#that ghost stole the hot pepper i worked so hard growing

[trashartgalleries]

A GHOST STOLE MY FUCKIN PRODUCT BITCH!!!!

[writefasttalkevenfaster]

Poe Dameron / Punishment

Prompts: “Is that my shirt?” + “Of course I care.”

Summary: After returning from his mission, First Order General Poe Dameron is not pleased when he sees you wearing his shirt (FO! Poe x Reader (no Y/N)). 

Word Count: 2,301

Warnings: NSFW, Exhibitionism, smut essentially, dirty talk, some blood, probably other warnings but i don’t remember lmao, 

"Is that my shirt?"  General Dameron's silky voice sends a shiver rolling down your spine — a statement phrased as a question. It's whispered in your ear, arm winding its way around your body as he discreetly leads you out of the cantina. His chest presses against your back, you wonder if he can feel your heart pound against his back. 

His thick fingers dig into your wrist, as you find your way through the double doors, and he leads you around the corner. Eyes avoid your figures, glued to the tables or walls, not daring to incite the General's anger at questioning his actions. Instead, you feel waves of pity wash over you because they knew — they knew you were going to be punished. 

With a flick of his wrist he has you pressed against the wall, his knee pressed against the gap between your thighs, "you didn't answer my question, soldier." He growls, the words vibrating against your chest. 

"It is, General," you say, barely above a whisper, all too aware of the dozen or so officers only around a few feet away. His features are sharper in the dim lighting of the halls this late at night - eyes seemingly dancing with amusement at your admission, theory only proven when you feel the ghost of a chuckle rumble against you. 

You had been hoping he would be here -- it had been far too long since you had seen him last. An operation kept him away far too long, his usually clean shaven face now littered with salt and pepper curls. Far too long since he had you pressed against the fine grain of his desk, lips and teeth sucking and grazing the soft skin of your neck harshly. His fingers between your legs, and his hardness against your thigh. It's why you stole his shirt the night before he left, left crumpled on the floor along with the rest of your clothes. If you couldn't feel the flat of his tongue against your body, you could at least relish the feel of the soft cotton, in the scent that was so undeniably him. You arch into his touch, his eyes darting between your heaving chest and parted lips — yes, it had been far too long, for the both of you. 

"Stealing from your commanding officer cannot stand, sweetheart. You have to be punished," you quietly gasp, as his fingers tug at your uniform, as he leans down to press a kiss to your exposed neck, beard dragging against your sensitive skin. 

"What's the punishment?" Your head spins, as his fingers undo your belt, tugging your pants down to your ankles, his lips swallowing your gasp. 

"Baby, I already told you," you hear the click of his belt buckle, "it cannot stand, so neither can you." 

"But, the cantina—" you breath catches in your throat as he presses a kiss to it's hollow. 

"Let them hear," he purrs, smirking against your skin, "let me make an example of you to those who choose to violate the rules."  

Your clothes feel all too hot, sticking to your skin, but still, you resist as he begins to peel them off, "We can't. Not here. I can't let them see me like this," the thought of your fellow officers seeing you like this, exposed and keening for the General — you squeeze your eyes shut, stomach turning in shame, "Don't you care—" 

"Of course I care," he says, such poison from a sweet and honeyed mouth, stroking the back of his fingers down your cheek. His other hand makes quick work of your clothes, tugging them down to your knees. You shiver, wondering if it cool air of the crisp night or his heady gaze, "I care about getting you off. And I know no matter how much you deny it, you love this," he slips his a finger into your slick heat as if to prove it, hand holding your hips in place, squeezing hard to warn you to keep still, "look at how ready you are for me," another finger fills you, and you barely stop yourself from arching into his touch, "your lips say one thing, but your body is saying another, so what is the truth?" You whine as he withdraws from you, licking your essence from his fingers. 

"Sir," you pant, chest rising and falling, as his fingers draw mindless patterns across your inner thigh, pressing butterfly kisses across your collarbone, as he unbuttons your now creased uniform, exposing your chest, "please," 

"You have to tell me what you want, sweetness," he murmurs darkly, his fingers tilting your head up to force you to meet his shadowy eyes. The usual steely look remains fixed there — a hint of mischief peeking through as a grin pulled at his lips. Now you know just how much he was enjoying this, and just how willing he was to go through with it. And that only serves to make you wetter.

Your lips are a tight line, a second wind of defiance rushing through you, as you turn your head from his steady gaze. You don't need to look at him to know he raises a single eyebrow. Nor do you need to look at him to know the gears in his head are churning — calculating what exactly he needs to do to make you break. Nor do you need to look at him to know that he will probably succeed. 

It happens quickly. 

You hear the cantina doors open, the quiet conversations of two officers within earshot. Suddenly, there are hands grasping at your thigh, three fingers slipping inside your heat at once, palm of his hand rubbing against your clit. He doesn't bother to kiss you this time, letting your mouth fall open, smiling cruelly as it does, only increasing his pace when you fail to produce the noise he seeks. 

You try to bury your face in his shoulder, but he denies you this luxury. His fingers now grip your chin, forcing you to look at him as you fight the urge to ride his fingers, the unabashed reverence in his eyes only making you grow closer to the edge. A sob threatens to leave your throat, as your body shakes under his relentless pace, thick fingers stretching you open. 

"You love this, don't you?" He hisses, as you grab his fingers and stuff them into your mouth to stifle a moan, "you want your fellow officers to know just how good your Commander fucks you, don't you?" He grits his teeth when you suck on his fingers, tongue rolling across the knuckles, "why else would you wear my shirt, hm? You want them to know that I own you. You're mine." 

You finally roll your hips against his touch, riding his fingers in earnest now, squeezing your eyes shut. He pries his fingers from your mouth, "say it." He orders, rubbing at your clit, pulling you over the edge. And you oblige, moaning as you feel his cock rub against your thigh harshly, letting him and anyone else within earshot how your Commander owned you. How he had since you had first seen him. How he had when he first fucked you in his office, hand clamped over your mouth. How he had when he had when he transferred you under his direct command. 

Your walls tighten around his fingers, as he fucks you fast and hard through your orgasm, until you're shaking under his touch. He pulls his fingers from you, and you feel the press of his heavy cock against your folds. 

You pant against his neck, as he allows your arms to coil around him, tugging him impossibly closer. You find his lips in another kiss, his tongue plundering your mouth, before his teeth bore down on your lip harshly. He swallowed your cry, feeling copper drip from your bottom lip, and he grins against your skin, licking the salt of your sweat from your neck. 

"This is a punishment, baby," he says, parting your sensitive folds with his fingers, scissoring harshly against your walls, "or did you forget?" His mouth leans down to swallow one of your peaks, sucking the breath from your lungs with it, as he grinds against your inner thigh. 

