#the ringleader was a bitch who never even played the fucking games oh my god

[marmett]

like, when i was in the DA fandom, i specifically got involved in the f*nders subsection, and let me tell you. they were somehow even worse than the rest of the fandom. those bitches would defend transphobes, biphobes, racists, and would chase u out if u said smth like, "slavery porn makes me uncomfortable" or if u werent ok w/ their favorite smut fic writer being biphobic to u in a public discord.

[titan-fodder]

Prima Vista Part I

Rating: E (explicit; mdni) Pairing: Mike Zacharias x fem!reader wc: ~ 9.7k Warnings: dubious consent (because of alcohol), just copious amounts of sex, oral, squirting, 69ing, college shenanigans, obnoxious frat boys, terrible fashion choices A/N: At long last, here we have the beginning. Massive thanks to @pleasantanathema and @whats-her-quirk​ who have been cheering for me since I told them I wanted to right a “little college AU” for a “little collab” June and I have been planning for a while. Also, I don’t know where I’d be without Lauren’s fraternity knowledge, so extra thanks for that, babe. I hope everyone has as much fun with this fic as I did.

God, you hate frat boys. 

Their sense of entitlement, all their fucking house pride. Brother this, brother that. It's annoying. Add in the factors of being an athlete on top of it, and they're downright insufferable. 

So it makes absolutely no sense that you're at a fucking Pi Kappa Alpha party. 

Your friend, Hitch, dragged you here (naturally), and it wasn't like you could really object considering she's the only real friend you have on campus. You study together and switch off between dorms to watch movies and bitch about classes. She's the complete opposite of you in many different ways, but you soul-bonded over biology and that was that. 

Unfortunately, Hitch decided she would leave you to your own devices almost immediately, opting to skip over to a game of beer pong and flirt with a boy in her statistics class. You have no idea why considering he has a fucking bowl cut, but she's been talking about him for weeks now. 

The party is filled with loud music and too many people with red solo cups. There's no way they're all of age, so you're already paranoid that the cops are gonna raid the place, but there's nothing you can do besides leave. It's a tempting thought. 

Before you can, though, there's an uproar in the kitchen, and curiosity gets the best of you. Moving from your place against the wall, you make your way over to peek in and see what's going on. A large group of frat boys, what you think are sorority girls, and whoever else wants to join are raising their cups to cheer. An especially loud voice rings out above the rest, "One win down, eleven more to go!" 

Claps and supportive shouts are nearly deafening. 

"I think we can do it! Do you think we can do it?" 

More cheers, more hollers. 

"Let's hear it for UC lacrosse!" 

You have to cover your ears this time. Should have known this party was to celebrate the win earlier that day. 

When the crowd parts, you see the ringleader, Erwin Smith who is very well-known on campus for three reasons: he will talk your ear off about history if given the chance, he's irritatingly gorgeous, and he will fuck any pretty girl with a pulse. 

Again—you fucking hate frat boys. 

To ease your bad mood and possibly encourage you to have some semblance of a good time, you shuffle further into the kitchen to grab a drink. You feel a little exposed, not dressed like many of the other girls who are either in rompers or the classic sorority chick outfit (giant college shirts that cover their shorts). You are in a crop top, torn shorts, and a floral cardigan. Not your best outfit, not your worst. 

There's no way you're touching any of the pre-poured cups or the jungle juice, opting for an unopened can of mediocre beer. 

You feel someone approach you from behind, glance over your shoulder to see nothing but a broad chest covered by a fucking hawaiian shirt. 

Craning your neck, you're met with another familiar face, one Mike Zacharias known as 1) Erwin's best friend, 2) one of the tallest guys on campus, and 3) the best lacrosse player on the team. 

You haven't spoken a single word to him but that doesn't stop him from grinning at you, flipping shaggy hair from his face, and chanting a low, "Shotgun, shotgun, shotgun!" 

"Are you god damn joking me?" You ask with a raised eyebrow. 

"Hell no!" 

"I have shotgunned a beer literally once in my life, and at least half of it ended up on my shirt."

"That's alright," Mike's smile shrinks to a smirk. "We're all about getting chicks wet in Pike." 

Face falling, you scoff, "Yeah, okay, I'm leaving." 

You sidestep him, cracking open the beer, but he follows close behind you. It makes a little bit of fear spike in your gut—everyone knows the horror stories that accompany many fraternities—but you're mostly just annoyed. 

