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paperclip-skz · 1 day ago

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Run Like A Girl

fem*Reader x Bang Chan x Lee Know

*WARNING*

contains: Stalking, explicit names, oral (f receiving), over-clothes stimulation, teasing, male doms, let me know if I missed anything.

P.s. : this is straight up Delulu and long sorry in advance…….. 🙃

WC: 5.1k

***

My feet are sore, my head is pounding, and I’m pretty sure I’m so tired that I’d collapse in the shower. I round the corner headed to my apartment, but something stops me in my tracks.

A tall figure stands at my door. “Hello,” I call out, my bag dipping off my shoulder and into the palm of my hand. “Can I help you?”

He doesn’t answer, but he does turn his head slightly. I gasp when I see his masked face. A blue skull mask hides his features as he stands there in an oversized black hoodie adorned with a knife sharper than my breath in his palm.

My heart drums in my ears so loudly that I can feel it echoing through my bloodstream. My feet react faster than my brain can catch up with my breathing. I sprint in the other direction, clutching my bag to my side for dear life. I can hear his footsteps too close behind me, keeping pace as I round the corner to the stairs. I pound on every door, screaming for someone, anyone, to come to my aid. “HELP! PLEASE, SOMEONE HELP ME!” I scream.

I trip on my heel, stumbling but managing to regain my balance. In desperation, I ditch the heels altogether and sprint down the hall barefoot. I pound on the door in front of me. “Please! I need help!” My voice cracks, pleading into the empty air.

“There’s nowhere to hide, little one,” his voice, thick with malice, taunts me. I lean back against the door, sliding down to the ground. I can’t die like this. I won’t die like this. The fight inside me urges my feet to run again, but my legs shake, and the adrenaline in my system mixes too dangerously with the exhaustion that threatens to overwhelm me.

“What could possibly—” I tumble backward, my back hitting the ground. I look up at the voice that sounds almost bored. Fear etches my face, and my eyes widen. The man above me looks confused, his beautiful face furrowed in concern. “What the—” He glances up, and his jaw tightens. I lean back to see the masked figure charging toward us.

In a split second, the man above me lifts me slightly, enough to throw me into the apartment, and then he slams the door shut, locking it just before the masked man can get in.

I don’t allow myself to breathe, my eyes scanning the small entryway and finding the kitchen nearby. I make a break for the counter, grabbing a nearby pan. My knuckles turn white on the handle as I hold it out defensively.

“Okay, I locked the door and put the shoe dresser in front of it, but I can still see him through the peephole—whoa,” the man raises his hands in defense. He’s a little taller than me, his shoulders suggesting a strong build. His hair is tousled as if he just rolled out of bed. Dark circles under his eyes indicate he works late at night, but he clearly keeps himself in shape.

“Who are you?” Fresh adrenaline courses through my veins.

“My name is Chris—”

“Chan, what’s going on?” Another man walks around the corner, wiping the sleep from his eyes until the scene registers before him. “What the hell?” His head darts from me to Chris like a game of darts.

“Minho, not now,” Chris says, his voice turning stern and clipped. Wait. I know those names. But no, that’s not possible.

“Wait. Chan?” I look at Chris, whose eyes widen slightly, and his nod confirms my suspicion. “And you’re Minho… like Lee Know?” I ask, turning my head toward the other man and angling my pan at him as well. His hands go straight to defense mode as he vigorously nods. That’s when I see it—His clipped face and the hair that reaches just before his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I let out a long breath and set the pan down on their countertop.

They both lower their hands, sighing in relief. “I’m safe,” I say softly, feeling the fear and panic begin to fade, replaced by the adrenaline from earlier.

“You are,” Chan confirms. Stepping forward to grasp the pan and set it on another counter, no doubt fearful that I’ll actually use it. “You know us?”

“Who doesn’t?” My shoulders begin to shake. Tears prick my eyes. I grip the counter, trying to stabilize myself, but it only makes my head spin. “Whoa, is she okay?” Minho’s concerned voice breaks me through my trance, and I whip my head in his direction. “She's fine,” I say, my voice a soft whisper. “And she’s leaving,” I swing my bag over my shoulder, digging my phone out from the bottom.

“Don’t call the police!” Chan’s voice calls out. He quickly strides to stand in front of me, his hands itching to take the phone. “Excuse me?”

“Please, don’t call the police,” Chan corrects himself, and Minho comes into view, his soft features furrowed in worry.

“Why?”

Both of them appear deflated, their shoulders sagging under an invisible weight. “No one knows where we are,” Chan admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “We had to leave the last place in a hurry.”

Confusion swirls in my mind, and it must be evident on my face because Chan lets out a heavy sigh, frustration evident in his bright eyes. “You know who we are, right? It’s already a struggle trying to find a place in the city. But it’s even tougher to find somewhere we can…” His voice trails off, the unspoken words hanging in the air like a heavy fog.

It takes me a moment to fully grasp the implications of what he’s saying. Slowly, I loosen my grip on the phone, its cool surface slipping through my fingers as I return it to the depths of my bag. A flicker of hope ignites in Chan’s eyes as a small, tentative smile breaks through his worry, tugging at my heartstrings. But my gaze darts to the door, anxiety tightening its grip around my chest.

“You shouldn’t go back to your apartment, at least not tonight.” Chan reads my face like a book, but I’m sure it's not hard to tell what I’m thinking. I look up at him; I get lost in the dark irises of his eyes. They promise so much pain, joy, and love. It's easy to get lost in someone's eyes, but Chan’s is like jumping into an endless pit.

Minho darts his eyes between me and Chan…..“Can someone tell me what's going on!?”

***

About an hour later, Chan loaned me some of his spare clothes, and I took a shower. Minho made me a cup of tea, which I’m now clutching like it's my lifeline, and he also draped a blanket over my shoulder. I smile softly at him and cradle the cup to my chest.

“I don’t see him through the peephole, but I don’t trust that he isn’t waiting around some corner. Who is that guy anyway?” Chan walks to the living room and sits next to Minho on the opposite side of the couch.

“I’m not sure who he is. But he’s been... stalking-” the word tastes sour in my mouth. “-me. This, however, is the first time he’s shown up at my house.” I take a small sip of the tea, letting the warmth soothe my nerves. Even though the tears have stopped and the adrenaline has left my system, I can’t seem to stop shaking.

“How long?” Minho asks, staring at the way my fingers tremble.

“Maybe a month or two,” I answer honestly. I know I should have reported it. I know I should have told someone. But, I either thought know one would believe me, or I would have gotten told the same thing. Move. And right now….I just can’t afford to move. “And before you say ‘why haven’t I told anyone-’”

“We weren’t,” Chan interrupts me. A crease forms between his brows. I look up at him, my face softening and my grip tightening.

“Okay, well. One thing is for certain: you're not sleeping at your place tonight. I’ll take the couch; you can have my bed. I’ll take first watch at the door.” Chan crosses his arms and stalks to his door.

“No, this is your apartment. I’ll sleep on the couch,” I say, standing with him. But the thought of sleeping out here alone, right in front of the door, makes my whole body go rigid.

“You're not sleeping out here.” Minho steps forward, grasping my shoulder. He smiles at me—a genuine, reassuring smile that doesn’t reach his eyes but makes me relax.

That night, Chan took two pillows and left me with another two to sleep. He slept outside on the couch while Minho kept his door open in case he heard anything. It felt strange sleeping that night. Earlier exhaustion weighed on me so heavily, and Chan��s soothing scent helped ease my eyelids closed, but a part of me remained awake. I was still ready to bolt upright and sprint out the window if I heard a crash, or worse... the door.

***

“When you get to your apartment, you should call the police.”

I laugh nervously. “They’re just gonna tell me to move. Or to ignore him. And I can’t afford to move,” I tell Chan for what feels like the twentieth time. He sighs, running his palm up the side of his face as he leans against the door frame.

Minho washed my clothes and made us breakfast the following morning. I insisted on leaving because I didn’t want to impose on them; they had already risked so much, and besides, I needed to get to work. “At least let one of us walk you to your apartment, just in case,” Minho said, poking his head through the doorframe with his brow furrowed.

I sigh. It would be nice just to be safe. I nod, and they both tumble through the door. “I thought you said just one of you.” I laugh as they both come out of the apartment and pull the door closed. “Samntics,” Chan huffs.

As we make our way slowly to my apartment door after a few turns, anxiety grips me like a vice, and I can’t shake the memory of sprinting down these halls. With shaky hands, I reach for my keys. “We’re right here,” Chan whispers. I take a long breath, put the key in the lock, and twist it with a quiet thud. At least it's still locked; that has to be a good sign. I let the door swing open. We all lean forward, expecting someone to jump out and say, “boo! Gotcha!” but nothing happens. It's quiet. Nothing is out of place. Everything is fine. “See!” I gesture to the very empty apartment. “Perfectly fine”

****

When I get back from a long day at work, I'm half expecting to see Mr. Blue face standing at my door, but thankfully, the only thing on my doormat is a package. I set the package on my marble kitchen counter after I lock and bolt the door…just in case. I set my leather sling bag on one of the chairs nearby and opened the package with a nearby kitchen knife.

I’d assume it was something I had forgotten about or something I ordered a while ago, but instead, it's Chan’s T-shirt with a sticky note pressed to the top.

If you ever need us. You know where to find us.

And a phone number at the bottom. Something in my chest swells. I quickly text the number.