He pulls his fingers from you, placing them in your mouth to muffle your cry, as he finally slips into you, "Suck," he orders, as his hips snap up into you, and you taste yourself on his fingers, "see? I always know what's best for you, sweetheart. Look at how beautiful you look, moaning around my fingers right now." 

He ruts into you for emphasis, his other hand grabbing at your hip to lift you higher against the wall, until his fingers slip from your mouth so he could hear the beautiful noises he was pulling from you, instead of feeling them around his fingers, “let them hear how good I make you feel. Let them know just who you belong to.” 

Any embarrassment or shame had slipped from your mind, not forgotten, but instead, the knowledge only added to your pleasure, knowing that come tomorrow, everyone would know that General Dameron had filled you, over and over and over again. You know everyone must hear the whine that leaves your throat when he slows, painfully so, as he stills, fully sheathed inside of you. His burning pants against your neck, leaning back to smile down at you, “Please, General,” 

“Why did you take my shirt, soldier?” your mouth falls open but no words come out, until he thrusts into you suddenly, and you feel him twitch inside you, your pussy aching and full, “answer me.” 

"I missed you," Breathless, he buries his face in your neck, nose inhaling the smell of sex that permeated from your body, "I wanted to think about you, smell you when-" your breath stutters in your chest as his fingers squeeze your thighs, making you arch against him. 

"Were you bad while I was gone, baby?" He smooths your hair down, lips grazing your forehead, "did you forget that I am the only one who can make you feel this way? That I am the only one allowed to make you feel this way? The only one allowed to see you this way?" 

"But the cantina—" he thrusts into you again savagely, setting a brutal pace that made you shake underneath his touch. 

"They can all hear what they can't have, but you're mine, sweetness, and they won't forget it — and neither will you." 

His hand finds the back of your head, fisting them in your tresses and forcing you to look at where you two met, “You wanted this,” he tells you, no longer whispering, “why else would you return to the catina this late at night when you have a mission briefing in the morning, especially in my shirt, sweetheart? Can you explain that to me?” 

All words, all thoughts leave your mind and you can only think about him: his fingernails digging into your hips, his lips sucking harshly at the small of your neck, and his tongue soothing the ache. 

“I didn’t think so,” he adds, finding a new angle, 

"Don't come until I say so," he mutters in your ear, ripping a cry of protest from your throat, "not yet." He slows his thrusts, fingers cupping your chin to force you to look at him, as he draws even closer to you, your hands  "come for me." 

You fall apart at his words, crushing your lips to his, your legs wrapped around his waist. His hips don't stutter, continuing to fuck you through your orgasm. His groan vibrates against your lips as he breaks away to tell you just how fucking tight you are, how good you feel when you come around his cock. 

"General, please," but he refuses to stop, even as you tremble, trapped between the wall and his chest, "stop."

"You have one more in you, sweetheart," his teeth scraping against the side of your neck, his fingers brushing against your clit, making you jump against him, "this is my punishment, and it isn't over until I say it is. I have to make good on my promise, don't I?" He muses, as he tilts your head back against the wall, and you tighten at his words, as he reaches a particular spot with a particularly hard thrust, "fuck." 

You come apart again, fingernails digging into his back, your moans filling his ears, until he follows you in bliss. He fills you, warmth spilling inside you as he groans your name in your ear, and you nearly miss it — how your name sounds on his tongue, quietly moaning in your ear as he marks you as his own. 

He slows his thrusts, sliding you back down on completely useless feet, feeling his cum begin to drip from inside you. He adjusts your panties back into place, flinching as his fingers gather some of the dripping cum and push it back in. You stand there, boneless as he adjusts your uniform as best he can, before fixing himself. 

Your gaze drops to the floor, cheeks burning as the roaring blood in your ears slows and you hear the quiet chatter of the catina return. 

"Come on, sweetheart," he murmurs, fingers tucking your hair behind your ear, "you're coming with me tonight." 

Was that slightest amount of reverence in his voice? But as you peer up at him, you see his lips curled in a cruel smirk, his teeth baring down on his bottom lip for a moment, as his hand came up again to grasp at the back of your neck, "did you really think your punishment would be over that easily?" 

[pocketsizeddemon]

Yule - Bang Chan Smut

I’ve been wanting to write a second part to Beltane since... well since I wrote Beltane. So with Yule coming tomorrow, I wrote this baby! Happy Yule my darlings and Happy Holidays in general~

Bang Chan smut, 2.3k words, AO3

It was well into winter already. You could see it in the nights that were getting longer and the brightly decorated shop windows. But most importantly you could feel it was getting colder, it was finally “hoodie season” as your boyfriend would say. The boyfriend who was lately way too busy.

           Chris and his group were currently promoting their new album and you’d be lucky if you got to see him a few hours a week, but really you couldn’t blame him. You knew all too well how time-consuming and exhausting his job was, and also how much he loved doing it, you just missed him terribly. But hopefully tonight, the longest night of the year, this would change. You wouldn’t really call it a date or anything but he had promised to you, since he’d have the weekend off that you could watch movies and spend time together.

           He arrived late in the evening. As it seemed appropriate for the occasion and the terribly cold weather you had lit up the fireplace a few hours ago and the house was cozily warm. He found you sitting on the couch with a notebook in your hand, a warm cup of tea, wearing one of his hoodies that looked adorably oversized on you and barely covered your bare thighs. He smiled softly as he took of his coat and put his backpack away on the counter and quietly sat next to, trying to not distract you from your task.

“What’d you got there baby?” he asked and giggled as you let out a tiny scream. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in, I was doing something.” you answered, laughing along as you placed your notes on the coffee table and gave him a big hug. Oh how you missed his hugs. They made you feel so warm and fuzzy… They felt like home.

“Just writing down a presents’ list. I want to make sure I didn’t forget anyone.” You answered while nuzzling closer to him, leaving a tiny kiss on his cheek. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too” he answered as he softly held your face and kissed you. “And I must say, coming home to you wearing my hoodie…that’s the best way to welcome me. You look so cute.” You blushed ever the slightest and playfully pushed him away. “Any presents left to buy?” he questioned, checking out your mostly checked list.

“Nope everything’s all set. I just need to finish the last few cards and I can ship them all out on Monday… which is technically on time but not really.” You giggled. “Gift-giving is a Yule tradition after all, so I should be done by today.”

“Yule?” Chris scrunched his nose. “Isn’t that the winter solstice?”

You nodded. “Yes! And it’s actually were many Christmas traditions come from. The Yule Log, the tree, even the gifts are all much older than <<Christmas>>. Oh! Speaking of which!” you beamed and hopped up, giving him a peak of the lovely white lace panties that you were wearing underneath his hoodie in the progress. You ran to your bedroom carrying a bag decorated with a big bow and gave it to him. His joy could not be hidden when he carefully unwrapped camera you had bought for him, smiling fondly as he remembered that he had told you how he was really starting to get into photography lately. He hugged you tightly, thanking you and already thinking of all the pictures he could take.

