothing to soothe his nerves.

He lingered in Edinburgh for nearly a week - surreptitiously returning to the spot cemetery path where the demon had vanished, as if Hell would deposit Crowley in the same spot – before he admitted the futility of it, hurrying past the rear of Gabriel’s sculpture as though crossing its sight would summon the archangel himself.

London felt colder when he returned, as if the city was missing Crowley’s infernal presence. Though bustling as ever, Aziraphale couldn’t ignore the sense of loneliness that plagued him from inside his shop as days passed.

Without his little assignations with Crowley and with Heaven never popping in for a visit, he felt even more isolated than he had outside Eden, after the serpent had slithered back to Hell to report his success and Aziraphale had sealed off the Garden brick by brick.

(“Aziraphale, where is your sword?” She asked, Her Voice louder than the thunder the world had witnessed for the first time hours ago.

Aziraphale patted the boulder he’d just wedged into the wall as if he was testing its security instead of stalling so he could at least try to not look as guilty. He turned around, lifting his face to the sky, and wrung his hands. “It’s around … here … somewhere.”

Adam and Eve were specks in the distances, their miniscule forms swimming in the hot air over the vast expanse of sand.

She was silent, Her disappointment plain to the principality before he felt Her absence.

The Guardian of the Eastern Gate breathed a small noise of sorrow before he straightened his back and stared determinedly to the horizon. His post was a lonely one, but he would not disappoint The Almighty again.)

He didn’t know when he stopped telling himself that the tempter’s quick mind and silver tongue would spare him any punishment. But Aziraphale’s mind was eager to provide excuses, explanations that might assuage somebody else.

“He’s fine,” the angel fret, staring at the marks his shoes had worn in his Persian rug from his pacing these past 56 weeks. “He’s just being safe, staying away until things cool down.”

Time was a funny thing for an angel. It passed simultaneously in the blink of an eye and at a snail’s pace unless the celestial being was among those powerful enough to halt it.

(“Would you mind?” Aziraphale muttered at Crowley.

“Hm?” The demon asked, looking away from the jarred human remains filling the surgeon’s shelves. The blond gestured to Mr. Dalrymple, wiggling his fingers pointedly. “Oh. Yeah.”

Mr. Dalrymple froze as he ran a rag over the length of a cleaver, the blood smearing along the steel.)

Aziraphale inhaled sharply at the memory, so innocent then but now tainted by his guilt.

What if he’d been quicker? If he’d recognized the laudanum before Crowley and acted first? If he’d stopped the demon from drinking the opiate and saved Elspeth before she followed through on her plan?

Some angel he was, relying on a demon to do his job for him.

With a groan, he snapped his fingers and miracled away the worn marks on the rugs and retrieved his coat to venture out into the city.

The only difference in the path he tread now and the one he’d just vanished is that his footsteps weren’t as blatant as they were on the rug, but that was because bricks and grass and dirt were either too resilient to display them or too burdened by others to distinguish them.

Aziraphale had walked through the city countless times, circling the points Crowley and he had designated as their clandestine meeting locations. He fed the ducks in St. James Park, giving them extra handfuls of peas and fruit to make up for the demon’s absence. He peeked inside the pub they dined at when Crowley convinced him no one was watching, but the angel always denied himself a morsel of food or sip of wine out of penance for his inadequacy. He lingered outside The Globe, staring balefully at the banners proclaiming productions of the bard’s comedies. And when he’d finished his circuit, he’d return to his bookshop, and pace the length of his Persian rug.

“What is the definition of insanity?” Aziraphale asked himself aloud months later as he shrugged his shoulders out of the coat and fastidiously hung it on a hook, perched precisely to avoid stretching out the collar.

Doing the same thing over and over and over again and hoping for a different result.

“It can’t last forever,” the angel assured himself, his voice [1]filling the empty bookshop. “One day, he’ll come back. Who better to tempt humanity further into sin than the wily serpent who coaxed Adam and Eve into the original one?”

Crowley had been gone for years when Aziraphale had gotten … excessive with his miracles. He bestowed blessings willy-nilly, caring naught for how ludicrous they seemed. The young debutante in the park longed for a flower to adorn her plain straw bonnet? A field of wildflowers sprung up around her in a 20-foot radius. The urchins on the street corner gazed at the grocer’s apple cart, their hand pressed to their bellies to fruitlessly quell the empty ache? The cart’s wheel cracked, sending its bounty into the streets as the children scrambled to catch them and flee with their arms laden with produce – and the vendor found a few extra bank notes in their apron pocket.