Me: thank you <3

Chan: anytime ;)

I add the contact as “Chris ;)” and make something easy for dinner.

***

Days pass, and there is no sign of Mr.Blue Skull. I’m beginning to think he’s lost interest. But at least one good thing came out of it all. Chan and I have been texting nonstop, and he even gave me Minho’s number. It took me a while to get comfortable with his blunt text and his clipped attitude, but I realized that’s just how he expresses himself, and he can be kind of a teddy bear when you get under his skin.

Me: hey, Min, can you send me that recipe you were talking about??

My mean hoe: No. And stop calling me, min. My name is either Minho or Lee Know, so unless you want to change our friend status to something else, those are the names you should call me.

Me: :( Channie….min is being meeaannn.

Channie: Lee Know, don’t be rude to the princess. What recipe, hun?

We talked for a little longer about a new brownie recipe one of his friends was making. The conversation took me all the way to my apartment door. I fish out my keys, still half paying attention to my phone when I realize my door is open. I look up, and it's slightly ajar. I swear I locked it this morning; at least I closed it. I put the phone in my pocket and pushed the door open with just my finger.

I stagger backward on a gasp, an icy dread seeping into my bones as I take in the nightmare that was once my apartment. The air is thick with the metallic scent of fear, and the remnants of my life lay in ruins. My cushions, viciously torn, lie scattered like the shattered dreams of my sanity. Fragments of glass blanket the floor, the remnants of my cherished plates. My beloved books, once my refuge, are grotesquely ripped apart, their pages fluttering in the stillness like wounded birds.

In the midst of this chaos, my eyes are drawn to a knife embedded in the fabric of my couch, staged as a pin to hold a single piece of paper. The words “you can’t run, little one” are etched into it, the threatening strokes of ink sending chills down my spine. A shriek escapes my lips, raw and primal, as panic grips my heart like a vice. I don’t even think; my feet fly in the opposite direction, propelled by instinct, as I refuse to confront the horror that has invaded my home. I race to the one place I can still hope to find safety, heart pounding, breath quickening, terrified of what—or who—might still be lurking among the ruins of my life.

“Minho!!” I slam my fists on the door. Within seconds, it flies open. Tears streak down my cheek,s and I fling myself into his waiting arms.

“Shh shh, what happened?”

I tell him everything. From my open door to the note that made my skin turn white. “Thats it. You can’t go back there; you have to move.” he looks at me, worry and anger dancing in his eyes.

“I can’t. I don’t have anywhere to go. I don’t have enough money or time to get a place.” I let my hands cradle my face, more tears gathering at the corner of my eyes.

“Then move here,” the sound of the front door opening and closing. I lift to see Chan walking to us, his backpack slung casually over one shoulder.

“What?” I look at him dumbfounded. Even in such a casual outfit, shorts and a black t-shirt, my mouth waters.

“Move in with us. We have a spare room. We use it as an office, but we can make it into a bedroom.” He says it like it's the most normal thing in the world.

“But that-”

“A perfect idea,” Minho finishes. I’ve never seen a smile reach his eyes, not the way Chan has claimed Jisung does to him, but when he looks at me, his eyes sparkle, and it's like I’m staring at a whole new person. It almost makes me agree on the spot, just so I can keep staring at his beautiful smile, but….this isn’t right.

“No. We can’t.” I stare at Chan because I know if I see Minho’s smile fall, it’ll be the end of me.

“And why not?” Minho’s voice breaks, and I know I’ll never see that smile again.

“Because if someone were to find out I’m staying with you guys, I couldn’t even imagine the fallout.” It's true. Not only are they both major popstars, and the idea of a relationship to either of them is so foreign that I’m afraid they’ll never have that experience, but they are also the most infamous and passionate creators out there, like hell if I jeopardize even a sliver of what they worked for.

“No one will know.” Chan’s soothing voice comes closer and now he’s crouching down next to Minho.

“This is a bad idea,” my voice breaks.

“It’ll keep you safe.” Chan’s eyes trap me once again. Thats his magic ability. He can trap you and bend you to his will if he just keeps eye contact with you.

I find myself falling deeper and deeper into his captivating gaze. “Fine,” I say softly. That same beautiful smile stretches across Minho’s face, and Chan's smile is soft. “This is still a bad idea.”

***

A week later, I’m moving three boxes into an empty room in Chan and Minho’s apartment. My bed is already set up with clean sheets and two pillows I borrowed from Chan’s room. I can’t help it; his scent and the thought of his warmth help me sleep better.

As I hang up the rest of my clothes, Chan knocks on my door. “Movie night tonight?” he asks. I nod, my smile bright and infectious.

An hour later, I’m curled up on the couch, a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table in front of us, and some random action movie is playing. I’m in the middle of the couch while Minho sits with his arms crossed, furrowing his brow at the screen. “I don’t understand any of this,” he grumbles.

Chan’s relaxed posture shifts as he turns his attention to Minho. “You’re not supposed to. Just watch,” he says, draping an arm around my shoulder and pulling me close.

Work has been especially hard lately, with papers piling up and hours blurring together, so the exhaustion I feel is pulling at my eyelids. I snuggle closer into Chan’s embrace, grateful for his warmth.

***

I really only meant to sleep until the movie was over, but when I’m rubbing my eyes awake, stars twinkle in the window, and it's not the couch I wake up on. It’s Chan’s bed.

I’ve only ever slept in here that one time, but it feels like ages have passed since I ran my fingers over his soft sheets. I turn my body around, careful not to wake the obvious weight behind me. I stare as Chan sleeps. His lips parted, his hair fallen over his face and his usual crease between his brows has softened. He looks so peaceful, so calm.

He stirs slightly, the familiar crease forming on his brow as he shifts. Before I can process what’s happening, his strong arms envelop me, drawing me snugly against his chest. I let out a soft yelp as my body collided with his chiseled frame, the firmness of his muscles pressing against me. My hands instinctively reach out, seeking balance, but I can't help but curse myself as I feel the solid expanse of his shoulders beneath my fingertips.

The warmth radiating from him is enticing, and I can sense the rhythm of his steady breath brushing against my skin, sending delightful shivers dancing down my spine. He feels so inviting, so undeniably comforting—he’s almost too easy.

I find myself slowly falling back to sleep…until I feel it.

Something poking me between my legs, something large and growing. It takes me a total of 3 seconds to realize what it is. Heat spikes along my neck, crawling up my cheeks. I try to move, wiggling out of his arms, but I just end up pressing my back to his chest. My ass aligned perfectly with his growing erection. Well, shit. What do I do now?

I bite my lip, trying to ignore the very prominent, very large bulge pressing and drumming to my backside. Wy universe? Why is this how you test my self-control?

He stirs again, and his erecting presses harder against me. I bite back a moan when he subconsciously ruts against my ass. I can feel my arousal pooling between my thighs. I press them together, desperate to feel some sort of relief.

I can feel the rapid beat of his heartbeat. Thud. Thud. Thud. And his breathing becomes shallow, almost panting. His hips roll, chasing the pleasure that I’m sure is coursing through him. Should be angry. I should be scared. I should be feeling so many things other than the one thing I am feeling. His arms trap me, pulling me closer, and I let him. I even roll my hips along his own, matching his pace as he chases his high. I squeeze my thigh tightly, my own pleasure building, and he isn’t even fully touching me.

“Y/N,” he moans. And my body freezes. No, he did not. “Fuck” he groans again. If it were possible to come undone at the sound of his voice, I would have simply melted into the air right then and there. Instead, my desire radiates off me like steam sizzles on a stove.

I let a small whimper escape my lips, his own hips picking up pace. I can feel his arms tensing. I know he’s close; I press my ass harder, grinding down on him, desperate to feel his own undoing. I should be ashamed. I should stop, but I don’t. My lust-filled mind taking over any and all rational thinking.

He groans again, and his body stills. But I don’t feel anything. I don’t feel a change behind me. I don’t even feel his shake with pleasure. No, I just feel his body tense….and tense…he doesn’t relax.

With a movement so swift it knocks the air right out of me, his whole body lifts above me, and his hands pin mine above my head. I gasp as I stare into his wide eyes and the furrow of his brow. Well, shit.

A mix of emotions races across his face, so many that I can’t even determine what he’s thinking. The best thing about Chan is that I’ve never had to guess his thoughts. He wears his emotions on his sleeve; if he’s happy, his smile reaches his eyes, making the whole world melt in his presence. If he’s lonely, he acts small and childlike, needing touch or attention from those around him. If he’s pissed… let's just say don’t be in his line of sight.

“C-Chan?” I stutter. Panting into the thick air, anticipation spiking my adrenaline like I’ve just run a marathon.

“Is this a dream?” he pants.

It takes everything in me to tell him this is real. I want so badly to tell him that he’s dreaming, that even after tonight, we can go back to our flirtatious banter, to calm, warm movie nights, because deep down, I know nothing will be the same if I tell him that this is real.

“It's real,” I whisper.

His body relaxed merely for a moment. Like a weight was lifted off of his back. “Chan?” I whisper again, trying to bring him back to me. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, just that he’s thinking too much. He’s lost in his own thoughts.

Suddenly, his attention snaps to me. His eyes dart to my wrists, held by his own hands. “You're not struggling,” he says.

He states that it's a question. Heat flushes my cheeks at the real reason. I love the control he possesses over my body. I love the promise of his touch and how commanding his voice is. It sends delightful shivers down my spine. “I trust you,” I decide to say, even though the thought of him dominating me makes my thighs press together.