“So,” he asked after a few minutes “what are the plans for today babygirl?”

“Hmm… I don’t know. You came straight from practice so we can just watch movies and cuddle if you want.” You said with a shrug. Honestly as long you got to cuddle him you were perfectly fine with anything. He bit his lip in thought.

“You know what would get this on a whole other level of coziness?” he said, looking way too serious for the casualty of the matter at hand. “Let’s build a pillow fort!” You couldn’t help but laugh at his cute expression and beaming smile though you were certain yours was just the same. His idea was indeed really nice.

Getting down to what wouldn’t really count as work, but more as a playful treasure hunt, you gathered chairs, sheets, blankets and all kinds of pillows to build the perfect fort. It took you the rest of the evening to make but it was all worth it, you thought to yourself as you added one last detail : a leftover string of fairy lights, from decorating the other day, which made it all the more cozy. As he was setting up your laptop, you quickly sneaked into the kitchen to make two hot cocoas for both of you.

You snuggled into the warm and cozy fort, sipping your warm drinks and enjoying your movie and most of all each other’s companies. It wasn’t long until you were laughing along with How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Halfway through you were only partially paying attention as Chris had gotten busy leaving sweet kisses all over your face between your guys’ giggles. By the end of the movie he was comfortably nuzzled on your shoulder, leaving small kisses on your jaw and neck while you played with his soft fluffy hair, letting out small content hums.

           As soon as the credits rolled he lazily shuffled to your laptop, closed it and pushed it on the nearest chair. You laid comfortably between the pillows, making grabby hands for him to come back, with your cute sweater paws. And return he did, wriggling over you, supporting himself so that he wouldn’t fall on top of you. He stared at your warm smile under the soft lighting of the fire and fairylights, his eyes so full love.

           “Help me! I’m feeling!” he comically quoted the movie, dipping down to kiss your lips. You gently pulled him down for a second… and then a third and fourth, each kiss deeper and more heated than the last. He traced your bottom lip with his tongue, wordlessly asking for permission to take this further and you complied, weaving your fingers into his hair. Warm fingers were soon pressing into your thighs, sneaking their way under your shirt to feel more of you.

           He was headed lower, peppering open mouthed kisses all over your neck and shoulder, softly biting your clavicle as he was desperately trying to expose more skin. Raising the hem of the hoodie just a little higher, he moved towards your chest were he could continue his sweet teasing, leaving you breathless. You squirmed as his warm lips ghosted over your sensitive nipples and your hips bucked when he sucked one of them in his mouth. And still he continued, with small loving kisses on your tummy and a tantalizing nibble on your hipbone.

           Completely ignoring the place you wanted him most, he turned to your thighs, getting comfortable between your legs and taking his sweet time kissing your inner thighs, playfully biting and sucking small hickeys on them, both a warning for what would come next and a reminder for the following days. A chill ran through your spine as he reached the edge of your panties and a whimper that you hadn’t realize you were holding escaped your lips. The light of the fire made his eyes look like honey as he gazed up to you through his eyelashes, teasingly kissing your lower lips through the lace garment and smirking a devilish smirk when he heard you moan. Like a silent plea, one of your hands was grabbing at his shoulder, pulling on his hoodie, almost begging him to take it off.

           As much as wanted to keep on teasing you, tonight was the first time he had you all to himself in a while and he didn’t plan on spending all of it like this. He did quick work with taking off his own hoodie and pants, and then slowly removed your panties before he lied down between your legs. Your fingers were in his hair as his hot breath hit your bare pussy.  His tongue touched you next as he took him time to warm you up, moaning as if you were the sweetest caramel he had ever tasted.

           You almost had forgotten how skillful his tongue was, slow long strokes exploring your folds, softly flicking and sucking on your clit then licking again. He was truly taking his time with you, instead of rushing to make up for the weeks he hadn’t touched you, he was going slowly yet in an overwhelmingly passionate rhythm that was making you moan and whimper, matching the movements of your hips with his tongue’s. And oh did he love hearing your sounds. It was a truly rare occasion to have you so open, exposed and unapologetically vocal and all for him.

           “C-Chris, please. I need more please~” You groaned out in exasperation. And he was happy to comply, stopping his ministrations with a last teasing lick and sitting up. He was almost sad to discard the last piece of clothing off of you, his hoodie, and then took of his boxers, freeing his hard cock. With small kisses he made his way up to your lips again, giving you a much rougher kiss while grinding his erection on your wet folds

           You sighed, as he teased your entrance, wrapping your legs around his waist, urging him to move. The drop of his jaw was barely registered when he filled you up, as your hands reached for his shoulders, moaning out at the sudden stretch. He started a slow pace and shallow thrusts, wanting to give you some time to get used to his size and mostly just enjoying being so close to you.

           With breathless whispers of I-love-yous he kept going slow and steady, switching between kissing your lips and softly nibbling on your neck. You were overwhelmed by how gentle and loving yet passionate he was, truly seizing your first time alone in a long time. This wasn’t a simple quick fuck, hidden away and trying to stay quiet. He was sweetly making love to you, pouring out his feelings in every single move of his hips and each tiny kiss on your skin.

           Just like his thrusts started growing faster and deeper, so did your moans grew louder. Your nails were scratching on his sculpted back, making him hiss and riling him up to go harder. He could feel you tighten around his cock in return and low groans left his throat. You were matching him beat for beat, pushing back against him as you felt your orgasm approach, pleading him to go just a little faster, you were almost there.

           Knowing his own high was approaching just as fast, feeling that tightening knot in his abdomen, he picked up the pace. In an instant your noises filled the little room, your back arching off of the soft futon on the floor, squirming around his cock. Feeling your convulsing walls was more than Chris could take and with a few more thrusts he was cumming deep inside of you.  

           You ended up falling asleep in the fort, all warm and cozy, comfortably cuddled up together, way too lazy and fucked out to even consider moving to the bed. The morning sun woke you up as it shone through your balcony door and over one of the blankets that have fallen overnight. You turned around in Chris’ embrace, who had somehow ended up spooning you in his sleep, finding him still fast asleep. His arms instinctively hugged you a little tighter, a gesture that only made the warm feeling inside you grow.

           The thought to wriggle away from your cuddly boyfriend’s hug and warm blankets into the cold room seemed insane and so you stayed there, counting Chris’ light freckles. You probably cooed a little too loud at an exceptionally cute constellation on his cheeks because he sleepily opened his eyes. As soon as he realized that he was holding you instead of his usual pillow he stirred, memories from last night flooding in making his smile mirror yours.

           “Good morning babygirl.” He said, his voice still rough from sleep.

           “Good morning baby.” You answered stretching as you got up. “I’m going to go wash up and get started with breakfast.” you told him with a kiss before making your way to the bathroom.