"Hey, what's your name again?"

Again. As if you've actually formally met before.

"Why do you care?" 

Mike does not hesitate when he answers, "'Cause you look like you're having a shit time here, and I'd like to change that."

You roll your eyes, let your head loll over your shoulder to look at him again. If you're being honest with yourself, he's kind of extremely hot with his undercut and flippy hair, not to mention the stubble that's grown out just enough to make you think thoughts for a split second.  

"A noble cause," you quip. "Truly." 

He chuckles, watching too closely as you take a sip of your beer. 

"So? Name?"

After too big of a swallow, you answer him, and light green eyes brighten a little. 

"Oh, you're Hitch's friend, right?" 

Of course that would be your only identifier on campus. Hitch is insanely pretty and very outgoing. It makes sense that people just know you as her tag-along. 

It doesn't stop you from feeling slightly offended, though. 

"Yeah, and you're Erwin's friend, right?" 

"Among other things," he snorts. "Mike Zacharias." He holds out a massive hand that you eye before taking, figure you shouldn't be too much of a bitch and make a bad impression on the most highly regarded frat at the college.  

"I know who you are, dude. Not many people don't."

"Aw, flatterer." 

That grin is back on his face, lopsided and far too charming, and you definitely need to get away from him before you down a couple more beers. 

"Freshman?" He pries, and somehow you wind up at the staircase, leaning against the wall and praying he'll just stand beside you instead of caging you in. 

He does, and you let out a breath of relief. 

"Sophomore."

His eyebrows shoot up for a second. "Fuck, you've made it through a whole year flying under my radar?" 

You give him a wholly unimpressed look. "Wow, you really know what to say to a girl, don't you?" 

"That came off as shitty, sorry. I just mean, like, you're super cute. Feel like I would have committed you to memory if I'd seen you."

Your face heats up probably more than it ever has in your life, but you still snap, "We haven't had a single class together, I never go to your games, and this is the first Pike party I've been to."

Mike nods. "Ah, that explains it. Just haven't given anyone a chance to notice you." 

"Sure, let's go with that."

Another several sips. You hiss at the taste, and Mike laughs. 

"Can't handle beer?"

"Can't handle shitty beer."

"Ouch. Want me to grab you something else?"

He really doesn't seem to understand the warnings all girls have heard over the years. That, or he just doesn't care. You don't know him well enough to pass that kind of judgement.

"Uh, no. I always make my own drinks at parties."

"That's understandable." Except it isn't. He doesn't have a clue. 

"Well, you can go grab one, and I'll just finish this one for you. Don't want it to go to waste."

It's your turn to smirk now. "That desperate to swap spit, Zacharias?" 

"Like this?" He laughs through his nose. "Nah. But I can think of other ways."

"We've been talking for literally two minutes."

"I'm perfectly capable of making decisions in two minutes."

"Not any good ones obviously."

Tilting his head, Mike thinks out loud, "Can't tell if that's an insult aimed at me or yourself." 

"Take it however you want. I don't really care."

His eyes glint with amusement. There's no way you're escaping this any time soon. 

Long, thick fingers close around the top of your can, and he gently tugs it out of your hand then keeps those eyes locked with yours as he takes a sip. 

"Gross." You try to keep the teasing tone from your voice. 

"Just go get another drink."

You actually listen, mostly to get away from him but also because you could go for something easier to stomach. 

A game of King's Cup is going on in the kitchen, a five obviously being drawn because everyone suddenly pantomimes holding a steering wheel. It's surprisingly fun to watch, so you post up next to the counter after mixing orange and pineapple juice with rum. 

"Four's whores!"

"Categories! Different beers!"

"Seven heaven!" 

"Ayyy, waterfall!" 

You shake your head as everyone drinks for way too long. Some people are already swaying in circles where they're sitting. Others are simply red-faced. 

"Wanna play?"

"Jesus! You came outta nowhere."

Mike looks too smug for your liking, but doesn't say anything, just crushes the empty can in his hand and throws it into the trashcan next to the back door, all gooseneck and perfect arch. 

"Let me guess—you're reigning champ at beer pong."

"Nah," he waves you off. "That's Erwin and Nile. King's Cup however…"

"King's Cup isn't even a competition. It's just flipping cards and getting fucked up." 