He doesn’t seem convinced, but I catch a faint smirk forming on his lips. “You should go before we do something we regret,” he says, but he doesn’t move. Instead, his grip tightens on my wrists, and his body tenses.

“I should,” but doesn’t come out as it should. It comes out breathy and wanting, and my body arches into his, begging for more of his warmth.

His neck descends to ghost his lips along mine, and I close my eyes, anticipation burning. I feel his breath on my neck as I wiggle my wrists to run my fingers through his hair. But his grip doesn’t let up—no, he just chuckles. “Not yet, princess.” His lips connect with my neck, and he leaves faint kisses, crossing over my neck and paying extra attention to where my pulse drums.

“Chan,” I sigh. The ache grew between my legs.

“Yes, princess?” He all but growls. He lifts his head, locking his gaze onto mine with an intensity that steals my breath away. I don’t even recognize him anymore. Gone is the nice, calm man I can snuggle up to; gone is the careful gentleman that I know will catch me if I fall. He’s replaced with someone much more sinister, someone much more wicked. His eyes have turned a shade impossibly dark, and his hair is in disarray. While one hand holds my wrists captive, the other sustains his weight on one side of my head; he looks towering. I swallow when lust gathers between my legs.

“Cat caught your tongue pussy cat” We both turn our heads to see Minho leaning against the door frame of Chan’s room. A smug smile decorated his face. “Oh, don’t stop on my account,” he saunters into the room with as much confidence as a cool kid on college campus.

Chan turns back to me, that same lust-driven look in his eyes. Before I can protest or really say anything on the matter, Chan’s lips come crashing onto my own, stealing my thoughts. His tongue demands entrance as he guides this kiss in his own dominance. He kisses as he dances with confidence and a sense of power no man can possess. It's a powerful dance of tongue and teeth that makes me moan into him. His knee pushes my legs apart, and he settles his hips in between my legs, rolling his growing erection into me.

“Fuck” he groans when he breaks the kiss for a fraction of a breath. I moan when his hips continue to roll, creating friction on my clit that throws my head back. I can feel how big he is, and he’s growing with every second.

“Thats it,” Minho's voice sounds throughout the room, but I don’t dare to look at him, not when Chan’s hips are still rolling into me. “A needy little thing,” Minho’s voice echoes in my head.

Suddenly, Minho is leaning down on the side of the bed, his lust-filled smile drawing my attention. “Do you need us to finger you first? Or do you want one of our tongues instead?” No one has ever talked to me like that so casually. It makes something tighten in my core, and I groan loudly. Chan kisses me, stealing my noises right out of me.

Minho chuckles. “Chan, why don’t you make the princess feel extra good?” Chan lifts his head in Minho's direction. The ladder sends Chan a seductive wink, and Chan gives me one last swift kiss before crawling down my body. The covers are tossed and forgotten.

Chan’s hands rake down my body, and I faintly feel his finger stip guiding my sleep shorts down the length of my legs. “Eyes up here pussy cat” Minho’s dark voice guides my eyes to his. They're so similar to Chan’s but so uniquely different. Their dark, sure, but they hold a familiar embrace, one that screams to trust him. His hand cradles my jaw, lining my head so he can press a gentle kiss to my lips.

He’s so soft, so gentle. He peppers kisses on my lips, stealing one right after another. I want him to take me, to possess me, but he doesn’t allow me a moment to drive the kiss deeper, forcing me to go at his pace.

I’m so aroused and frustrated that I don’t even notice when Chan lifts and separates my thighs to press kisses along my skin. “If you scream, it will only make this end quicker” is the only warning I get from Minho when Chan drives his tongue onto my core.

It's like he’s been possessed, starved, or worse, replaced by his instincts. He feasts on my cunt like there’s no tomorrow, lapping at my folds only to suck my clit between his teeth. His tongue darts in and out, effectively fucking me with his tongue. My moans escalate into screams, but Minho quickly swallows every noise with his kiss. He bites my bottom lips, forcing me to gasp, and he takes the opportunity to plunge his own tongue down my throat.

I feel like I’m flying like I’m floating above them. One hand sneaks into Chan’s hair, pulling at his roots. I get a low growl from him, the vibrations sending goosebumps. His hands grip my thighs almost bruisingly. My other hand warps around Minho’s neck, drawing him closer.

My hips roll onto Chan’s face as he buries himself between my thighs. I can feel my core twisting into a delicious knot, and I’m sure Chan can feel it, too, as his tongue becomes more forceful. Within seconds, I’m shaking, my whole body convulsing under their demise. Chan doesn’t stop until my thighs are squeezing around his head so tight I’m afraid he can’t breathe. Minho breaks away, staring at my bruised lips; his own lips are plush, red, and swollen, and his eyes are crazed like a madman.

Chan lifts his body, licking his lips and staring at Minho. “She’s fucking delicious.”

“I can’t wait to see for myself.” Minho doesn’t break eye contact with me. The thought of Minho between my legs, driving his own tongue into me, has me aching. “But for now, I’ll settle with fucking this pussy with my cock” The palm of Minho’s hand comes crashing at my folds harshly. I whimper; I can’t tell if it’s because I’m still sore or due to his explicit words. “What do you say pussy cat? Think you can take two? We’re both dying to be inside you.”

#smut #stray kids x reader #stray kids smut #story #skz smut #short story #stray kids #skz #fem reader #limbo #lee know #lee know x reader #chan #chan smut #bang chan #chan x reader #changbin stray kids

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psychiatry-and-poetry · 23 hours ago

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Stifling Resistance

Original Writing Masterpost | Masterpost of masterposts |

A/N: This was something I wrote quite recently for a project of mine.

Summary: A short story about the life of a 16-year-old weaponsmith in Mughal India.

Word Count: 9410

Sweat ran down her brow, and she wiped it away with a hot hand. A wisp of midnight-black hair entered her vision, and she brushed that away, too. Blasted long hair that her mother insisted she keep. Crafting swords was gruelling work, and despite her father’s initial protests, she’d convinced him to let her work in the family business.

It had been difficult adjusting to the job in the beginning, but what she lacked in skill, she made up for in sheer grit and determination. Staying up later than what was needed and doing her absolute best to ensure that no material went to waste, she’d practically lived at the workshop for a while. She’d spent increasing amounts of time there, forging and welding swords of all kinds. She’d started with the talwar, a simple, basic sabre that didn’t have any complicated hilts. Versatile and easily maneuverable, it was an ideal blade to start off with. She’d quickly learned that it was only to be sharpened on one side: curved blades sharpened on both edges were more likely to break, that too much quicker. Eventually, she’d expanded her skill set enough to be able to work on nearly anything, no matter the absurdity of the request. Shields and spears and odd-looking maces that had a chill crawling up her spine; it was all second nature to her now.

Eventually, she’d gotten used to it.

The constant, relentless din of hammers and steel clanging rhythmically had initially irked her, but she’d made do. She’d had no other choice, after all. Now, it was a comforting sound, one she had found that she couldn’t live without. It brought her a sense of comfort, that no matter how chaotic the outside world was, she would always have a methodical, organised way of working. That was one of the many things she loved about her family business.

The same had happened with the heat. What she’d once found stifling and suffocating now became her haven. When she was away for too long, she found she craved the warmth of the kilns and fires over everything. She had always despised the cold, despised all that turned her limbs numb and the harsh winds that blew over the mountains. It was never cold enough to actually snow where she and her family lived, but she had heard stories of those who lived in the Northern mountains that it snowed all year round; blizzards and snowstorms frequent enough to warrant worry as they covered the land in a blanket of shining, iridescent silver.

Slowly but surely, her bank of knowledge regarding swords and weaponry had grown significantly. Learning about hilts and grips, blades and angles, and everything in between, her love and determination for the profession had only grown. Now, she frequented the workshop, spending hours in the stifling heat welding and forging weapons of all kinds.

Blinking, she realised she’d been unfocused, and the molten metal she held in a ladle was about to drip down onto the floor. Hastily straightening her arm, she poured the mixture into a mould.

As experienced as she was at forging weapons, she was also sixteen. Most of the equipment in the workshop was made for grown, muscular men, and she was neither. Panting as she lifted the bucket to pour the metal in, she heard her father’s amused voice from the inner parts of the workshop. “I can hear you panting from out there, you know. Are you sure you don’t need any help?”

“I’m sure,” she grunted. Apart from being ‘too stubborn for her own good’, as her mother liked to say, she was also extremely curious. It was what had led her father to eventually relent and allow her to work as a weapons-forger.

He was a kind man, hardly ever raising his voice. But he was also protective of his daughters. Protective to a fault, she sometimes thought. She knew that it came from a place of love, a place of intense care for his family, but that didn’t stop the choking feeling of being trapped under his ever-growing expectations.

Traditionally masculine and overtly loud, her father tended to place the stereotypical gender roles on his family members, too. Indeed, the only time her mother stepped out of the house was to go to the market, and always with her head covered. It was one of the many things she didn’t like about being a girl; how restrictive everything tended to be. How they were expected to do quite literally everything at home, while also managing the little education they sometimes managed to receive.

She had a vague memory of objecting once when she was younger. Of rejecting the stifling stereotypes that plagued her life, that her father tried to shove down her throat as soon as she was old enough to understand. The same memory housed feelings of fear and unease, too. Her father had shouted at her, the only time he’d truly shouted, and told her to keep her mouth shut if she knew what was best for her. The words still haunted her on nights when she felt too alone for it to be healthy, but she had never told anyone.