The Almighty’s Grace was allowed to run rampant through London Town due to an unchecked angel who couldn’t bring himself to pray that Hell would realize the danger of not having an emissary to thwart him.

Aziraphale tossed the rude note from Gabriel into the waste bin and strode out into the streets, his tartan umbrella overhead to shield him from the downpour the way a brilliant white wing had sheltered him from a storm of shooting stars as a nebula formed in front of them.

A dandy dashing from awning to awning in a frantic race to save his new coat from the rain found his path miraculously dry as the droplets parted around him like the Red Sea had split before Moses.

“Aziraphale!” A voice barked out between the thunder.

The principality whirled, his eyes wide, at the name that had not been spoken aloud on Earth in 30 years. But the face that greeted him lacked Crowley’s sharp jaw and golden gaze. Instead, Gabriel’s lips were pressed together in a thin line of annoyance and his violet eyes were irked as he glared at the blond from the doorway of a tailor’s shop.

Aziraphale stilled, his shoulders slumping, as the archangel beckoned to him as if he were an impertinent child.

“What in Her name are you doing?” his superior hissed when Aziraphale reached him.

The blond closed his umbrella and shook it, trying to school his features into an expression less ... crestfallen. “My job, Gabriel. I am spreading Her Grace so all may know that the Almighty is everywhere.”

Crowley would have cackled at the exasperation on Gabriel’s face, Aziraphale was sure, but he was not the demon and the hard gaze dampened whatever spark of rebellion the principality had fanned moments ago.

“That flashy stuff went out of mandate decades ago, Aziraphale, we are now operating under a Blind Faith policy – the humans are meant to trust in the Almighty by finding her Glory in the world around them,” Gabriel explained patronizingly as they retreated into the shop. The tailor was nowhere to be seen, no doubt unexplainedly reminded of a chore in the back. “Besides, there’s no need for such actions. Our intelligence reports that the demon Crowley hasn’t been in London for years, off who knows where –“

HE’S IN HELL, Aziraphale mentally cried out as a wave of insanity washed over him and Gabriel’s words were drowned out. He knew where Crowley was, knew what had put him there. And Gabriel had just watched as the earth had swallowed the demon –

No. He hadn’t.

It had been a statue in the graveyard in the archangel’s likeness, not Gabriel himself. Because the only beings who had witnessed Crowley’s intervention were either too powerless to stop the demon’s abduction or were too powerful to let such a good deed go unpunished. Because Aziraphale had been alone in the cemetery with Crowley that night. And he’d been alone on Earth ever since.

He was jolted out of his thoughts when Gabriel snapped his fingers in front of his face and he forced the deranged burst of laughter that threatened to erupt from his lips down his throat.

“You’ve been down here too long, chum,” the archangel declared with a decisive nod, “and you could clearly stand to brush up on Her policies. I believe it’s time for you to return to Heaven.”

The words slammed into Aziraphale like the door of a vault, heavy and inescapable. He fought against the wave of panic.

He couldn’t leave Earth. He had to mind his shop. He had to protect his collection.

He had to be here. To make sure Crowley was alright.

“- We’ll assign somebody to Earth and they can use your shop as headquarters. Maybe Saraqael,” Gabriel continued, already planning to erase all of Aziraphale’s work.

“Unnecessary,” the blond interrupted, tidying his caravat and tugging at the hem of his waistcoat to smooth the few wrinkles in its fawn brown fabric. “I’d like to remain at my post, if you don’t mind.”

“Aziraphale, in the past month, you’ve acted – well, you’ve acted recklessly. It’s not dignified for an angel to be running amok as you’ve been. “ There was that tone. The one where the other angels acted as if he was a simpleton who needed to have everything explained to him.

As if he didn’t nearly 6,000 years learning as much as he could without having to ask questions[2].

(“I wouldn’t worry though,” the angel said with a small smile to hide his disappointment at the thought of his stars and nebulas reduced to a blip in the archives of the Almighty. “How much trouble can I get into just for asking a few questions?”)

“My apologies for my outburst, Gabriel, I don’t know what came over me but I guarantee you that it won’t happen again,” Aziraphale assured his boss with a tight smile. “You’ve made me see how foolish I’ve been.”

Crowley would come back eventually. And Aziraphale would be damned if his friend was greeted by another angel.

______________________________________________________________

[1] His voice was perfectly normal, thank you very much. Definitely not shrill. And it was perfectly fine to talk to yourself. After all, She had stationed him alone at the Gates of Eden and not spoken him after asking him about the sword. So clearly, he was meant to talk to himself.