            He joined you in the kitchen a little later, as you had just started making coffee. Still slow from sleep and his hair adorably fluffy, he walked behind you giving you a back hug and resting his head on your shoulder. He seemed to get a little more awake as his backpack caught his eye, left on the counter from last night. Opening it quietly as he was fumbling around with the compartments, while you grabbed a few muffins from the box you had bought the other day and set them on the table along with the coffee cup. He followed you, holding a tiny box.

           “I was going to give it to you as an early Christmas present yesterday, but we got a little carried away yesterday.” He giggled as he opened the box for you, revealing a delicate silver moon necklace. “For you,” he continued “my moon in the darkest nights.” He told you as he fastened the accessory in the back of your neck. “I love you, babygirl.”

           “I love you too, Chris.” You said with a soft blush blooming on your cheeks as you pulled him down for a kiss.  

[perpetually-jungshook]

Yoongi: A Very Tragic Boy with Enormous Wings || 02

Genre: angst, fantasy

Summary: Tomorrow Enterprises, the last hope for some of our… rarer species.

Word Count: 2.9k

Inspiration from “A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings” by García Márquez and “Winter Music and Gothic Music” by Derek & Brandon Fiechter

Link to: 01 | Next part

photo credit: merimask on etsy (go look their masks are super cool)

✩✩✩♔✩✩✩

Five days after his arrival at Tomorrow Enterprises, Yoongi still hasn’t seen his only floor-mate. Not even once. Fortunately, he doesn’t really care. He’s not here to make friends. In other news, he was officially cleared of parasites yesterday, so he is now allowed access to the common room.

In a week, Yoongi is scheduled for another examination to track the healing progress, but until then, all he has to do is eat, sleep, and apply an arsenal of lotions and oils. And those are things he’s more than happy to do. Well, maybe not “happy,” but indifferent.

Yoongi stares at the park across the street, thick floor to ceiling windows separating him from the balmy air outside. Tomorrow Enterprises has kept the entire building at a comfortably cool temperature. Yoongi has always preferred warmth. Arm chairs and sofas taunt him from just a few meters away, but he can’t bring himself to sit on any. It simply seems… wrong. So here he finds himself, knees pressed to the glass, sitting on the floor.

To his left is also the entertainment center. There are plenty of games, movies, and books he could use to occupy his time, but he would rather watch the people outside, living the life he could never seem to find.

He shouldn’t have left the Hive.

Yoongi glances down at his hands, palms and fingers covered in the intricate inky patterns that set him apart from everyone else, everyone normal. It’s why they hate him. It’s why he ended up in this damn place. At least Tomorrow Enterprises doesn’t discriminate.

Outside, green paints the earth and trees, vividly illuminated by the afternoon sunlight, both humans and common homo-fauna species bustling down the street, oblivious to the natural beauty. What Yoongi wouldn’t give for the luxury of obliviousness.

Bony hips pressing into the dark hardwood floor, Yoongi winces as he shifts positions, accidentally sitting on his right wing, pulling out a few of the long feathers that still feebly cling onto it. As he rises to assess the damage, an involuntarily string of curses leaves his mouth when he stumbles and falls, knees buckling from malnourishment.

Instinctive surprise causes his wings to beat frantically, loudly, yet weakly against the floor, shooting pins and needles up his spine. It takes a few seconds for him to regain composure, now sitting amidst a scattering of raven black, damaged feathers.

Hot anger pulses through his veins and pure frustration at his lack of self control causes an irritating stinging his eyes.

The sound of quick footsteps draws his attention.

“Hey, are you alright?” a boy rushes back into the common room, eyes wide with concern as he stoops, attempting to wrap an arm around Yoongi’s shoulders.

“I’m fine,” Yoongi asserts, pushing the guy away to stand on his own. He staggers forward a little, palm slapping against the window, leaving a streak on the otherwise impeccably clean glass.

“I’m just trying to help.”

Yoongi glares at his new baby faced companion, giving him a judgmental once over. Only then does he notice the neatly folded, peppered gray wings. The boy looks healthy enough to have been in rehabilitation for a while, muscular even, and it’s obvious what this means. Those wings are coming off. Soon. The ghost of a long forgotten emotion, maybe pity, maybe empathy, caresses the edge of Yoongi’s self-hating haze. But the feeling is fleeting.

“I don’t need your help,” Yoongi scoffs and walks away, feeling the boy’s gaze burning into the back of his neck.

Over the next few days, Yoongi mostly stays in his room, wanting to avoid another confrontation with his floor-mate. It’s not that he’s guilty or scared of facing the boy, but rather with his limited energy, he doesn’t want to expend it making small talk with some random guy who now probably thinks he’s an asshole. And rightly so.

Still, with each meal and each good night’s rest, Yoongi is able to move easier, the dark circles under his eyes begin to disappear, and while the long dark feathers continue to fall out, he can feel the telltale itching of new ones growing in.

Life is being breathed back into Yoongi’s body.

He remains wary of the staff, hating them for what they do, for their uncanny kindness. How can anyone be so casual about surgically removing parts of people’s bodies? Granted, it is technically after their consent, but a lot of homo-fauna only come here because they no longer have a choice, especially those that have run from the Hive. Yoongi should know.

The day after his examination, he finds himself in the common room again.

While the view from the bedroom is not awful, the park less depressing. As Yoongi stares intensely out the window, tracing the movements of the people below, he idly begins scratching at his palms. It’s a bad habit, but he can’t seem to break it. All he wants is to go back and remove those ink marks, remove that stigma, be free.

Untouchable.

He suppresses a wince, repressing the avalanche of memories… the glares, the suspicion, the arrests simply because of those stupid characters on his palm.

The sound of the elevator door sliding open catches Yoongi’s attention. It can’t be the doctor. Yoongi is not due for another appointment until next week. This leaves the staff or possibly his floor-mate. The latter is improbable simply because none of the patients are supposed to leave their designated wards, thus he couldn’t be on the elevator.

But then a peal of laughter echoes through the otherwise silent hallways.

“Jiminie! I stole a new keycard and- oh, hello,” a rich, deep voice causes Yoongi to glance over his shoulder. A bright looking boy stands in the hallway adjacent to the common room, staring curiously with large innocent eyes, a boxy smile, and a massive pair of antlers poking out of his chestnut brown hair.

Yoongi turns back to the window.

“Are you a patient too?” the boy audibly ventures slightly closer with each word. “Well okay, you have wings but-”

“Tae, leave him alone,” the vaguely familiar voice grates on Yoongi’s nerves. It’s the other homo-avian. “C’mon, we can hang out in my room.”