Who would she tell, anyway? Her sister was too young, and her mother had enough on her plate without having to worry about a couple of words said in anger. She didn’t even know why she was so resentful towards her father for a few words that he’d said, but she also had enough dignity to admit to herself that the words had indeed hurt.

Shaking her head in an attempt to clear the thoughts, she refocused on her work.

The bright sunlight filtering in through the creaky wooden windows awoke Savahi. Rubbing her eyes lazily, she groaned and turned over, hoping to catch a few more moments of sleep before she truly had to get up, before her mother forced her to.

Her mother was strict in that regard, always ensuring that both her daughters woke up before the crack of dawn to complete all the housework in time. She prided herself on disciplining her daughters, on making them experts at the domestic chores they’d been trained to do.

She wouldn’t let Savahi go to the workshop unless she’d finished her chores. What good is a girl who can’t even take care of the house? She’d asked when Savahi had objected and pleaded to be allowed to hone her craft. It’s not like you’ll be running the shop when you’re older anyways. It’s better if you don’t get too attached to it now. It’ll only hurt less in the end. As harsh as the words had been then, they had only led to Savahi savouring the time she did get before she was forced to give it up entirely. No matter who she ended up being married to, there was no way he’d let her continue doing something so…traditionally masculine. Then again, it would be a miracle if she found a good husband at all. She’d learned not to be too picky a long time ago. Anyone that treated her with some semblance of respect was good enough.

Running a hand through her tangled hair after having forgotten to braid it the night before, she rose and began getting ready for the day.

Squinting at the bright sunlight overhead, she raised a hand to her forehead to shield her eyes. The bustling market was a kaleidoscope of colour and life. Wares and goods of all sorts were sold here, from spices and fabrics to accessories and books.

Head covered and scarf wrapped around her nose and mouth so as to keep the ever-increasing dust away, she approached a vendor. “How much for these?” she asked, voice muffled. “Seven dam for the cabbage, nine for the aubergines.”

“Fine.” Begrudgingly reaching into her coin purse, she handed over the money. The prices were much higher than what she remembered them being, but then again, she hadn’t ventured into the market for a while. She’d left this particular job for her mother to do, seeing as she had always been better at social interactions and…people in general. She somehow always knew the right thing to say or do to comfort and encourage someone. It was why she fared better at the markets than Savahi herself, a few smiles and kind words doing more than one could have expected.

Stuffing the requested goods into her satchel when the man handed them over, she made her way around the market as she simply observed.

New books and perfumes were on sale, and oh, what she wouldn’t give to buy a few? Savahi’s family had never been particularly rich, but that didn’t stop her wanting all these coveted goods. Unfortunately, these were all wares requested for the disgustingly well-off and wealthy, a group that didn’t include her. Of course, the people who had that sort of money would rather swallow sand before they were ever caught dead in these village markets. They preferred the opulence and charm of the lavish city bazaars.

Ducking under an awning to avoid a small squad of soldiers, she unconsciously adjusted the scarf covering her nose and mouth. It was best to avoid being recognised, especially by the soldiers who were mere lackeys of the Emperor, sent here to do his dirty work and lord over the rest of them. They relished in it too; relished the torture and oppression of the native people as their land, resources, and families were stolen away from them. Right. That was why Savahi hadn’t wanted to go into the markets. Something similar had happened the last time she was here, accompanied by her mother. She’d been absolutely terrified, and hid behind her with trembling hands and tears in her eyes.

When she’d gone home, she’d cried. She didn't know why. Her mother had warned her that the soldiers seemed to be doing nothing, but that was what they wanted you to believe. They were always doing something.

She’d started hating the soldiers soon enough.

Every child was practically raised on hatred, fed it from the moment they were born. She knew of many who thrived on it like beasts craving violence. Stories were told of what horrors had transpired, drilled into the head of every child until it became second nature for them to fear the soldiers. But then again, this fear was necessary, she thought to herself. It was what kept them safe and away from any real trouble. It allowed them to stay unnoticed and lead their lives in peace.

Deciding she wasn’t going to get much more at the market anyways, she began making her way home. At least she’d help out there. Taking the more discreet alleyways and streets that weren’t known to many, she managed to avoid any more guards until the familiar door of her house came into view.

One seemingly uneventful afternoon, her father entered the house, taking off his sandals as he flopped down onto the ground. “What’s wrong?” came her mother’s voice from the kitchen. Her father didn’t reply immediately, instead running a hand over his tired face.

Savahi sensed that something was wrong. Her father was never this quiet; he never hesitated like this. He was a firm believer in saying whatever it was that needed to be said, and doing so efficiently. At the same time, she couldn’t help but note that his eyes, her lovely father’s eyes had lost their light. They were dimmed, she realised, as he gazed at the ground. He was here physically, yes, but it was clear something was bothering him to the point where he shut down. In fact, they all knew how rare it was for him to go mute and not say a word. He tended instead to explode in anger, a supernova of emotions, leaving everything else in ruin after the storm had passed.

Finally, he broke the tense silence, and said glumly, “They’ve decided that they want to pay us an even smaller amount than what they already do. Said our weapons weren’t the best quality, and that they shouldn’t be forced to pay for something so disgustingly overpriced.”

Each word somehow managed to rile her already irritated self up even more, and it took nothing short of a miracle to avoid exploding in a fit of rage. Thankfully enough, she managed to keep her composure, only raising her eyebrows with pursed lips. “What do you mean?”

Her father sensed her irritation, and instead tried to diffuse the situation, looking at her with an expression she was sure mirrored her own. “Look, I know this isn’t ideal-”

That was the last straw. “Of course it’s not ideal! It’s a disaster! We’re already getting underpaid, we can’t-”

“Quiet!” She flinched, not expecting the harsh command from her father. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. “Just…just don’t do anything stupid until I figure out what to do. I can’t deal with any of your trouble right now.”

She wanted to retort that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d done something rash or gone through with an idea she hadn’t thought about at all, but decided it was best she held her tongue. Her father was already in a lousy mood, and all the offhand comment would do was rile him up even further and quite frankly cause more trouble than what was worth.

“What do you mean?” Her mother had exited the kitchen now, and had a similar look of skepticism on her face as she wiped her hands on a rag. “We already get underpaid. We can’t afford to stop providing them with weapons. And besides,” she added, her voice softer this time, “Who knows what they’ll do if we suddenly reduce the weapons supply with no forewarning, no reason? Surely it’ll come across as suspicious?”

Indeed, the Empire was ruthless, with cruel rulers who stopped at nothing to ensure that the people worked themselves to their deaths. Expendables, they called them. Worthless vermin. It didn’t matter to them if her family lived or died. All that was important was the supply of weapons. So long as that did not stop, they didn’t care what became of her family.

Deciding she’d be better off outside lest she say or do something she would sorely regret later, she put on her sandals, and left the house.

A letter arrived exactly two weeks later, the family name written on the envelope in an elegant scrawl she didn’t recognise. The rim of the envelope had gold patterns across it, delicately crafted. The family name was written on the front, and Savahi couldn’t help but wonder who could have sent them such a fancy letter. She didn’t have any friends who lived far away, certainly not far enough to warrant sending letters. She didn’t even know anyone past her village. Thinking it must be something for her father, (though she couldn’t figure out for the life of her what it could be), she pocketed it, and decided to give it to him when he came home.

Evening rolled around, and there was still no sign of her father. Maybe he was still working late today?

Unable to wait for him any longer, she dug up the envelope from her pocket, and tore it open.

Her eyes widened as she read it, a small gasp escaping her. This was clearly addressed to the wrong person.

The moon shone brightly in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the tops of the houses and illuminating her home in shades of a iridescent, pearly glimmer. All was quiet.

“Thank you for coming. We know how difficult it must be to get away from…” the voice trailed off, gesturing vaguely to the village beneath them. To get away from prying eyes was what they meant to say, but couldn’t do so lest some eavesdropper realised what they were up to. “It’s alright. I managed,” she said tightly, desperately wanting to get this entire ordeal over with.

“We’ll make this quick,” said the other figure; shorter, and yet no less intimidating. “We need you to supply us with weapons. As many as you can make. How big is your store?”

“Not-not huge,” she managed to get out as she stood there, shellshocked. It was true; it wasn’t a large shop by any means, a small storefront facing the secluded street and the forge in the back. It wasn’t as much space as they would have liked, but it did the job.

“But you will have to fund us for the raw materials,” she said quietly. “We don’t earn nearly enough to spend our own money on a project as large as this one. We’ll need some sort of advance payment.”

“Consider it done,” the taller one said smoothly. “How much do you think you’ll need for two hundred swords?”

“I’m sorry, two hundred?” she breathed. Was this a sort of one-time thing, then? “If we need more, we’ll let you know well in advance,” the shorter one said. “How long do you think you’ll need to make two hundred?”

“A couple of months at least,” she said. “But we’ll make sure that we get them done as soon as possible. It’ll take at least a month and a half, two if you want refined or jewelled hilts.”

“As long as the blades are functional, it doesn’t matter how the hilts are. Preferably as basic as possible, but comfortable enough to hold and fight with.”