[2] He could ask Crowley questions. He’d lost count of the questions he’d asked and the ones Crowley had asked in return.

#whumptober 2023 #good omens #Aziraphale #Crowley #cw: vague suicide references

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simiansmoke · 1 year

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@koopzilla cont (🔗 for when I find it lool)

"Ugh-really, dude? Not THIS again...!" Leave it to a Koopa to take the well-beaten past, put their melodramatic blue-shell spin on it just to watch anyone else privy to the same event explode. And explode he did - though with his energy still substantially drained and the weight of chain and chomp ball steady, he only manages a vicious spark manifesting first as a beat or two against the cell bars like he would drum the ground to upset someone's balance.

"You can't blame me for getting exactly what I SAID you'd get if you crossed that line! So quit... acting like -" Each word is heaved forth with a battering ram's strength added to each slam until he suddenly (seemingly) has enough and instead, grabs the bars with a strained and shaking grip. "-you didn't deserve it! After all the stupid and demeaning shit you put me through, the one way you fucked it up was GOING AFTER MY FRIENDS - forgetful asshole!" He'd already climbed up the bars a few feet, dragging the ball up with him out of sheer furious force. Feeling like he had a weighted blanket on and trapped during a smash fit was only getting him more worked up.

"SO STOP. ACTING - LIKE I'M-" A target spotted, he hangs onto the bars with one hand and one foot while he loops the chain around his wrist once. With a starting sway, he built up momentum to swing the thing over towards the supposed sleep bench behind him. "THE BAD GUY-" Well ... The ball does smash the bench to pieces, but DK failed to calculate that doing so would yank him off the wall once the ball reached far away enough. Sitting up from the pile of debris after a quiet moment of sawdust settling , he huffed. "...I meant to do that.'

While the Koopas chatted, DK stood with a stagger and shook the broken bench bits out of his fur, only half paying attention to the tooth fairy by Bowser's ankle. He sends him a glower and a quirked brow at the suggestion of guilty ignorance though. "...so I should expect the army breaking down my door when I don't know the answer to a bajillion plus one?" Ok , maybe being that stupid was a crime.

Crossing his arms when the wizard took his leave, it was not beneath the Kong prince to send him off with mild disgust via the tip of his tongue testing the air and settling between a flash of teeth. "...what a prick."

The resounding silence feels questionable - like at any moment a bomb could go off. Arms still tight over his chest, DK issues a sharp sigh. He would have hunkered down on his bed of wooden pieces had Bowser not wanted something else. A softened side glance settles on where the Koopa stood observing. One arm escaped the furl and a hand favored rolling his hair back slowly while his eyes shut in consideration.

"I really don't." His tone is a hair frustrated, but more playful in the sense because he adds. "It didn't come with extra brain cells." As his hand lowers from teasing his hair, he waits a moment before padding over to where the claws poked in through the bars.

"...hmm. The pool stuff was new, to tell you the truth." With a cautious flex of his hand, he started to reach over, then paused and scratched his chin sheepishly as his gaze drifted down."...after all the fall out, I guess I was ...really hoping I could - I dunno ? Make nice?" A soft snort follows his thoughts before he moves to stick his fingers out through the bars , partially threading with the Koopa 's attempt.

The little brush of contact seems to brighten the Kong a little - both in expression and luminosity as a small orb glowed to life over his naval looking as dim and sleepy as him. "... y'know, if I had to make a dumb guess...it kinda feels like- a scar left behind. When those magical tethers snapped." A careful poke of fingertip and claw makes him smile.

"And it's tryna grow back."

#//... excuse im still mobile :I but bored so here u go #koopzilla #//i like how bb can go from ferocious to dumb and cute at the drop of a hat #//or ball in this case #long post #format 4 later #verse;//holybananas

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bonnabiee · 3 years

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“Do you want to know more about my cat? Because you walked off before. The funny thing about a cat is that they are very persnickety but with the right person, they are not. Frumpkin with me, we are just so. “

- Caleb, CR2E41

Remembering how Frumpkin was Caleb’s childhood cat, and I’m wondering if he’s talking about Frumpkin now or remembering Frumpkin from back then, before everything went to shit and times were simple and happy with a little boy and his bestest pet cat.