“Alright, nice to meet you,” he boy with the antlers says, giving a polite nod. “I’m Taehyung and this is Jimin if you ever want to-”

“Let’s go,” the homo-avian, Jimin? tugs his friend’s arm, pulling both of them around a corner, out of Yoongi’s line of peripheral sight.

That was odd. Homo-cervidae aren’t usually friendly around strangers. Then again, that’s also a stereotype and might be as true as the “elegance” associated with homo-avians.

Yoongi stops scratching his palms and picks up one of the damaged, black feathers that had fallen next to his leg. He slowly spins the shaft between his index finger and thumb, thinking, but refusing to remember.

—

It is a common occurrence that the homo-cervidae, Taehyung? comes to bother Yoongi’s floor-mate. His laughter can often be heard throughout the empty hallways and he always manages to come back, no matter how many times he’s scolded by the staff.

Yoongi often wonders how Taehyung manages to be so…irritatingly happy. Maybe it’s because he will naturally shed his antlers, so he has nothing to lose. His friend, however, seems to be in a similar emotional state as Yoongi. On the rare occasions that their paths cross, Jimin appears as excited as someone attending a funeral, but could anyone blame him? Who knows how many days he has left? And of course there’s always the fact that they probably aren’t on good terms because Yoongi snapped at him when they first met.

Four weeks after his arrival, the doctor orders Yoongi to begin physical therapy.

The basement houses the exercise facilities for all of the homo-fauna species, though each has a specific time slot reserved. As Yoongi and Jimin are the only homo-avians currently, they have the entire basement to themselves and their trainers. Yoongi isn’t sure whether this exclusivity makes it less or more awkward.

No matter how much he pretends not to care, he can’t help but feel the smallest bit self conscious about his wings, especially around Jimin. As Yoongi walks with his trainer to the elevator, now boxed into the small space with three other people, he can’t help but notice. Jimin’s wings are beautiful, full, with healthily sleek plumage that reminds Yoongi of the dappled patterns that form on cement when soft, morning light trickles through leaves as they are caressed by a gentle gust of wind.

Compared to Yoongi’s weathered, damaged charcoal feathers…

Jimin continues to stare hard at the metal doors, ignoring Yoongi completely.

As they walk into the fully fledged, high ceilinged gym in the basement, Yoongi’s trainer begins explaining the different exercises they’ll be working on, but he isn’t really listening.

There are all sorts of elaborate equipment pieces, some meant to exercise, some meant to provide support. Yoongi uses none of them, only being forced to endure mild flexing activities. This is mindless except for the occasional sharp jab of pain, so otherwise he’s free to watch as Jimin spreads his wings, giving them a few calculating, experimental beats.

It’s been years since Yoongi has been strong enough to fly. Even when he was in the Hive, well fed and protected enough to periodically sleep, he couldn’t manage to get more than a meter off the ground. Maybe that’s why no one wanted him. Well, that and the damn marks-

An ear piercing squeak echoes through the gym as Jimin jogs a few steps, frantically flapping to rise a few feet, only to lose altitude and skid to a halt in front of the far wall. His fist collides with it in vocalized frustration. It’s such a loud impact that Yoongi doesn’t hesitate to assume he’s likely bruised his knuckles under the bandages-

Bandages? Tan cloths cover both of his hands, matching his skin color enough to be difficult to notice. Had he hurt them? Wait, why does Yoongi even care?

“It’s okay, Mr. Park,” his trainer soothes. “That was higher than last time. You’re doing great.”

The other homo-avian lets out a string of curses, much to Yoongi’s amusement. It’s enough of a distraction to dull the pain as his own trainer, a middle aged woman, forces him to stretch, displaying his full wing span. She keeps telling him it’ll get easier, especially because they’ll be meeting once every other day for an hour and he’ll be doing a few activities on his own.

Yoongi already knows that he’ll be putting minimal effort into everything.

He’s contractually required to participate and help his wings heal, which is understandable. But why rush things? Especially when he’s getting free meals and a nice bed. It definitely beats sleeping under an overpass or getting beat with a broom.

Another shout draws Yoongi’s attention back across the room.

“I’m not doing great,” Jimin insists, but the angry determination in his voice is slightly astonishing. Why is he so intent on flying? He’s just going to lose that ability soon anyway.

Weeks pass. Yoongi continues to watch the park outside, continues clear the examinations, and continues to ignore his floor-mate and his homo-cervidae friend. The only thing that marks the passage of time is the condition of Yoongi’s wings.

The heat retaining down feathers have grown back and most of the larger, damaged flight feathers have fallen out. This leaves his wings soft and fuzzy, an aesthetic that Yoongi thinks doesn’t fit him. Nevertheless, sleek, healthier feathers have begun to poke through and he’s able to move around with less pain.

He’s even regained some weight and color has returned to his skin.

Screw Tomorrow Enterprises for taking advantage of his people, but Yoongi does admit that at least they aren’t cruel about it.

During his trips to the physical therapy basement, Yoongi’s only source of entertainment is watching Jimin struggle to fly.

Okay, that makes it sound a little bit more derisive than his actual intentions.

The other homo-avian has progressed by leaps and bounds, now able to hover in the air for twenty seconds and get up to a height of three meters. Granted, his arial navigation ability is a bit haphazard at best… but Yoongi can barely flap his wings a few times without feeling exhausted so he can’t say much.

Still, Yoongi lets out an amused huff as Jimin stumbles into a wobbly landing, collapsing on the floor and shining from a thin sheen of sweat, chest laboriously pulling and expelling air from his lungs in heavy pants.

Yoongi has grown… vaguely fond of Jimin at a distance.

Even if they don’t speak, there’s something about close proximity companionship, something about him being the only other person besides the doctor that he sees consistently, and there is definitely something in Jimin’s sheer determination that sparks an alien feeling inside of Yoongi.

Hope.

The accomplished smile that lights the other homo-avian’s face causes a small swell of pride in Yoongi’s chest as well. Somehow, Jimin had managed to fly six meters vertically, to the very top of the vaulted ceiling of the gym and hit a small button that let out a small, rewarding ‘ding.’ He’d just doubled his usual air time and distance, extreme effort visible in his flushed cheeks, trembling limbs, and radiant smile.

After they return to their ward, Yoongi mulls over congratulating Jimin on his accomplishment.

Despite their cold, distant relationship, something urges him to say something, so after a quick shower and rub down of medicated lotions, he wanders down the hallway, searching for his floor-mate. It doesn’t take Yoongi long to find him.

“I’m so proud of you,” Taehyung’s rich voice floats out of the common room. “You did it. You flew again.”

“I know,” there’s excitement, but also a solemn quality to Jimin’s response. “I got to do it one last time.”

Yoongi freezes, still around the corner, out of sight.

Silence ensues like a gaping wound.