Savahi listed the price, and they only nodded in unison. Gods, they really were rich if they could agree to such an inflated price with no bargaining. Or, a small voice in the back of her head said. They’re really desperate and willing to agree with whatever price you say. They want these swords badly. Deciding she’d think about it later, she shoved those thoughts away.

“I could send you a note once I fin-” she cut herself off. Of course she couldn’t send notes or any other form of correspondence to them in case it was intercepted or found, even after this entire affair would be finished. It would be enough to get them imprisoned, or whipped publicly at the very least. Offences against the state weren’t taken lightly, and the punishments were severe.

The muffled voice she heard from behind the scarf seemed…masculine? She couldn’t tell, not with the way the clothes flowed loosely around the figure’s body, preventing any accidental revelation of who this mystery person was. No jewellery or cosmetics adorned the eyes, the only open part of the figure’s face. Then again, that didn’t do much to either confirm or deny her suspicions. Either they were too poor to afford such luxuries, or they simply decided against them. Even the figure’s hands were gloved, truly leaving no room open for discovery.

Glancing around, she shut the door behind her with a soft click.

She’d debated it for weeks, whether or not to accept this deranged offer. Was whoever had come up with this insane plan high or something? Did they really think someone would be able to smuggle such a large amount of weapons unseen? They were raving mad; more so if they didn’t see the lunacy of their own plan. It would get them killed if she wasn’t careful; her and however many more people were involved in this death wish of a plan. Then again, she supposed, there weren’t many royals or nobles in positions of power who actually knew what was going on. They had a vague image, yes, cloudy at best and completely opaque at worst, as they saw her world through a rose-coloured lens.

Ensuring the scarf was wrapped tightly around her mouth and nose so as to avoid being recognised, she carried the satchel like her life depended on it. She supposed it did. Tiptoeing over the harsh ground, she gazed towards the horizon. The mountains she saw in the distance was where she had to be by moonrise. Indeed, the glistening moon was already quite high in the sky, illuminating the roofs of the nearby houses, casting a silvery glow over the ground. Meet Devyani’s closest friend on the highest point of Hasta. The words resonated in her mind, echoing as she tried desperately to comply with the instructions she’d received on an anonymous note of paper, the writing foreign and curled in a way that told her it was not a native speaker of her tongue who had written the mysterious note. No name, no signature, and no indication of who, exactly, would be picking up the weapons she’d forged.

The orders were absolute insanity, she’d thought when she first received them. She didn’t think it was even possible to craft that many weapons in under a month, but working beside her father for days on end with little to no breaks had allowed them to finish just in time. Some had been cooling yesterday, and she’d been on the edge up until this morning, not knowing if she'd somehow managed to mess up her first orders.

She hoped this wasn’t a hoax or some trick to get them to go into a financial loss. If no one showed up, it would be no one’s burden and loss but her family’s. Few would care, and even fewer would help them out. We must fend for ourselves, her mother had told her when Savahi had once asked why they couldn’t all help each other instead of gloat at one another’s misery. She’d been young then, not really knowing how everything worked. Foolish, childish ideas, she reprimanded herself.

Savahi backtracked a little, going over the same path she’d taken just a few minutes ago. She had to periodically ensure that she wasn’t being followed. Not only would it be catastrophic, she’d also have to find a way to deal with the stalker. Not killing, of course, but something severe enough that the person would never dare look twice in her direction. This needed to be carried out smoothly and with as little suspicion as possible. That was also the reason she’d volunteered to go instead of her father. A grown man with a bag looked far more suspicious than a girl. Indeed, girls her age had lovers all the time. In the unlikely event that anyone would approach her for conversation, she always had that card up her sleeve. Play the simpering, girlish role she was expected to play, stay away from suspicion, and get the job done.

Her hair soon became damp, small strands clinging to her forehead, made worse by the tight, suffocating feeling of the scarf around her mouth and nose. The crisp night air did nothing to help her cool down. Her thighs burned as she made her way up the hill, and she did her best not to pant lest it give her away. She really was out of shape. In reality, it wasn’t that steep, but she had to take the further side of the hill that no one bothered to venture through. Another way to avoid being spotted.

Stepping carefully, she dodged roots and loose rocks as she slowly made her upwards. As soon as she crested the hill, she saw a hooded figure lounging on a fallen log. Having strategically sat down in the shade, she wouldn’t have realised it was sitting there, silent as a cat, until it jumped up and began making its way to her. A calm, controlled, and sauntering gait, command lacing its every step it approached. She could see as it made its way closer that this mysterious person had to have some sort of noble standing. The clothes it wore, polished and regal, screamed elegance to her from miles away. No patterns adorned the figure’s robes; no flag or banner or sigil, not even a coat of arms to showcase their allegiance.

Standing her ground and refusing to bow her head, she spoke. “Devayani.” Andromeda. She waited a moment before she heard the correct response. “Sharmishtha.” Cassiopeia. The voice seemed gruff, though she couldn’t quite discern much beyond her own muddled suspicions.

She’d been instructed to say a code word, and only give the package to the person who said the correct response. If they faltered or hesitated for even a second, she would know to get away immediately.

Savahi extended the satchel to the figure. Nodding curtly towards her in acknowledgement, it grabbed the rucksack with a black, gloved hand, and disappeared with a swoosh of their cloak as if they melded into the night itself. Breathing a sigh of relief, she began making her way down the slope, occasionally stumbling and tripping over stray branches and loose rocks.

She didn’t quite register the walk home. All that was running through her mind was the exhilarating thrill of participating in something bigger than herself. As cliché as it sounded, it was true. She’d never had to work together, certainly not in matters like these, and it gave her a sense of accomplishment to know that she was helping the Resistance. To know that the weapons she made were being used across the Deccan.

As miserable as her life was, she was using it to do something; something that didn’t require bearing children and being trapped indoors for the rest of her life. She would savour this freedom, she realised, long after she was married and given away like cattle.

The soldier patrols had increased recently, especially around their area. It had been putting everyone on edge, and she didn’t want to think what would happen if someone was found guilty of whatever new crimes they kept coming up with. First, it was the possession of certain books, then it was the local herbs that were used for healing and medicine, and now? Well, they couldn’t punish her for trekking up to the nearby hill or talking to her neighbours. Could they? She just had to remain as inconspicuous as possible, and avoid any trouble.

Unfortunately for Savahi, trouble seemed to follow her wherever she went. Today, it had arrived in the form of a gathering. Everyone in the village had been asked to gather at noon in the village square. For what, she didn’t know, but they had all made their way there regardless.

Technically, girls weren’t supposed to go outside in large public places, and certainly not to bold village gatherings. Then again, there was no one to enforce those rules other than her parents, and she could always duck out of their sight or blend into the crowd if need be.

There were already quite a few people crowded around, standing in clumps with worried expressions as they conversed in hushed tones. She couldn’t make out what anyone was saying, but it was abundantly clear that whatever was going on couldn’t be good.

Just as Savahi turned to her mother to ask her something, a shehnai (a sort of oboe-like instrument) sounded. Signalling the arrival of whichever official would taunt them today, then.

A man stepped up to the small dais erected in the centre, originally intended for the village chief to announce important events or similar. It seemed, however, that they didn’t have any regard for that, instead using the platform as their own.

“Did you really think you could plot treason so openly and we’d never find out?” he sneered at no one in particular, presumably their commander. “I knew you were foolish, but for an entire neighbourhood of you lot to do something like this is beyond even us. We will find whichever one of you is doing something so utterly unacceptable, and you will be punished for it,” a second added. He wasn’t on the platform, but seemed to be the right-hand man of whichever roguish commander was speaking right now.

“If none of you step forward right now and preserve what little dignity you have left, it leaves us no choice but to label this entire, rotting scrap of a village as a guilty party. You’ll all be thrown in the dungeons, and the butchering blocks if you’re lucky.” A glint of a smile caught Savahi’s eye, but it was just the guard speaking. Another one of the Sultan’s subordinates, grovelling like a dog. She couldn’t help her face as it turned up into a look of disgust, and rolled her eyes.

Of course their grisly deaths would bring these monsters joy. Of course they would relish in it like some sort of delicacy, some noble deed that they took great pride in.

She didn’t hear the rest of whatever nonsense they were spewing, but jerked out of her stupor when everyone began scattering and shuffling away like mice trapped in a labyrinth with no way out save for death.

Savahi had been ordered to keep quiet these next weeks, to avoid suspicion and unnecessary arguments at all costs. Of course, Savahi being, well, her, had found it immensely difficult to do so. Being cooped up in the house for longer periods of time was certainly not helping, either. If anything, it made her more irritated and likely to snap or lash out at something, or someone. As much as she wanted to get out of the house, if only for a little while, she knew she couldn’t. Girls, especially young girls like her, were expected to stay at home and help their mothers like the obedient daughters they were expected to be. This also meant that she wasn’t allowed to go to the workshop, for fear that someone might accidentally catch wind that a girl, that too one of marriageable age, was working at something so physically gruelling.

To make matters worse, curfew had been enforced, and had made it harder for her to sneak out at night. She’d been asked to deliver weapons twice more, and her poor father had been working himself to the bone. Normally, she’d do some of the more gruelling work. Over time, she had developed the muscle and brute strength to be able to do the hauling, pouring and welding. Her father always remained close by in case she needed help. She hardly ever did, managing most things on her own.