#critical role #cr2 #cr2 spoilers #caleb widogast #i also think about how he releases fae frumpkin at the end of the campaign too #and he says out loud 'i had a good cat before #but you are not that cat'#it makes me think about caleb letting go of his past and finally being able to walk forwards into whatever life has in store for him #in the future #instead of being tethered and chained to his past #by regret and self loathing and misery and such grief #for what he did #anyway i love caleb a lot

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zico-if · 2 years

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐀𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐝: A story where you play as the vessel of an old eldritch horror after a ritual to summon a god went horribly wrong...

[ DEMO - Chapter 01 rewrite 20/03/23 ]

You were supposed to be a sacrifice in order to bring an eldritch god to your realm, a sacrifice that was never supposed to live. Instead of dying and summoning the god intended, you find yourself face to face with an ancient being that was chained and locked away for the horrors they once committed.

Alzurahm is their name. A once revered god but now a pitiful creature made of bone and shadow. After finding themself free of their prison, they realise there is nothing to tether themself to, until you come into view.

They make you an offer. Become their host and allow them a taste of freedom and they will grant you power to ensure you both live. The catch is that their thoughts will become your thoughts, their weaknesses will become your weaknesses and their fears will become your fears.

But things are never as simple as they seem. After the revelation that you are more than just human, The Court of Night decides to utilise the mistake they made by brainwashing you and shape you into something of their own that most would come to know simply as: The Vessel—someone who no one wishes to see at their doorstep.

After being sent on a mission to eliminate a traitor of The Court, a series of unfortunate events throw you off the planned course and onto another where you then find yourself hunting an evil much greater than the ones you were taught about.

Will you remain a puppet of The Court or will you cut the strings that tie you to them?

— Play as a female, male or non-binary character and customise your Vessel.

— Romance one of four ROs: A woman with unmatched skill in marksmanship, an agile swordsman, a figure who walks quietly in the shadows, and the traitor themself.

— Reluctantly join forces with The Order of Solitar and save the future from the reigning chaos or join them simply to save yourself.

— Reunite with people you never thought you’d see again...though it may not be as heartwarming as you may think.

— Be part of the Resurrection of a God that is of far greater power than you think was possible.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐉𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐍

Vira Duval [F] — Romanceable by f!MCs and nb!MCs

Vira has the sharpest eye Providence has to offer. Events of the past has led her to build a wall of safety around her, but there is a crack in that wall created by the few people she trusts and it is a crack that can be easily exploited if you so wish.

She is a tall woman, standing tall with a posture only nobles could have. Her skin is fair with faint scars that run along her back which were inflicted upon her when she was young. Much like her personality, her blue eyes are cold and calculating. She has hair of silk that reaches down to her lower back with a colour that is often compared to the feathers of a raven.

She is the twin sister of Aurius, older by three minutes.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐍

Aurius Duval [M] — Romanceable by all MCs

Aurius has refined mastery of all blades though his preferred weapon is a sword that was gifted to him by a friend. Unlike his sister, he is kinder and easier to speak with. Many have said that comfort is easy to find in him.

Like Vira, he is quite taller, almost by a head but he lacks the noble posture as she does. His skin is fair, clear of scars save for a tiny sliver by his lip. His eyes are a light blue that holds serenity and like the feathers of a raven, his hair is the same dark colour that is cut short and pushed back.

He is the twin brother of Vira, younger by three minutes.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐒

Rhian Scott [F/M/NB] — Romanceable by all MCs

Rhian is an expert of stealth, quietly making their way through conflict without being seen or heard. When they are out of the shadows, they tend to be charismatic and a bit flirty. But if they so wished, they could become just as serious as the jaded marksman.

They are of average height with skin kissed by the sun. There is a beauty mark just under the left side of their lips and their eyes shine a bright amber shade that could act as a torch. They have dark brown hair that seems to shift into red when hit by sunlight. F!Rhian tends to keep her hair long past her shoulders whereas m!Rhian and nb!Rhian tend to keep theirs short.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐑

Ilya Roson [F/M/NB] — Romanceable by all MCs

Your former partner and a traitor of The Court. Before they burned the bridges between you and The Court, they were kind and understanding, even a bit protective. But it is unknown whether or not it was all an act.

They are of average height, leaning towards the tall side. Their porcelain skin is smooth but with markings carved into the palms of their hands. Their hair is wavy, reaching just past their shoulder with the colour of silver. There is a storm that rages behind their grey eyes, fury and hatred burning within. But when they look at you, the storm begins to settle and is replaced by guilt and regret.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐋𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐆𝐎𝐃

Alzurahm [M/NB]

The horror that lives within you. They feed you power and often…their opinions. Only you can see them as they have no physical body anymore. They enjoy pretending to be what they aren’t—human.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍

Elias [M]

A leader of Providence. He is someone whom you thought was long lost—your older brother.