“It’ll be okay, Jiminie,” Taehyung soothes eventually. Yoongi peers into the common room to watch the homo-cervidae wrap his arms around the homo-avian, nuzzling into the latter’s neck, or at least as much as his antlers allow. “Once I shed my rack in a couple weeks, I’ll find you and everything will be okay…”

The sound of the elevator causes Yoongi to stiffen and turn slightly to see the metal doors open, revealing two men dressed in the pristine light blue uniforms of Tomorrow Enterprises. Only when they push a wheelchair out does Yoongi realize why they’re here. He moves out of their way as they walk into the common room.

“Mr. Kim, what have we said about leaving your floor?”

Taehyung’s response is uncharacteristically tart, “You know I don’t have any transmittable diseases.”

“Mr. Kim, if you’ll please-”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll go. Can’t I just say goodbye? Jiminie, don’t worry. I’ll find you,” there’s a false calmness in his voice, a fake surety that makes a chill permeate through Yoongi’s body. “Just go back to the- the place and wait for me.”

The squeaky sound of the wheelchair gets closer as the two men turn the corner, one pushing Jimin. None of them pay Yoongi any attention, the two employees focused on the elevator and Jimin’s gaze fixed on his feet, all joy from earlier leeched from his expression, replaced by ashen terror.

The boy with the antlers rounds the corner, unable to get close to his friend as the two Tomorrow Enterprises men block the hallway. He seems to want to make eye contact, or at least reach out to his friend. Taehyung’s words waver, “Minnie, I- I’ll find you. No matter what. I will find you.”

“I know, Tae,” there’s a sudden deadness to Jimin’s voice. “I trust you.”

Taehyung lets out a breathy, somber laugh,  “It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. I promise…”

“I know.”

Taehyung stops trying to pursue them as the elevator doors close between the two friends, his large hand splaying on the metal surface.

The silence that ensues is deafening.

While Yoongi normally insists on not interfering in situations that aren’t his business, the devastation pouring off of Taehyung seems to warrant a break in this rule.

Yoongi clears his throat, “He’ll be okay.”

Taehyung’s voice drops an octave with his reply, “No, he won’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s all my fault. He’s losing his wings because of me.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Taehyung steps back, pressing the button to call the elevator. Just before the metal doors slide open again, his gaze drops to his palms, which are decorated with intricate patterns of dark ink.

Dozens of questions immediately flood Yoongi’s mind.

Taehyung must be from the Hive too. But why is he here? Why did he leave? Had Jimin had the same stigmatizing characters on his palms? Is that why he wore those bandages?

But before a single word can leave his lips, the metal doors of the elevator close behind the homo-cervidae.

Yoongi never sees either boy again.

✩✩✩♔✩✩✩

Part of the Fauna Series.

Send me your thoughts here. Or just come say hi ;) feedback is appreciated 

Support me/Donate and get some super rad 😎 rewards

Much love ~🐰 xx

[a-brief-history-of-magic]

These New Gods

Part 2: The Price of Life

Cael watched as the thief woman disappeared through the city streets. He was amazed, for a moment, by the way she seemed to be there, there, and then gone. Nobody passed in front of her, and he did not blink, but she was there and then she was not and he could not remember the space in between.

“We should probably falloooo-oh you’re already gone,” Cael said, staring at the empty space of sidewalk where his other companion had been. A conspicuous head of blue hair bounced through the streets in front of them.

“I know doing stupid shit for the hell of it is your job, but could you at least wait?” Cael yelled. No one so much as flinched, least of all his target. Fields these people creeped him out. Half of them were walking skeletons, starved and shambling through the city streets. They only looked at him with vacant and uncaring eyes. He was half-sure that he could reveal his nimbus in the middle of the street, and everyone would look at him as if he were nothing more than a hunger induced delusion. Though their lifelessness disgusted him, Cael could not dredge up a feeling of contempt. He knew what hunger did to a person. The sympathy that ran in currents between his own body and the emaciated forms of strangers only made him uncomfortable. He really wanted to be done with this shit, and get out of this stupid city.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched to make sure that Wendrii didn’t wander off anywhere. They didn’t need another incident, especially after what happened in the last town they were in. Fuck, he wasn’t sure how many more times they could repair that poor table.

Cael should probably follow along. After all, this thief was interesting. And if she was going to be traveling with them, it made sense to test her skill. The last thing Cael wanted was another useless tagalong. Although, even if she were incompetent, at least her hair wasn’t blue.

He snagged Wendrii by the collar and dragged him towards the square.  

“Where are we going?” Wendrii asked.

“To watch that woman steal some stuff,” Cael replied. Wendrii hummed for a second.

“Isn’t stealing a crime?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, just checking.”

It was times like this when Cael remembered the feeling of starving on a roadside, just feet from the edge of a field that could have sated his hunger. His body had been too weak to save itself. At that moment he would have done anything for food.

When the farmer’s son spotted him, and gave him some beets, Cael had pledged to repay that kindness. Now he regretted that. Starving to death would have been so much easier than taking care of Wendrii.

They trudged off in the direction Cael had seen the others go. They couldn’t have gotten far. After all this stupid town only had two roads. As they entered the square, things got a little more crowded. It seemed the entire town was meandering aimlessly through the space, staring off at some imagined place where their body wasn’t in the midst of devouring itself. It creeped Cael the fuck out, but he found himself a spot on the wall nevertheless.  

He spotted a homely guard, his fist shoved into his pocket on the other side of the square. Judging by the way his clothes billowed in the faint wind, he was desperately underfed. There were a few other guards near him, but Cael didn’t recognize their faces. He was certain that man was their mark. His hand shifted in his pocket, holding onto something dear. Cael scanned the area around but couldn’t spot the woman. After a moment or two, he diverted his attention back to Wendrii. The kid was picking the dandelions that grew around his feet, and then tossing them to the side, as if testing how many times he could pick it before it stopped growing back. He had a sizable little pile growing. 

Then a cart appeared, just outside the little town’s murky border, and the bodies inside of the square began to churn. A dull buzzing permeated the air as people mumbled to themselves and the strangers at their sides. As the cart entered the square in truth there was a moment of stillness in which no one seemed to have realized what had arrived in their midst. Then, like a single, living mass, the crowd surged forward with a roar. The vendor, a small, wiry man, looked terrified as they descended upon him. Moments later a shout came from the direction of the cart.

“What the Hell! This is all rotten!”

An apple flew from the surfing crowd, as if vomited from some unhappy stomach. It hit the grown and ruptured into an oozing puddle. Two seconds passed, and then something long and dark squirmed from the muck.

“Now wait, please,” the vendor began, “This is all…”

He never got farther. The crowd descended, all claws and teeth on open flesh. His words choked off in a scream. The three guards, finally noting what was happening, turned as one and entered the riot, trying in vain to restore order. Cael thought he saw some faint glimmer of metal out of the corner of his eye. His first thought was that it must’ve been the guard’s pocket watch. He had focused on it so much that now it was catching his eye. However, as he looked out into the square, he realized he had been wrong. Very wrong. Wendrii’s scythe, dull and rusting through it was, caught the light.