It wasn’t as if her father didn’t know how to forge weapons. But he was now aging, and his back pain sometimes prevented him from lifting heavy loads. It grated on her to know that her father toiled away, sweating by the forges as he poured his dedication into his work, while she sat around at home, peeling stupid carrots. She could have been of help, she could have done something.

She was, eventually, let out of the house, though her mother had warned her not to cause any trouble and come straight home if she caught the slightest whiff of something going on. Biting back the urge to say she wasn’t likely to be attacked at the market, which was filled with people at all times of day, she sighed, parotting, “Yes, mother,” before she put on her sandals and left the house.

“Get up,” her mother hissed, rousing her from sleep and shaking her awake. The sunlight filtered in through the window, casting a bright glow over the opposite wall. Blearily blinking her eyes open, she started. “What-”

“No time,” her mother interrupted. She looked to be in a hurry, almost frantic, hastily trying to clean up the mess Savahi had left in her room the night before. “Gods, girl, do you ever clean your room? It stinks terribly.”

“Didn’t you just say we don’t have time to do anything else?” No matter what she did, Savahi’s room was something her mother never ceased nagging about.

“We have to clean because the guards are here.” Her mother glared at her. Savahi jumped, exclaiming, “Now? What business do they have in our home?”

“They think we’re doing something we’re not supposed to be doing.” Her mother shot her a knowing glance. The entire family knew what they were doing was illegal, but there was no other way for them to make the money they were steadily losing with their deals and trades that were less than fair with the Empire. They had to make ends meet somehow, and besides, desperation did funny things to people, driving them to the brink until it was all they could think about. Perhaps this was what it had done to her family.

“Well have we hidden the-”

“Quiet,” her mother snapped, smacking her lightly on the head. “Do you want us all to be rotting in prison until the end of our days? Because I certainly don’t.”

“Sorry! Sorry, I’ll-”

“You’ll keep your mouth shut, that’s what you’ll do,” she chided. “They don’t like being talked back to, and certainly not by unruly, undisciplined girls like yourself. Just answer when spoken to, and try not to get into trouble. Is that too much for you to do?”

“I promise I won’t say anything that’ll piss them off,” she said. “Now will you please let me go?”

Indeed, her mother had been trying to tame her hair that had been in a loose braid from the night before. She had pins in her mouth as her skilled hands tried hastily to fashion her mane, as she liked to call it, into a more presentable form.

“Remember, mind your language. Certainly none of that vulgarity when they inspect you.”

“My language isn’t that bad,” she protested weakly. Even she knew how much she swore. While Savahi did try to dial it down at home, some words did tend to slip out on the rare occasion she was mad or frustrated.

“Yes it is, and you know that,” mumbled her mother. “Oh, and they’ll be inspecting you. It’ll be quick, but just don’t slap anyone across the face and I’ll consider this entire ghastly ordeal a success.”

“Yes mother,” she parrotted, her voice already bored to tears.

“Now go.”

Stepping out into the living room, she expected her sanctuary, her safe place, her home, where no harm could come to her to at least be free of the asphyxiating sensation. Instead, she saw half a dozen encircling the door and blocking it. This was a new, fresh hell. Her mind was buzzing with a newfound haze, one she didn’t think she’d be able to get rid of should she try. She couldn’t even leave should she wish it. Her only mild consolation was her mother who followed behind her. At least she wouldn’t be alone. It was bad enough that she had to be subjected to their inspections, but her mother deserved none of that.

Both had their heads bowed low and eyes trained solely on the floor. Pushing Savahi forward, her mother backed away to watch from the other end of the room. Savahi stumbled slightly but managed to catch her step right before she saw the shoes of the closest guard. Their leader, most likely, seeing how he managed to dominate the entire room with his presence and hulking form which seemed to eat up all the light that had managed to make its way inside.

“And who are you?” the guard sneered, clearly trying to intimidate her. As scared as she was, she couldn’t let it show. She had to act as if everything was normal; like she wasn’t smuggling weapons to the Resistance, the very people these guards despised with their very being. “She’s just my daughter, sir,” her mother said nervously, wringing her hands together. “Shut up,” he barked instead, not even bothering with a glance towards her mother. Her mother flinched, moving a step back, almost as if she was trying to melt into the wall, and Savahi felt rage rise in her heart.

Her mother, who was a kind, sweet, caring woman, who would sacrifice everything for her children, was treated like this. It made her blood boil, and she dug her nails into her palms. She’d have small, crescent-shaped scars on the palms of her hands later, but it didn’t matter. As long as she didn’t blow up in front of these people, it was fine. Everything was fine. She was going to be fine.

“Enough of the pleasantries,” he said instead, his voice rising a note higher. “Come here,” he beckoned Savahi with a finger. Shuffling forward, head bowed, she stepped in front of the man as if she was being examined for a disease.

Savahi could hear their foreign accent, how they rolled certain letters and cut others off. Anyone could tell they weren’t from here, even without hearing them talk. The clothes they wore, the permanent sneer they donned on their faces, their greasy hair that looked nothing short of horrid and the perpetually yellowed teeth that seemed to be the stuff of her nightmares.

Rough, sweaty hands grasped her face, turning it this way and that. She knew that the guard could see the fear in her eyes, clear as day, as his own, black as slits, bore into her brown ones.

He probably thought she looked absolutely pathetic, nothing more than a simple village girl. Just because that’s what she was didn’t mean the stupid guards needed to rub it in their faces all the time, she thought grumpily.

Despite her instincts telling her to get away, to run, she did neither, letting them examine her like a bag of broken goods. An enigma, that they couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her, a mystery that could attack them at any given moment.

Well, they weren’t wrong about that. Not entirely, anyways.

She could imagine how she looked: eyes blown wide and trembling like a fawn. He was at least a head and a half taller than her, and dwarfed her easily. It wouldn’t be difficult for him to pin her hands behind her back and have her on the floor in a few skilled maneuvers that she had no doubt he could execute with deadly precision. Their threats were never empty.

The hands moved down to pat her sides, her thighs, her legs, staying in certain places for far longer than they were needed. Prodding, poking, twisting, squeezing, her stomach lurched and she felt bitter bile rise in her throat. Promptly swallowing it down, she tried to breathe. She could smell their horrible breath, see the food from breakfast covering their teeth, and had to stifle a gag. The irony of being called uncivilised by the same people who refused to take care of themselves or their bodies was overwhelming.

But she couldn’t say anything, do anything, even as she felt the grime coating their hands on her own skin. She’d need to take a long bath after this. She’d travel to the far well on the other side of their village if she had to, but she would be taking a bath today, come what may.

A grunt told her they were done with their inspection, and she stepped back, never showing her back to the guards lest they think she was deliberately trying to disrespect them or their bullshit status. It was something they’d made up to feel better about themselves, then declared themselves the Emperors of this land that was never theirs. As much as she was aware the land belonged to everyone, she didn’t think these sacred rules applied to a heap of men with egos bigger than their heads and a superiority complex to rival any decent person’s.

It seemed that they were far from done with their little inspection, as they called it, as their self-proclaimed leader with a head full of cow dung began barking orders, pointing to certain areas of the house. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that they were going to search the house for any contraband.

What they didn’t know was that they’d made procuring any materials extremely difficult, near impossible, so it took more than a couple of bribes to smuggle something over from the South or from the sea. It didn’t help that her village was in the middle of nowhere, and yet it was large enough to be recognised by the Empire. That wasn’t good; not at all. Being noticed was never a good sign. People spent their entire lives trying to stay hidden, to hide themselves and their children from the horrors the Empire inflicted on them. Fleeing across the country or even across the sea was how desperate people had gotten to outrun the tyranny of the Empire. Then again, it was only the rich who could afford such luxuries, leaving the rest of them to be condemned by their tyrannical rulers.

The clatter of metal shocked her out of her stupor, and she realised been standing around like a purposeless corpse, waiting around as they wrecked her home. She whipped her head around to find that one of the mindless buffoons had spilled their entire rice storage on the ground, the grains littering the ground like small white shards of glass scattered over the ground. Bastards. They’d done that on purpose, knowing that most people were already short of food. Her family had been doing a little better recently, being able to afford more of the slightly expensive grain and millets. But they had to be careful not to flaunt the money they were being paid by the Resistance lest someone take it away.

Indeed, everything seemed like it would end in imprisonment or their imminent deaths, the possibility of either looming over them like a dark shroud. Certainly not pleasant, and certainly not where she wanted to end up.

“I’m terribly sorry,” the guard mocked, a lilt in his voice that told Savahi he couldn’t be enjoying this more. “How unfortunate that you lost a month’s worth of grain supply.” She knew she’d have to go out tomorrow, possibly even today to buy the rice that now lay there, inedible.

The guards’ guffawing receded as they proceeded into the inner rooms, perhaps suspecting that they’d hidden something in the wardrobes. Her mother promptly followed them inside. Savahi, however, stood in the living room, and to rack her brains for anything that they’d forgotten to hide. Matches, small knives, and books. Those were the only things she could think of that would cause outright displeasure with the Emperor’s little dogs. Because that’s what they were. Marking their territory and attempting to establish dominance over the rest of them like animals, they truly were no better than hounds.

Despite that, they were also afraid. Scared that the possession of books would allow the people here to finally educate their daughters, to finally have women aware of what was going on and what was being done to them. It was a wild notion, even now, to have women outside the household for reasons other than to run errands. They were scared someone would accidentally set something on fire with the matches she knew many kept at a finger’s reach, or attack them with small kitchen knives or daggers.