And the sworn enemy of The Court of Night.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎𝐑

Tiberius Cabas [M]

The man who raised you as The Vessel.

Behind the evils he's commited, there is a part of him that still cares for you even though he shouldn't.

𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒

Judas & Lorraine [M/F]

They’re dead :/

Hey, I’m Zico!

The Night Abridged is intended for 17+ audiences due to the content warnings: Body horror, strong language, violence, blood & gore and possibly more. It may be changed to 18+ in the future!

This is a project of mine that I’ve been daydreaming about lately so I thought I’d try my hand at turning it into an IF. I'm a sucker for romances so there won’t be platonic routes. Apologies to anyone who's disappointed with that!

Reblogs are much appreciated! Thanks for checking out this post! I'm still getting used to tumblr but if you have any questions, feel free to hit me up and send an ask.

#if wip #cyoa #interactive fiction #interactive game #interactive novel #new wip #game wip #urban fantasy #The Night Abridged

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fromcenotaphy · 4 years

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Sam and Cas and chaos energy

incomplete list of Sam and Castiel’s Chaos Hangouts, organized by the number of gunshot wounds involved:

zero:

locking a witch and a hacker in a warehouse together to decode a forbidden spellbook of dark magic in order to perform a ritual that will lift an ancient curse and coincidentally also unleash a primordial cosmic force into the world {Chaos Level: 4/10. this escapade demonstrates poor planning but is fairly pragmatic.}

Cas struggling to remove his physical hand from Sam’s chest in order to keep Lucifer from detonating Sam’s soul, a situation they are in because Cas has agreed to be possessed by an archangel and Sam has aggressively volunteered to let his soul be used as a battery {Chaos Level: 6/10. extremely haphazard but only somewhat chaotic.}

trying to extract angel grace from Sam’s body using a giant syringe that they found in the Bunker along with some random untested instructions they also found {Chaos Level: 8/10. baseline Sam and Cas messaround.}

poking around in the Bunker archives until they find the key to Death’s library so that Sam can bluff his way past a cosmic void entity in order to steal the book that contains the secret to defeating God {Chaos Level: 9/10. this is a standard Sam and Cas plan but with extra non-Earth dimensions added in.}

wrestling on a diner floor because Sam got brainwashed into believing he’s a 50s-era head of the household named Justin {Chaos Level: 18/10. off-the-charts Sam and Cas chaos energy.}

one:

Sam missing a ghost with a salt round and shooting Cas instead {Chaos Level: 9/10. includes gems such as: Cas states the obvious in a deadpan voice, Sam doesn’t apologize for waking up that morning and choosing chaos, also a literal clown is there.}

Sam going into a coma because they decided to have Cas probe the magic gunshot wound in Sam’s shoulder that is tethering Sam’s soul to God because Sam previously decided to shoot God with a magic gun {Chaos Level: 12/10. extra chaos points added because they have learned nothing from the Gadreel grace incident.}

psychically contacting their dead father figure so that he can orchestrate a mass soul prison break creating a distraction so that Cas can sneak into Heaven and break Metatron out of jail and bring him back to Earth in order to cut out his grace so that Sam can shoot Metatron in the leg and then Sam and Cas can finish each other’s sentences as they sass Metatron together while he screams in pain {Chaos Level: 100/10. the levels of pandemonium, batshit planning, interdimensional mayhem, and violent off-the-cuff sass here are unparalleled.}

multiple:

gunfight in a bar full of demons that 1) starts because Cas decided to go alone to meet a demon in a bar in order to ask him for information about a rogue archangel and 2) ends because Sam yells to the room that he is Extremely Done with Hell politics and will shank the next person who brings it up {Chaos Level: 15/10. this is only held back from being an easy 50/10 by the fact that Cas is chained to a chair the whole time the fight is happening.}

(inspired by this post which i am still laughing about)

#spn #sam #castiel #brOTP #anyway i love them #chaos duo #bros-in-law #they have learned nothing in 11 seasons and i support it #text post #cenotaphy posts #me taking a break from deancas angst to write something wholesome and pain-free? it's more likely than you think #i can't tag this as crack bc it's just a retelling of actual events on the show

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saintshigaraki · 3 years

Text

THESE ARE HARD TIMES FOR DREAMERS

title from bones by ms mr

pairing: yandere nanami kento x f!reader

word count: 2.6k

excerpt: You wish you’d studied the stars more, ingrained them so deeply into your psyche that you’d carry the night sky with you, always.