"Well, yeah, but it's still fun."

You let out a heavy sigh, eyes still trained on the game going on, then concede, "Once this one is over, I'll play. Just to get you off my back." And because he won't have the chance to talk to you for the duration of the game. 

"Excellent."

You manage to finish your drink by the time the round ends, have to rush to make another as Mike strides over to the table and steals the two seats that have been vacated. They're right across from each other. You don't know if you'd prefer that or just sitting next to him so he can't stare at you.

Sauntering over, you plop down and place your drink in front of you. The guy to your right is quick to introduce himself with hooded eyes and a self-assured smile. You give him basically the same treatment that you've been giving Mike, making him pout and turn away as a freckled girl deals out the cards. 

It's fast paced, and you find yourself drinking more than you'd planned. Mike picks you as his buddy (of course), and the guy next to you makes everyone drink for nearly thirty seconds straight when he pulls an ace. 

Still, you find yourself laughing as people scream and curse. You catch eyes with Mike often, and as you finish your second drink, he begins looking very attractive. More attractive than before. So attractive that you allow him to pour your third cup. 

"If you roofied this, I'm gonna be real upset with you," you tell him just before taking a sip. He added more rum than you did, but that doesn't surprise you. 

"Hey, one of Pike's virtues is being a gentleman."

As soon as he says it, about seven people around the table shout, "Pi Kappa Alpha!" like some kind of sports team, and you roll your eyes so hard it hurts. 

You're drunk after this game. And, then you make another drink and get plastered. Meandering around the rest of the party, bodies begin to blur together, the music fades in and out, and you barely know what you're saying to Mike anymore as he follows you close behind in the same state. For every drink you've had, he's had two, and now he's walking around with a cup full of jungle juice nodding at his brothers, smiling at all the girls who look at him.

His room is downstairs unlike most of the others, right at the end of the hallway. It makes it far too easy to end up inside, but as soon as the door closes and his huge hands find your hips, your world disappears entirely. 

*

The first thing you feel when you wake up is a nauseating pounding in your head. The second is a very large body behind you. 

God dammit, you think, trying to recall the events of the night before. 

Pi Kappa Alpha. Hitch left you, so you hung out with… Mike Zacharias? From the lacrosse team? 

Frowning, you try to look over your shoulder, but all you can really see is a head of hair. However, you can feel the coarseness of his beard against your bare shoulder, and that's enough to solidify that it is indeed Mike behind you. 

Shifting some brings more of your physical state to your attention—your naked chest under the blanket, the way your legs are pressed together, your pussy between your thighs… swollen? Jesus, what did he do to you last night? You can also feel something dry and crusty on your stomach which is both disgusting and relieving. At least he had enough sense to pull out. 

Luckily, his arm isn't wrapped around you which makes it much easier to sit up on your elbow. It takes you a while to locate your clothes around the room from where you are, and even then, all you can find are your shorts, shoes, and bra. You peer around, trying not to groan at the headache threatening to make you black the fuck out all over again, but that pounding as well as the nauseating churning of your stomach is making it difficult. 

You slide out of the bed, basically crawling to the little pile of discarded clothes. As you fumble with fastening your bra, you glance around one more time in search of your shirt and cardigan, but it’s no use. What you do see, however, is the obnoxious Hawaiian shirt  Mike had been wearing the night before, and well… You’d rather not leave the Pike house topless, so…

Snatching it off the floor, you slip your arms through the giant sleeves and somehow manage to button up about half of it. Then, you’re flying out the door, desperate to be in your own dorm, curled over your own toilet, in your own clothes. 

Oh, thank god his room wasn’t upstairs, you praise, trying to remember the way to the front door. There are numerous bodies and tipped over cups to navigate through, and you cringe at the various odors that assault your senses. 

You see the door from across the room, so close and getting closer as you try not to trip over anything, but as you pass the kitchen, you hear a smooth, familiar voice greet, “Good morning,” in a smug way. 

Erwin is leaning against a counter, smirking over a steaming cup of coffee. He’s wearing only sweatpants, his hair is a little mussed, and for a split second, you understand why he pulls so many girls. 

Still, you roll your eyes and continue moving—a classic DNE situation, but the frat boy doesn’t seem to get the message, instead calling out, “Nice shirt!”

“Fuck off, Smith,” is the only thing you utter before leaving, slamming the door behind you. 