Rhythmic, fading footsteps were the only sign that they’d left, and she let out a sigh. “Glad that’s over with then,” she said in a voice that sounded fake, even to herself. Immediately, her mother was upon her, hugging her and kissing her forehead. “Oh, my sweet, are you okay? Did they-”

“I’m fine,” she grumbled, brushing off her mother’s hands and refusing to look at her, instead finding the ceiling far more interesting. Not yet. She didn’t want anyone’s touch. Not now, not until she’d bathed.

The sun’s baking heat was enough to piss anyone off, she thought grumpily as she hauled in a sack of rice. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat, and she immediately noted the tense atmosphere as she entered her home. “What’s going on?” Her smile quickly faded as she saw her family’s concerned expressions. They were all sat around the food, though no one was eating. Odd. “Did someone die?”

Her attempt at humour quickly fell flat as her mother shushed her immediately, and ushered her inside. “Don’t say things like that,” she scolded. “But no. No one’s died.” She let out a sigh, and it was then Savahi saw how tired her mother was. Dark circles under her eyes, her face wan and utterly distraught. It was clear that her mother was exhausted, and was trying immensely hard to not let it show, least of all in front of her children. Her normally well-kept hair had lost its shimmer, becoming dull and matted in the last few days. It was no surprise the recent days had been hard on them all, with the decreased prices for their goods and the steadily mounting prices of materials that they desperately needed.

“You know the neighbours?” she started. When Savahi nodded, a slight frown creeping up on her brows, her mother continued. “Well, their daughter was taken.”

“What do you mean, taken?” She could tell her mother was trying to let her down in the easiest way possible, and she wasn’t making it any easier for her mother at all.

“You know what I mean,” she whispered, looking around to see if anyone was listening.

Her eyes widened slightly. “Zahra’s not coming back, is she?”

“I think it’s better for all our sakes she doesn’t. It’s not like she’ll come back in one piece anyway.”

As much as it hurt to hear it from her mother, Savahi knew it was true. They were ruthless in their reign, killing for sport and sheer entertainment. It would be a mercy if she got a quick death, but being a woman, Savahi knew that her friend would have to endure a lot before she met the sweet relief of death. It was all anyone seemed to be hoping for, anyway.

The next few days were fairly monotonous. A little too calm, if she was being honest with herself. Something was always happening; torturings or whippings, supposed criminals that never got fair trials paraded in the streets like animals to gawk at.

The silence and inaction put her on edge and made her restless, and she didn’t know what to do with herself besides continuing with her routine as it was. It seemed odd that after what they’d done, no angry guards were chasing after them; no wanted signs posted with her face on the front.

Her mother, however, was unphased by this, and carried on with her routine as though nothing was amiss. One peculiarly sunny day, Savahi found her rummaging through a wardrobe that they’d long since stopped using. “What are you…doing?” she asked skeptically, standing by the door frame as she leaned her hip against it. “Packing,” her mother responded tightly, not bothering to look up or grace her with an actual response. There was an undeniably large heap of…everything by her mother’s side, it seemed. Pots and pans, stray clothes, and the few rare pieces of jewellery they possessed took over the already miniscule floor area. Most of it was already occupied by the divan and the wardrobe to one side. “Do you need help?” she asked again, not quite sure what was going on. “Talk to your sister. She’ll explain everything,” came the blunt response as her mother’s brow once again furrowed, presumably to find another article of clothing in the chaos reigning over her bedroom floor.

Looking around for her sister, she found her in the kitchen, tending to the firewood stove. “Hey.”

That didn’t seem to get her attention, though Savahi could tell Tara was listening. “Why’s mum packing? Are we going somewhere?” Savahi tried again. That made Tara turn. Abandoning her duties in the kitchen, Savahi was ushered out into the backyard. “How much do you know?” she asked. “N-nothing,” Savahi answered. “Was I supposed to?”

“I’m surprised mum didn’t tell you anything. Point is, we’re leaving.” That startled her. “What the hell do you mean, we’re leaving? For good? We-we have a life here. We have our store, our customers-”

“We won’t be much good to our customers if we have our innards hanging out to be picked apart by the crows, will we?” Tara snapped, eyes gleaming. Savahi had never seen her in such a foul mood. Something was really wrong.

“Obviously something is wrong!” Tara seethed. She must have said the words out loud without realising in her shell-shocked state. “Everything is wrong! We have to move away to God knows where, we don’t even know how far we’re going or if we’re even going to make it, we’re just done for!”

As Tara buried her head in her hands, a few curls falling free from her braid as opposed to Savahi’s ramrod straight tresses. Savahi cradled her as they stood there for a while, each processing and letting the other simply…be. “It’ll be okay,” Savahi finally said, breaking the tentative silence. “No, it won’t,” came her sister’s muffled voice. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll be together. There’s nothing more that we could have asked for or done, you know that.”

Refusing the Empire’s demands would have them rotting and festering in the lord knew which swamps. Perhaps they’d already be sentenced to the gallows, but Savahi wasn’t keen on finding out; now or ever.

Likewise, rejecting the polite but firm offer to make weapons for the Resistance would have meant that her family would have starved like the rest of the village’s inhabitants, being forced to pay more taxes than what they earned. More than what they earned in a month, actually, seeing as the commanding officers for this area had decided to reduce all their salaries, no matter that most of the village’s professions weren’t under their jurisdiction.

“Let’s go inside,” she muttered to her sister. “Let’s get you something to eat.” For once, she didn’t object, didn’t say that the coddling was unnecessary. For once, she let Savahi take care of her.

She barely remembered packing that night. Her mother had thrown in clothes while she sat with her sister, trying to comfort the poor girl. As disoriented as they both were, she knew she had to be strong for her sister. Her sister, who looked up to her, near-idolized her, because she was the oldest daughter in the family.

Flashes of throwing clothes into trunks, her mother and father arguing, and everything being hastily cleared away or packed flew through her mind. She wasn’t too sure what was going on, and she didn’t know if she’d remember this at all.

One last chance, she thought to herself. She had one final chance to meet with them before her family disappeared for good. Hastily scrawling a note in what she thought to be the right amount of desperation laced with urgency, she folded it in half, and sent it away.

The two figures she had come to recognise by now stood in front of her, black fabric billowing in the wind so as to conceal themselves like always.

“Well?” The taller one asked impatiently. “You called us here. Why?” Straight to the point then, she thought. They really don’t want to stay here a moment longer than they need to. She supposed it was because they risked their lives, risked being caught every second they spent here. That was what had happened to Zahra, after all. Flower. That was what her name had meant; her namesake would be on her grave a couple of days from now.

Of course, there was no body to bury. There never was when one, especially a young girl, was taken away too soon. Instead, it was a more…symbolic gesture that allowed the family and loved ones a place to mourn the deceased. The ceremony would be taking place in a few days, and Savahi, for one, did not intend to miss it.

Savahi didn’t even know how to start. Where to start.

“That-that girl,” she managed to finally get out, voice thick with emotion. “My neighbour. She was my friend. She was taken.”

“We know,” one said tightly with a brief nod. “We were the ones who made sure that it was her, and not you.” Already noticing her shift in mood, and that she might consider attacking them (despite her hand-to-hand skills being non-existent), the other figure tried immediately to diffuse the situation. “Think about how disastrous it would have been if it was you,” he added gently. “Your family would have been devastated.” The words meant to calm her had the opposite effect, only serving to rile her up even more.

“And hers isn’t?” she seethed. She couldn’t believe them. They were talking about her and the people she cared about as if they were pieces of meat to be sacrificed, pawns in a chess game that would meet a grisly fate no matter what they did or who they met. They were doomed from the beginning. Her father had always said that, but she hadn’t understood to what extent he meant it until now. Now, the truth sank in, burying its claws in her heart as she fought to keep her breathing steady.

“You’re no different from the Empire!” She hissed. “Treating us like filth and using us for whatever the hell it is you do besides sit in your fancy palaces, drink, and gamble.” Neither objected as she began trudging down the hill.

She was seeing red, and she knew it. She also knew that it was a rash, ill-thought out decision that would definitely come to bite her in the ass one day, but right now, that was the last thing on Savahi’s mind.

They left under the cover of darkness, their father having paid their surrounding neighbours and friends a few days prior so their locations would be hidden. Corruption was rampant, and who knew what the soldiers would do to their friends if they found out a family had fled without knowing? Besides, the Empire seemed hell-bent on keeping everyone as poor as possible, and the money they’d saved up was helping someone, at least, even if it couldn’t be of any use to them. That was what she kept telling herself as they walked on, their escape witnessed only by the blanket of stars that watched over them like angels.

Her throat was parched, and her vision had begun swimming. They’d had to carry as few supplies as possible when leaving, and yet every step she took made her blistered feet, peeled raw by days of walking, ache like they’d never hurt before.

Unsticking her tongue from the roof of her mouth, she rasped, “How much longer?”

“Just a little more,” her mother encouraged, laying a gentle hand on the small of her back and urging her forward. “When we get past these mountains, we’re safe.”

Everyone knew that was a lie. The colonizers’ realm stretched far and wide, past the mountains, nearly all the way to the coast and to the South. But morale had to be kept up somehow, and her mother had always been good at that. Intricate at weaving webs of white lies. Not enough to hurt, never enough to properly wound someone, but a lie enough to give them a much-needed kernel of hope.