You wish they’d never been stolen from you in the first place.

a/n: nanami if ur reading this i’m free thursday night.

tags: yandere, angst, reader is once again full of rage, nanami love what have you done, overuse of the word hate

warnings: yandere tendencies, obsessive and possessive behavior, slight infantilization, noncon/dubcon, gaslighting (?), kidnapping, slight stockholm syndrome, mention of past suicide attempt

MDNI!

You can’t exactly pinpoint where it all went south. There’s not a specific date that stands out to you when you actively noticed things taking a turn for the worst. It’s like that fable. About the frog slowly being boiled alive. Except, in this case, the frog is you and the boiling water is Nanami. And in this case, this is not some story your mom used to read to you about the dangers of gradual escalation, it’s your life. If you can even call this monotonous hell you’re living a life.

You’ve got to hand it to him, you really didn’t see it coming. Nanami’s always been smart like that. Even now, after everything, or maybe even especially now, after everything, you can’t deny that.

You don’t bother moving from where you lay, sprawled out on the floor, when you hear the first click of many locks signaling that your sweet and doting lover has returned.

You used to try to rush him, or get the jump on him with the heaviest thing you could find. Once you started to get really desperate, you just screamed over his shoulder before he had time to clamp a large hand over your mouth.

None of it ever worked, of course.

It was months ago that you decided hopeless escape attempts simply weren’t worth Nanami’s wrath. He’s faster than you, stronger than you, and far bigger. And he always will be.

When your relationship with Nanami was still somewhat normal (though looking back you can’t help but notice all the things that weren’t normal, you suppose hindsight really can be quite the bitch in that regard) you never really thought too hard about how much stronger he was compared to you. In some ways, it might’ve even been comforting, instead of just horribly depressing. No one could touch you when your hand was tucked in his.

It hurts more than you’d like to admit that something you once found such solace in, is now what stands between you and any semblance of normalcy and shred of happiness.

(And fresh air. God, you miss fresh air so much it hurts, a dull never-ceasing ache deep in your chest. You miss the stars too. Sometimes, when you’re laying on the floor like you are now or in the dead of night when it’s all you can do to swallow down your screams, you try to map out constellations on the ceiling. You’re not very good at it though, and the few constellations you actually remember are starting to slip from your memory like water through fingers, no matter how desperately you try to hold onto them.

You wish you’d studied the stars more, ingrained them so deeply into your psyche that you’d carry the night sky with you, always.

You wish they’d never been stolen from you in the first place.)

It takes Nanami’s slightly disapproving hum to snap you out of your celestial spiraling.

You tilt your head back, just enough to find he’s towering over you. His mouth set in a grim line. His glasses, jacket, and tie have already been discarded, his shirt rolled up to his forearms. The sight of him like this use to make your cheeks burn. Now, it’s hard to rein in the urge to spit at his feet and hiss out every seething thought you have about him burning below the surface.

But the lecture you’d receive after a ‘tantrum’ like that wouldn’t be worth it. He always manages to twist your words, your own feelings, sometimes even your very sense of self, until you can hardly tell what’s up and what’s down. Until you can hardly distinguish your reality from his. Until all you can hear is Nanami’s voice in your ear, reminding you of everything you’ll never be. Of just how helpless you are.

(It’s like his hands are around your throat, choking and choking and choking.)

And once you’re nothing but a sobbing heap on the floor, he’ll pull you into his lap, tuck your face against the curve of his shoulder, and rub soothing circles into your back while saying something along the lines of ‘It’s okay, it’s okay. I’ll always be here take care of you’ until your sobs have quieted to the occasional hiccup.

You hate it, how he manages to make you feel so dependent on him. He’s so, so good at knowing just what string to pull so that you’ll unravel completely, just so he can put you back together again with his painstakingly gentle hands.

Nanami’s smart like that.

So, you’ve learned to bite your tongue.

“You’re insistence on laying on the dirty floor when we have a perfectly good couch and bed truly astounds me,” he says, monotone.

You don’t justify his sarcasm with a response, partly to stall what inevitably will come after this and partly to annoy him. Nanami doesn’t like it when you ignore him. It’s one of the few things you have the power to do that manages to get under his skin.

It’s these little rebellions, you’ve found, that make all the difference.