*

Mike easily catches the frisbee that spins directly at his face then quickly throws it back to try and catch Nile off guard. It works, and the brunet curses and has to go running after the flying disc. 

A few girls watching from the nearby fountain clap and yell his name, wriggling fingers in a wave as if he can actually see that far away. Mike gives one wave of his own hand then turns back to the grass where Nile is jogging back to his place.

“You did that on purpose, you asshole!” He spits.

Mike shrugs his shoulders, yells back, “Get better at frisbee, and you won’t have this problem!”

Nile throws the plastic so hard that it flies off toward the fountain, making all those girls scream and dive for cover. 

“Yeah, I’m not getting that,” Mike shakes his head. Nile drags his fingers down his angular face before setting off on yet another trek, apologizing profusely then standing around to flirt like usual.

Blowing hair out of his face, Mike considers joining his brother, but before he can, he sees a familiar figure turning on the sidewalk, about to pass the fountain and head toward Hartley Hall. 

His feet are moving before he really registers it, glad his long legs can carry him quickly even at a walk. Mike calls out when he’s a couple yards away, and you turn to him, eyes growing wide before you start to move faster. 

He can just barely make out the words, “Nope. Not doing this,” and chuckles, catching up the rest of the way.

“Hey, chill, I just wanna talk.”

You turn to look at him, head tilted up, squinting against the sun, and Mike has never been more thankful for his height because you look so god damn cute all small and irritated with him. 

“What is there to talk about? I don’t even remember anything.”

“Yeah, neither do I,” he says, lacing fingers together behind his head. “Shame.”

“Whatever.”

Mike tries and fails to hide a snort, nods at Nile as you both pass him and the gaggle of girls surrounding him. Mike has no doubt his friend will get at least one phone number out of it, if not all of them. 

“Did you at least have a good time before you blacked out?” He ventures.

You shrug your shoulders, hitch your backpack up a little higher. “Maybe. But, if I was just around you the whole time, probably not.”

“Aw, come on! What did I ever do to you?”

“You need a list?”

Mike nods. “Would probably help.”

“For brevity's sake, I’ll just say that you started the night trying to get a literal stranger to shotgun a beer and ended the night fucking said stranger and… Not holding back, apparently.” Mike frowns, about to ask what you mean by that, but you elaborate before he can. Voice dropping, you question, “Do you have any idea how fucking sore I’ve been for the last few days? What the fuck do you even have hidden in those stupid shorts?”

“I’d be happy to show you again.” He grins sideways, and when you shoot him a venomous look, he figures it’s time to change the subject. “Anyway, I may have done that and more, but you’re the thief.”

“Excuse me?”

Mike tries to sound nonchalant as he accuses, “Stole my shirt and everything." Honestly, he's a little upset that he didn’t actually get to see you wearing it. 

“I—”

“That’s my favorite shirt, you know?”

You laugh. Finally. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“That shirt is fucking heinous, okay? You’re lucky I didn’t burn it.”

“Does that mean I can have it back?”

You make a little noise in your throat, something between a grumble and a growl, but you check your phone and tell him, “Fine. My next class isn’t for another couple of hours, so just…Follow me.”

It takes immense effort to not skip to your dorm like a little kid, but Mike is excited. He’s not gonna try anything weird, but just seeing your space? He’ll be able to get a better feel for you. So far, all he knows is that you live and breathe sarcasm and can’t handle your liquor well. It’s enough to get him a little more than interested, but it’s not enough to go off of.

The two of you gain a few looks as you make your way through the shared study space of the dormitory, heads turning, eyebrows raising in recognition. No one should be all that surprised; it’s not like Mike and Erwin haven’t frequented a lot of these rooms. 

You lead him down a hallway, and Mike looks at all the little dry-erase intro boards hanging outside of every door. He’s a little surprised to see that the one by yours isn’t blank. Your name is written in bubble letters, surrounded by little hearts, and when you catch him looking at it, you’re quick to tell him, “Hitch.”

“Ah. Of course.”

He follows you inside, staying by the door to not invade too much of your space, but he doesn’t even try to be subtle as he looks around the small room. Pennant for the college hung up over a cork bulletin board that’s a mess of photos and sticky notes. Cluttered desk with just enough of it cleared to fit a laptop. Tiny succulents on the window sill. Double bed covered in a quilt. And there, in the open closet, Mike catches sight of his shirt—pastel pink and littered with palm trees. 