As they made it over the final peak, heaving great breaths of exhaustion, what they saw made their breath catch in their throats. A city, sprawled out before them, unblemished and untainted by the shadows of their colonisers. A free city, one of peace and justice.

Even from here, the stunning architecture was visible.

Spires and domes, bridges and piers, it was a city of prosperity. One where they could start their lives anew.

Deep in her heart, she knew this place. It called to her, perhaps the same way it called to the thousands before her, who had lived and died in this very jewel of a city. Satara. Yes, this was familiar to her. If not to her mind, then at least to her heart.

Whoever they were, whatever they’d endured, and wherever they’d come from, this city would give them a fresh life. A new start, where she wouldn’t be recognised. She’d be no one and nothing, and have a new, blissful beginning. She’d find peace in the anonymity this new life gave her.

Her family walked a little further, finally stepping past the gleaming gates. Mentally thanking the Gods, she smiled to herself, ready for a new chapter.

Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

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insomniac-dot-ink · 3 hours ago

Text

Pests

Bobby wasn’t sure why the special dumpster diver targeted his restaurant. Maybe it was because they were finally packed on weekends. Maybe because he forgot to close the lid properly one night. Maybe because life is a bitch and then you die.

After a week of this, the owner, Barb, had them clamp spikes around the lip of the metal like a medieval torture device. Those were snapped off. The next day the manager put a padlock on the lid. That was gnawed through and left on the ground covered in spit, glowing softly golden. The day staff poured cooking oil around the base of the dumpster like a looney tunes cartoon where they hoped it would slip and fall. Bobby had to assume that was lapped up, because the next day only shimmering three-toed paw prints were left and the lake of oil was gone.

And was it too much to ask for a break? Two months sober and Bobby wasn’t paid enough to defend an oil spill with his life, much less a dumpster. The only thing stopping him from walking the other direction was his mom’s voice. You get a prize for just a day? She laughed when she saw his first AA chip, her breath smelling of her favorite Patrón. Is it supposed to be some kind of good luck charm? Bobby, you’re a pickle now, you’re never going to be a cucumber again, baby.

“It’s not rats,” the exterminator said and Bobby would have gladly thrown his hands in the air and be done with it. The older man frowned. “You’re gonna need a shrine.”

“You sure?” Barb, the owner, put her hands on her hips, meaning she meant business.

“Look at the prints.” The exterminator’s eyes were already on the door. “Glowing like a disco party.”

Bobby ran a hand through his hair. “This is the city.” And it was THE city too, concrete and bricks and bad air. “Middle of the city.”

The big man shrugged. “Call a priest about it.”

Both the owner and the manager of Barb’s Restaurant were the good sort, probably gave them all too many breaks and sent everyone home loaded with food. You wanted old Corey in your corner if nothing else. So, Bobby did look up building shrines in his free time. Afterall, having an alleyway destroyed every morning–eggshells, plastics, noodles, spread out like a bomb exploded, it wouldn’t do.

Plus, as the main busboy slash kitchen help slash charity case, Bobby knew the dumpster was kind of his responsibility. He was lousy with a kitchen knife and even worse with waiter smalltalk.

The shrine looked like a doghouse when he was done. A cardboard square with a fake candle inside and fake roses pinned to the top.

“There.” He dusted off his hands and called to the darkening sky. “I worship you or whatever.” That day he went home early, turned the TV up high, and texted everyone back in his messages.

Bobby got a call in the morning, and he wasn’t even due in for another few hours. He picked up his phone and a part of him missed being hungover. Hungover-Bobby would never have answered a morning phone call and would have felt fine about that.

“Lou?” Bobby answered his manager sleepily.

Lou grunted. “You do this?”

“Oh.” Bobby’s heart sank. “Is the dumpster still standing?”

The manager snorted. “Not sure we’re targeting the right god.”

Bobby let his head fall back and closed his eyes. “Think there’s a god of trash cans? But like, a vengeful one.” “Inventing new damn gods to give me a migraine.”

“Our lady of rancid lettuce. Hater of cardboard and eater of fucking take out boxes.”

Lou chuckled and Bobby could imagine him doing his slow head-shake. “You piss off any deities lately?”

Maybe the fake roses weren’t a good idea. “Not that I know of.” “Well. You might’ve just started.”

The shrine hadn’t lasted the night. Apparently, plastic roses were the opposite of a good offering. Bobby dressed like he was headed to a funeral and found his latest project was a puddle on the ground. The thing had licked up the oil like it was a buffet but apparently plastic roses were a step too far. They twisted in a bubbling black puddle, shifting and oozing in place. Bobby’s heart squeezed painfully and he leaned over the tiny tar pit.

The puddle bubbled and when he put his head over it, it hissed at him. He screamed loud enough his mother probably heard that too. Probably said he was a baby, and never gonna be a man again.

They really did need a priest after that. The damned plastic roses were turned into a gross tar thing that hissed at you. They needed back-up.

“Isn’t the point of the city to get out of dealing with stuff like this?” Bobby asked, hands crossed over his chest. The priest was young, fair, and had dark circles under his eyes. They probably sent their rookiest guy, barely holy, to handle restaurants with dumpster-divers of an unusual sort.

The young man leaned over the sparkling paw prints and oozy little tar part on the ground. He grimaced.

“Who said they don’t come to cities?” His accent was surprisingly thick. Bobby backed off when he smelled the strong liquor on his breath. Typical. Priests.

“Just what I heard,” he said, not meeting the priest's dark gaze.

“The whole world’s sacred. Up to the corners,” he said, surprisingly reverently and cracked his back like an old man when he stood. “I’ll get the traps.”

The priest set-up No Kill Snares. Real candles burning on long milky wicks and smelling of lavender. Sticky strings soaked in holy water poised overhead. A ring of pearls with an inscription in the middle, written on real parchment and good ink. A little talisman on the lip of the dumpster, warding. Barb must have paid a real penny to buy a ward.

Bobby was the most skeptical of the little tricks. If spikes weren’t going to deter it, then the talisman of a back-alley priest was just going to get in the way.

Late Saturday rush, sweating his t-shirt, running around like a chicken with his head cut off, and Bobby went to dump a nice big bag of trash. He sees it then. He sees with his own two eyes.

Glowing like a small sun, eyes burning gold, and body bursting with waves of dusty light. Unmistakable. A small god. It was in a bad way too, light shifting like a kaleidoscope, and falling off it in heaps. It seemed to lose more rays of sun than shine them, and its mouth dripped with glittery black oil.

The little god jerked its head back from the trash and snarled at him. Bobby put his hands together in prayer.

“I’m not here to hurt you.” The little god bared its dripping teeth and let out a sound like rusty bells. Bobby dropped the trash and got down on his knees. “Easy now.” His eyes softened, clumps of light falling off the miscreant. It was shivering. He put a hand out like you did at a church offering.

The creature sneezed, whole body seizing up, and whatever god it was, it was a dying one.

“Do you know where you are?”

The little god chimed and backed away. Bobby shook his head. Was there a tree that used to grow here? A well of clear water? Did gods remember what they lost?

Their trash was saved for the night and Bobby tried not to let on that he was a goddamn hero. Lou gave him the next day off though. Bobby, however, came in. He liked work. Needed it. Less time for drinking or thinking about drinking. The old Bobby would have never needed work. The old Bobby wasn’t full of craving on craving, not just the hot burn of drink or the oblivion. The despair. The panic. The knife’s edge. How good it felt to ruin yourself.

This Bobby came into work. He sat on the ledge by the dumpster, and tossed breadcrumbs to the ground. What did a little god need from a back-alley restaurant? He watched the clouds pass overhead and the little god did not show up.

The next night he played a little game with the customers when they walked in. “Write down the best thing you ever gave up.” He passed out strips of paper. Guilty, he checked them at the end of the night. A good number of them were someone’s name: George, Juan, Sylvie. A wistful heart was drawn on a few of them, and Bobby included those. More than a few were jokes: “Gave up your mom.” “Gave up being bad at sex.” “Gave up handwritten notes up until today. Thanks for nothing.”

The wait staff helped pick out twenty perfectly good wishes among them at the end of the night. Many people were game for a passing group activity–including prompts from restaurant strangers. They were lucky like that.

Bobby decided it was a tree, he felt a little bad, making assumptions like that. But no other alleyway in the neighborhood had to deal with an exploded refuse every morning. He bent the shape of the tree out of chicken wire and bits of twine. Fastening every single person’s half-decent answers to the ends of the branches.

He sat, long into midnight, writing his own answer on the wish paper. Gave up the drink. No. He had scratched that out. Gave up having fun. That one was also tossed out. Bobby thought, in the end, he wrote something serviceable. Gave up on giving up on myself.

A couple weeks later, Bobby ran into the young priest at an AA meeting. He found it kind of sweet, seeing the other young guy there, figuring it all out. He still had the deep shadows under his eyes and the look of a hunted man. That was probably why Bobby stopped him after the meeting.

“Did you ever figure out your pest situation?” The young priest asked, tired.

Bobby grinned. “Eventually, yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Someone had to.” “Did one of the traps work? Those usually do.” He snorted. “Even the city gods get conceited and will run into a trap.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Let’s get coffee, huh?”

He told the young priest a story: the little city god was never going to be worshipped as a tree or a sun or a source of happiness again. Had become a Problem Eater. But if you fed it right, little bits of what it used to be, new kinds of offerings in the old style, you might get a perfectly serviceable back alley.

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