He was a hair’s width behind the guards already, charging full force into the crowd of ravenous strangers. Stupid reckless farmer boy. Had there been gods left to curse, Cael would have laid them out. As it were he charged after Wendrii, and wished, vaguely, that he had been allowed to starve, or better yet, that he had been laid to rest with his parents.

Anger, hot and tangible, prickled along his skin. As he passed through the crowed, it jumped, catching and flickering to life along the skin of those who drew too near. They screamed as the fire caught. He did not care. He pressed on.  

…

There was nothing like a good riot to get people focused on their emotions and not on people trying to pickpocket them. Not that Luciya had been in a lot of riots before, but she found that this one was convenient. She had gotten within a few yards of the guard-and then she heard the first scream. Then another, and another.

“Cael, no! Oh for fuck’s- Cael!” The now familiar voice of the gaudy one rose above the peppering screams. Just as she was beginning to wonder what that was even supposed to mean, Wendrii, the skinny farm boy, ran full tilt into her. His face was aghast, and cast in a deep shadow. Behind him, Cael was struggling through the crowd. Fire flickered around him, eating up all those who stood too near, in a swarming orange flame. Then something hot, painfully so, touched her shoulder.

“Damn,” she muttered. She dropped backwards on the ground and rolled. The angry feet of rampaging citizens crashed around her. One person nearly nailed her shoulder with his sole, before she rolled again. The fire on her shoulder was nothing but sputtering ash now, but she had lost the guard.

…

Mayor Arivan did not like messes and he certainly did not like to leave his research. A large, almost corpulent man, Mayor Arivian, was not generally fond of walking either. And yet here he was, walking amidst a mess. A scraggly black beard obscured several, but not all, of his chins, and in one hand he held a large leather bound book. A golden medallion hung heavy around his neck. He tapped at the piece of white marble set in the center. A soft glow radiated from the pendant. This light shifted in and out of focus, twisting into the aberrant symbols of a language long dead, or not yet born. He was not entirely sure how to classify the language of divinity. 

Arivan surveyed the scene. When Nelumriel had assigned him to a backwater town, Arivan was delighted. Nothing was supposed to happen in boring little backwater towns. But no, first someone stole his spy glass, and now this? He heaved a great sigh of irritation and opened his book. It fell open to the exact page he needed at his behest, and he ran his fingers over the words he wanted to speak.

Therem obet selvian. A voice larger than his own swept out through the square, echoing in the ears of every man, woman, and child within a hundred yards. On the ground the putrid mixture of blood, water, and rotting fruit squirmed as if alive, then lurched up into the air, forming into an orb that hovered above the still raging blaze.

Stue. Arivan punctuated his last by snapping the book closed. The orb broke apart, raining down all the city's bile on the people below. It rained on and on, well past when the water should have run dry, but soon enough the fires were out. And most people were still alive, if drenched in muck and nursing burns of varying intensity.

There. Now maybe he could get him work done. Arivan turned and marched himself out the square, his belly bouncing as he did.

…

Luciya stepped up onto the soaked and splintered remains of vendor’s cart to get a slightly better look. The people were still confused, and a little angry, but the fire had calmed them down. Now people were shaking off the water and rained muck while they stomped about and cursed. Among the havoc, it was hard to tell whether the dark liquid smeared across the ground was blood or some form of rotting vegetable. A chunk of what might have been flesh or the remains of a melon, landed on her foot, and she kicked it away.

Then she saw the guard.

And boy, was it her lucky day. The guard was attempting to drag a grieving woman from what Luciya could only assume was the burning ghost of her child, lost somewhere in the crowd. Best of all, they were positioned right in front of her acquaintances. She felt as if she were putting on a show.

So she strode towards the guard, and over barely distinguishable shouts of “Leave me be!” and “Come away!” she reached into his right pocket. Her hand closed around the pocket watch, and she immediately pulled it out, with a few nights’ dose of dream dust for good measure.

Then there was a hand on her shoulder, yanking her away from the crowd. A few seconds later she was looking up into the grizzly, tired face of Cael.

“Sorry about that,” he muttered, looking off to the side. Luciya shook off his hand and glared at him. He raised an eyebrow and then took a half-step away from her as a rumpled and singed looking Wendrii looked between the two. The gaudy one was sneering down at his now ruined clothes.

“Are you shitting me?” he mumbled, flicking some viscus liquid from the tips of his fingers. “Are you fucking with me right now? Fuck … Fuck.”

“I appreciate your concern for my safety, Fire Man, but I was doing fine myself,” she pronounced. Then she looked at the talkative one. “Here’s your watch.” She tried to make her voice a nonchalant as possible, but a faint note of pride snuck in, as she tossed him the watch that had almost destroyed a decent portion of Seyla.

As the watch spun in the air a heavy hand gloved in mail clamped down on Luciya’s shoulder. Unnoticed in all the confusion a man had come up behind the group. He wore a heavy mail shirt with a tabard tight over it. A sword rising from a book was stitched in bright silver cloth on a field of black, the symbol of Nulumriel. His features were fair, but haughty, and his black hair was slicked back. He grinned sickly, revealing teeth like chipped marble.

“There you are, you little bitch.” His voice was thick, spreading through the air like oil, “How did I know you were responsible for all this?” His gaze moved languidly over the rest of the group, pausing for a moment longer on the talkative one and the watch he snatched from the air. “And it seems you’ve got a little band now too? Well I guess I’d better be taking you all then. The Mayor will deal with you.”

He tightened his grip, the rings of his glove pressing hard against Luciya’s shoulder, until she could feel the blood vessels breaking beneath her skin.

Oh, fuck. Luciya had specifically stayed out of trouble (well, as much as she ever could) ever since she had stolen her spyglass. Or rather, the Mayor’s spyglass. It really was an excellent spyglass, and as far as she could tell, they didn’t know she had it. Of course they would search her now, and take it back. She would be stuck alone again, with one normal eye and uncontrollable, ridiculous sight from her nimbus.

Even that was optimistic. If they let her live, she would spend the rest of her life rotting in an eight by eight jail cell.  

“Go get fucked by a cactus, Justrad,” she snarled as she struggled to free her shoulder. It was a petty and futile gesture. They both knew that Justrad was stronger and better armed. She sighed, and let a little bit of the fight slip out of her.

“You don’t need to worry about taking these people in-I truly don’t know who they are,” she said. “That one hired me to steal a watch for him, but I just met him a few moments ago. When I was, as you like to put it, ‘slinking around,’ I knocked into a lamp, and everything caught on fire from there. So, as you love reminding me, you self-absorbed, sadistic bastard, everything is my fault.” She didn’t even hazard a look at the other three gods. It was better this way. If only she got caught than she was the only one she need to worry about when she set up an escape plan. It was so much easier than worrying about clumsy and conspicuous fr-people.