After dropping your backpack on your bed, you step over to the hanging clothes and grab it, muttering, “Ridiculous,” as you hand it over.

Mike laughs as he slings it over his shoulder. “You know what’ll make you hate it even more?” You quirk an eyebrow, probably doubting that anything could, but your entire face falls when he informs you, “I have matching shorts to go with it.”

“No you do not.”

“Definitely do.”

“That should be a crime. You should be arrested.”

He chuckles, has a retort on the tip of his tongue, but something catches his eye—a bookshelf tucked away in the corner by your bed overflowing with novels and knick-knacks. Mike sees a particularly thick paperback, recognizing the black background and small desert picture on the spine.

“Bro!” He walks over, plants a hand in the middle of your mattress, and reaches for it. “Is this fucking Dune?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“This is, like, my favorite book, dude.”

“Seriously?” You sound just as disbelieving as you do disinterested. 

Mike begins flipping through it, scanning over highlighted passages as he nods. “I have the whole series back home, but I only brought this one and Messiah with me to college.”

He straightens up but keeps a knee on the edge of the bed, and you plop down to sit on it, watching him closely as he continues to look over the notes scribbled in the margins. 

“I had to read it in high school," you tell him. "Then my cousin gave me a lot of the books after I talked with him about it one time. I haven’t gotten around to reading them, though.”

“You really should,” Mike urges. “I mean, I know you probably have a shit ton of reading for classes, but if you ever get the chance, you should at least read the next two.”

“You some kind of closet nerd, Zacharias?”

“Kinda,” he admits, putting the book back on the shelf only to grab a worn copy of Fellowship of the Ring. “I mean, Erwin and a few others are well aware, but I don’t really broadcast it.”

“Not good for the cool guy image?” 

“Nah, people are just more interested in other things,” he mumbles, eyes fixed on the tiny print.

“Mike Zacharias,” his gaze flicks to you as you laugh quietly. “Lacrosse god and big fucking geek.”

He closes the book and uses it to lightly hit you on the top of the head with it. You half-heartedly smack him right in his abs only to push against the muscle harder and ask, “Jesus Christ, what do you have under there?”

“You know, that’s the second time you’ve asked what I have under my clothes,” he points out, a little too satisfied. “Better watch out, or I’m gonna start getting ideas.”

You huff, but your hand is definitely still on his stomach, unmoving but warm through his shirt. Mike told himself he wouldn’t do anything weird once he got here, but you’re already on the bed and touching him, and he’d kind of really like to have this particular experience while sober, so he very slowly takes your wrist and moves it away. 

It makes you look up at him, a question dancing in your eyes as your lips part. Mike makes sure his own stare conveys everything he’s thinking, wishes he could just transplant his thoughts into your brain so that he can put you a little more at ease around him. 

You’re onto him, though, tugging your hand from his grip and blinking a few times. He figures you’re about to point to the door and tell him to take his fucking Hawaiian shirt and leave. 

Instead, you pull on the fabric covering his ribs so that he loses his balance and has to catch himself before crashing into you. It puts his face level with yours, and you take the opportunity to kiss him—hard, desperate, and a little confused judging by the way you’re frowning. 

Mike grunts, holding himself up with the arm on the side of your hips then uses the other to slide under the thigh closest to him and pull you further onto the bed. He’s straddling you in no time, up on his knees so that he doesn’t crush you. 

Hearing the sound of shoes hitting the ground, he tugs his shirt off over his head, and then he’s curling over you again. Your mouths grow slick with spit. He slides his tongue past your lips, and you arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair. Mike pushes you back down so that he can strip you down to your bra and panties then takes the time to rid himself of his shoes and shorts.

“Oh, fuck,” he hears you breathe, and when he glances up at you, he finds you staring at what he knows is an intimidatingly large bulge under his boxer briefs. “It makes sense now—the soreness.”

Mike chuckles, slots his forearms on either side of your head and mutters, “Yeah, sorry about that.”

You lick his lips and he bites yours, bodies clashing together as he grinds himself against your covered pussy. Eventually Mike is able to snake a hand down your body, making sure to brush over your ribs so that you squirm beneath him. Fuck, he already loves the way you squirm. And, when he moves your panties to the side and teases your little hole, already wet just from making out, Mike discovers that he loves the way you moan too. 