You eye the couch warily, it’s plush and huge. The perfect place for an afternoon nap. Nanami had traded out the smaller one he’d had before, for this one, a few months after you’d started dating. He’d wanted one big enough that you two could comfortably lay together as you slept and he read. You spent countless hours there, tucked into his side, with the setting sun warming your skin.

It’s also where you had told him that you wanted to end things. That he’d gotten too overbearing, too controlling. That you felt suffocated. That you still loved him dearly, but that you couldn’t do this anymore. It’s where you left him as you walked out with only a single bag in hand.

That night you went to sleep in some shady motel room and woke up back in Nanami’s bed with a padded handcuff chaining you to the frame.

These memories from before have a way of coming back to haunt you, they pass through the walls, whispering poison in your ears, caressing your skin one moment just to dig their claws in deep the next.

They mock you as you sit and rot and dream of stars you’ll never see again.

“You’re stalling.” He always manages to sound so distinctly unimpressed with you whenever you don’t follow one of his unwritten rules (and God even if you were actively trying to follow them, there are so many that keeping track of them is nothing short of an impossible feat).

You finally get to your feet, wringing your hands in a way that you know makes you look weak and pathetic. Just the way Nanami likes you so that he can swoop in and take such good care of his little darling love.

“Kento, I-”

“Save it,” he says, already walking towards the bedroom.

You could put up a fight, but all that’d do is make him angry, and then you’d have to do what he wanted anyway and deal with being tethered back to the bed for a few days while Nanami fusses over you like some sort of deranged mother hen.

You make your way over to the bedroom, already starting to strip, ready to get this over with as soon as possible.

You’re half-naked by the time you enter his room.

Even after months and months of this, the humiliation of standing nearly naked in front of him while he stays fully dressed never dulls, it’s still just as sharp and awful as the first time he made you do it.

(It’s like you’re peeling back your own skin, defenseless as he rubs salt in the wound.)

You suppose you should feel lucky that he lets you keep on your bra and underwear. Not that the undergarments he bought you really cover all that much, but in these four walls, beggars can’t exactly be choosers.

He takes off his watch, setting it carefully onto his dresser before walking over to you and starting his nightly inspection for any cuts or bruises you may have received (or given yourself) throughout the day while he was off at work. Off in the world you’ll never see again. Just the thought is enough to make you want to scream.

You used to be able to wiggle your way out of this, before the incident, as Nanami has dubbed it, but now it’d be a cold day in hell before he doesn’t painstakingly go over (almost) every inch of your skin with a careful eye and calloused hands.

His thumb always brushes terribly gently over the scar a few centimeters to the right of one of your jugular veins, where you had attempted to slit your throat after you realized that you would probably never escape this place. Never escape him.

You’d never seen Nanami as scared as when he walked in on you holding a knife to your throat. And you’d never seen him as angry as after he’d wrenched it from your hand using a type of speed that shouldn’t even be humanly possible.

He took a full month off work after that which coincidently also happened to be the worst fucking month of your life.

He cups your face in his large hand and presses a kiss to your temple. A sign that he’s deemed you just as pristine as when he left you and that he’s very pleased by it.

You want to bite his hand. You want to rip his flesh from the bone. You want to hold his heart in your hand and crush it.

(You want to go home. You want to feel the earth beneath your bare feet. You want to sit on a roof in your childhood neighborhood and watch the sun dip below the horizon and drown the world in golden light. You want to step out on an autumn day with winter just around the corner and smell the crispness in the air, feel it claw its way into your lungs.

You want to remember what it’s like to be human.)

Nanami’s lips are on yours before you can think, soft and enticing. You could push him away or just say no. He’d listen. Not even he can apparently justifying forcing you.

(We all have our limits, don’t we?)

But you don’t. You haven’t in a long while. And you hate yourself for it more than you could ever hate him.

He loses his shirt rather quickly and you manage to discard your bra before he lifts you up and tosses you on the bed. You don’t get a second to breathe before he’s over you, monstrous and awful and so terribly beautiful.

He takes a moment to caress your face, his knuckles brushing over your cheek so tenderly that it nearly makes you sick. You’re thankful when he finally says, “Open up.”

You do as he says and in the next second two of his fingers are stuffed into your waiting mouth.

“Suck.”

And you do, without hesitation, because you know what’s coming next. You know that for the next hour or so, there’ll be no denying the fact that you’re alive, that you’re not some ghost haunting these halls. It’ll prove that it’s blood that flows through your veins instead of stone, that you have not yet started to rot in your own skin.