“I’m sorry, did I make that sound like a request?” Without loosening his grip Justrad moved his other hand and drew his sword. “If you’re willing to defend them, then I want them.”

At the same moment five more guards, including the one whose watch was currently swinging from the gaudy one’s outstretched hand, stepped out of the milling crowd.

“Now, you have a choice,” Justrad continued, “You come with us to see the Mayor in one piece or we bring you to see him in many.”

Cael snarled and stepped up to Justrad, and though the man towered well above him, Cael held far more presence.

“She’s just a bystander. Some drunken idiot tripped over one of the lamps and set this whole rotted mess on fire. I saw him get swept up in the mess myself. If you want to imprison the fire starter, you had best get a broom to sweep him up first,” Cael said with a low sharp voice that carried all the heat of his halo's fire. 

Luciya jumped, and looked at him. Not only was the lie stupid and obvious, but it’s purpose was moot. Justrad wouldn’t let them go if they kept butting in. If they would just let her take the fall she could free herself. But three other people? And just what did they hope to gain by going to prison with her.  

The flamboyant one sighed, pressed his sopping bangs back from his forehead and put a smile on his face that was equal parts admiring and derisive. He looked as if he thought this all a very inconvenient misunderstanding, and the swords just silly props. The other guards looked between Justrad and the man. The flamboyant one cleared his throat, drawing their attention back to him.  

“Cael’s right. What a sly man you are Justrad,” he began, slowly raising his voice in careful inclines, so as to catch the attention of the surrounding people. “No really, this is all quite the clever set up. If you blame us, you think no one will notice your crimes. First you, and your government deny the starving people food while you gorge yourself.” Here he paused and looked to the nearest milling citizen, before nodding to Justrad with a smile that fell into something twisted and angry.

“Truly, honestly, look at his belt, it barely fits around his waist. How many meals have you wasted with half eaten food, while children starved in the street. Ah, but I suppose that I could forgive. In this dead age of course beasts would do what it takes to survive. But now they can’t be sated with taking our food, they have to devour our pride too? Look what they’ve done, they throw promises of food and its sweet relief before us, and then watch as we consume this rot, laughing as if we were animals. Liars, all of them! How dare they do this to us. This isn’t survival, this is indulgence, cruel gluttony!”

“What the Hell are you talking about!” Justrad’s voice was pitched with fury and fear in equal measure. “I haven’t eaten a good meal in weeks! We suffer just as much as them!”

There was a chorus of agreements from the other guards, but it was already too late. The nameless man’s words had woken the beast that blood and filth had put to sleep. With a howl of blind rage the crowd surged again. The air became thick with rotten fruit and broken stones, a rain of violence and putrefaction. Caught in the center of it all the guards grouped around their leader, trying their best to hold off the crowd while dodging the most dangerous projectiles. From this knot Justrad looked out, his eyes ablaze, and reached towards the man with the blue hair. His long fingers were a hair’s breath away from his neck, when Luciya kicked Justrad back, back into his own men.  

“Listen here, you fucker!” he cried over the howling din, “You will pay! I will break you in my hands and watch you weep for mercy!”

He may have said more, but at that moment a roofing tile caught him, hurled from above by some dexterous hand, and opened a gash across his brow. He stumbled back, vision choked with blood and his voice cut off as it filled his mouth.

“Yeah,” the man with blue hair said, “I’ve heard that one before.”

“Don’t just stand there, you idiot, run,” Luciya yelled, grabbing his wrist and yanking them both through the crowed. She looked back only once, just long enough to scoop up a stone and hurl it at Justrad. In the flash of movement she saw two things, the first was the stone making a satisfying smack against his temple, and the second was Cael, who was dragging Wendrii through the fray a couple feet behind.

“This way!” she yelled over her shoulder. Then she set off running, and while she refused to look back, she nursed a strange, fervent, hope that the three were following her. She slipped the newly acquired dream dust into one of her many pockets and smiled as she felt the weight of her spyglass. Not today, Mayor Arivan. You’re not getting it back today.

They ran and ran, through the dingy, muck mired alleys, until the nameless man began to drag as a dead weight behind her and they had to stop just three streets away from Lady Kavian’s home. Luciya looked behind her, and watched as the gaudy one doubled over, wheezing. Cael and Wendrii were missing, lost somewhere behind them. Luciya hoped they would catch up, or at least safe somewhere else.

“Monte,” the flamboyant one said, after a fast gasp. Luciya stared at him a moment, blinking.

“What?” she asked.

“Monte- my name. I’m Monte Alteel. I don’t think we were ever properly introduced.” He righted himself and dusted off his jacket before extending a hand. She eyed him a moment. Monte Alteel sounded like a fake name, but hell, he might have just saved her life. He started a riot that might just fuck up this city, but he might have just saved all their lives too.

“Luicya Zareth,” she said. She gripped his hand, and found that his hand was not as soft as his face. Thick callouses covered the underside of his knuckles. They grated against even her own rough hand.

The flamboyant one-Monte- smiled at her.

“I’d like to say it’s been nice knowing you, but-” he began.

“Luciya!” A body slammed into Luciya’s shoulder, and spun her around. Lady Kavian stared at her with wild, frantic eyes that searched her ever inch for harm. “Luicya, Fields, are you alright? Are you hurt, I heard there was a riot and a fire.”

There was another storm of footsteps, and Luciya was just able to see Monte hail someone out of the corner of her eye. She supposed Wendrii and Cael had finally found them.  

“Who are these men, what-what happened?” Lady Kavian asked. Luciya winced.

“A lot,” she said.

“I-I need to get back to the apothecary, and get my supplies, but I left because I wanted to …” She trailed off and looked at the men, then back at Luciya. “I talked to one of Loretto’s friends when he stopped by the apothecary and I- He said he hadn’t heard from Loretto’s Bower in almost a week.” Her eyes were tight with a plea that Luciya didn’t know how to answer.

“Do you need someone to go look for him?” Cael asked as his quick breathing leveled. Luciya whipped her head up, and found her heart beating in her throat. Yes, that had been what she wanted to say. Lady Kavian looked as if no one had ever offered her so much kindness, and though Luciya felt a stab of jealousy, she was glad that someone had said something.

“Yes, thank the … Please, the Bower is only a few hours north from here. My son’s name is Loretto, he’s a guard there. If there really is a riot I have to get into town-get my supplies,” she said walking away even as she spoke. She stopped for just a second, cupping Luciya’s face in her hands and planting a quick kiss to her forehead. The affection stunned Luciya. Neither women were tactile people, and yet-

“Stay safe,” Lady Kavian said. Then she was gone. Monte sighed.

“I guess we’re going to a Bower then.”