He he pulls his fingers from your mouth without a word and leaves a trail of burning kisses down your sternum and stomach. He wastes no time pulling your underwear off and attaching his calloused thumb to your clit, rubbing tight little circles in a way that has you keening almost immediately.

In an embarrassingly short amount of time you’re wet enough for him to comfortably slip a finger in. Just one of them reaches spots you never quite manage to hit on your own, and you hate how much you love it. It has you moaning, nearly loud enough to drown out the lewd squelching by the time he adds a second finger.

“You’re so, so good for me,” he murmurs, voice rough. It sends a shiver down your spine.

You hate that the praise has you clenching his fingers in a near vice grip. You hate that he still affects you in any way after what he’s done to you. After what he’s reduced you to.

You don’t have time to stew in your self-loathing before his fingers find that spongy spot inside of you that has you seeing stars.

(And this is the reason you don’t push him away.

You’ll never step foot under the night sky again. But here, with his fingers hitting all the right spots in your cunt, you’ll make your own galaxy and pretend that it holds a candle to the real thing.)

With the pace he sets, his constant low grunts of just how lovely you are creaming around his fingers, and the way his thumb never lets up on your puffy clit, you’re coming within minutes, you spasm around his digits so hard that the stars you so love burst behind your tightly shut eyelids.

He eases his fingers out of you and licks them clean, his dark eyes half-lidded and nearly glowing in the dimly lit bedroom, burning straight through you.

You’re the one to look away first. You always are. Shame settling heavily in your gut. Shame that you enjoyed it, shame that you didn’t push him, shame that you’ll do this all over again tomorrow.

When he finally sinks into you, he does it slowly. Sometimes you wish he wouldn’t, sometimes you wish he’d make it hurt. It’d be easier to hate him instead of yourself if he did.

When Kento fucks you like this, chest to chest, there’s not a single part of you not swallowed whole by him.

You hate it.

You hate yourself more for moaning when he changes the angle and starts fucking you so hard and fast that your hands can’t help but scramble for anything to hang on to, they tear down his back, drawing blood which seems to only spur him on to go harder.

“Kento I-- I’m-,” but you can’t finish the sentence, not when you can feel your orgasm teetering on the edge, so, so close that it’s painful, you just need-

“You want to come?” He asks, his voice annoyingly steady.

It’s unfair of him to expect you to be able to answer when he has you nearly folded in half. You can hardly even think.

(But when has Kento ever really been fair?)

“Use your words, darling.” His lips are right against your ear, his tone unbearably condescending, and maybe a bit mocking.

You hate him for asking you to beg.

You hate yourself more for giving in.

“Kento, please,” you whine.

He laughs, low and mean, you feel it in your own chest and for a moment it really is as though you are nothing but an extension of him, a limb left useless without Nanami guiding you. You hate it. You hate it.

Eventually, he relents and brings his thumb back down to your clit, resuming those tight, firm circles, and that’s all you needed to finally push you over the edge.

This time, when you come, there are no stars to comfort you. Just Kento’s eyes, bright and burning.

Your cunt clamping down on his cock is all it takes for him to let out a low groan and still completely inside you, the warmth of his cum flooding your cunt is awful in it’s familiarity.

His eyes finally close as he drops his forehead against yours, breathing your air and forcing you to breathe his.

He closes the gap between your lips, gently, sweetly. You can almost pretend for a moment that this is the Kento you knew years ago. Who held you so sweetly and smiled when you smiled.

You don’t realize you’re crying until he kisses your temple tenderly and wipes away your tears. He’s not worried, you cry more often than not after he fucks you. You don’t really want to think about why.

You let your mind wander as he carries you bridal style to the bathroom, where in a minute he’ll run a warm bath for you two to share, then afterwards he’ll dry you off with the utmost tenderness, then dress you himself before carrying you to the kitchen where he’ll set you on the counter as he makes dinner (you won’t be allowed to help, of course) then he’ll force every last bite down your throat if you refuse to eat (he hasn’t had to do that in a long while though), then he’ll have you curl up on his lap, head tucked into his shoulder, as he reads. After about an hour he’ll bring you back to the bathroom where he’ll brush your teeth for you because you never do it right, and then he’ll drag you into bed no later than 10:30 PM so that you can do it all over again tomorrow.

“Do you want the lavender or rose soap today?” Nanami asks you.

You ignore him in favor of trying to remember the details of your galaxy, but it’s already faded away to nothing by the time you close your eyes.

a/n pt 2: i feel like it was painfully obvious that this was my first attempt ever at smut. i’m so sorry yall. i really did try.

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