He’s slow as he pushes a finger in, groaning when you clench around it. Pumping it in and out, he gently works you open and wonders if he was courteous enough to do this the other night. He hopes he was. 

You spread your legs for him, start bucking into his hand, especially when he hits that special spot inside you. 

“Fuck, fuck, fu—” You grab his face, bringing it close to yours again so that you can muffle curses against his lips. 

When Mike adds a second finger, your jaw drops, and you start to tremble. 

“Too much?” He asks.

You shake your head, stutter a breathy, “N-no. Just—ah—slow. Go slow.”

He moves to suck on your neck, promising, “I will.”

Mike waits until you’re dripping into his palm and spread about as widely as you can be underneath him. Then, and only then does he shimmy out of his underwear and question, “Condom?”

“Bookshelf,” you huff. “In the jewelry box.”

When he opens it, a little ballerina spins, and Mike has to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. “That’s twisted.”

“Shut up.”

He grabs one of the gold packages and tears it open, then rolls the latex over his cock and discards the wrapper somewhere. 

Mike only gives you his tip first, sits right inside your entrance so that you can squeeze him and get used to the feeling before he pushes in any more. You barely shift your hips back and forth, like an experiment. It’s just enough for Mike to see slick coating the end of the condom, and he nearly starts drooling.

He presses in a little more, appreciates the way your eyes roll into the back of your head, then adds one more inch.

“Jesus Christ.” Your breaths are coming in short gasps, words slurring together. He’s not even halfway in, and you’re already fucked out. 

Your cunt is spasming around him, and Mike tries to get you to relax more by lightly rubbing your clit with the pad of his thumb. 

You leak around him, pussy slowly but surely opening up a little more so that he can slide in further. He gives a few shallow thrusts that make you whine, then reaches up to grab one of your pillows which only sends him deeper. 

“God dam—”

Mike lifts you and shoves the pillow under your hips, smiles in a way he’s pretty sure you hate, then jokes, “Better to fuck you with, my dear.”

“In...sufferable…” The annoyed tone is lost when you cry out. Mike buries himself as far as he can without hurting you. He isn’t quite balls deep, but you feel so fucking good that he doesn’t even mind. 

Starting a steady rhythm that has every upthrust dragging over your g-spot, Mike watches through foggy eyes as your mouth opens and closes, chest rising with stuttering breaths before you exhale and moan. He dips his thumb between your folds to gather a little bit of slick and return it to your clit. The circular motion makes you arch again, and Mike abandons the little bud for just a moment so that he can unclasp your bra and pull it off. The sight of your tits bouncing in time with his thrusts almost does him in, but he holds back, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to gather himself.

You’re just clamping around him so perfectly, pussy drooling and creaming on his cock, and Mike is not a quickshot, but for you—

He pulls out all at once, flips you so that you’re on hands and knees, then spreads you open to lick into you from behind. 

“Holy—” 

Mike’s cock is throbbing where it bobs against his stomach, but he can ignore it for the most part, focused on eating you out, sucking at your messy lips then dragging the flat of his tongue over your hole. He moves his face back and forth, wants to leave his mark on you in the form of stubble burn between your legs. 

“Mike, Mike, fuck, please.”

He’s positive you can’t actually hear him when he teases, “Please what?” right into the crevice of your ass. 

You growl, push against him, and swallow enough pride to beg, “Please fuck me.”

Biting his lip, Mike straightens up enough to watch his fingers disappear into your pussy. One, two, then a third that makes your messy entrance stretch for him. He lowers his face again, feather light licks around your sensitive hole, and when he twists his wrist so that he can tap on your spot, you come immediately. 

A mixture of slick and squirt drips from your cunt and soaks into your quilt. Mike pushes more out as he continues to finger fuck you, humming at the way your arms give out and you fall against the mattress. 

This is the perfect position for him. He replaces his wet fingers with his cock and ruts into you quickly, chasing after his own impending orgasm. Pretty little whimpers fall from your lips, fuck drunk as you babble, “Oh, god, Mike, Mike, fuck…”

He’s gripping your hips too tightly, pulling you back against him, shoving his cock deeper and deeper until he finally comes with a shudder and a low groan. 

Mike pants for a few seconds, then leans down to press a few kisses to your spine, but instead of the usual happy sighs he gets from most girls, you just roll your shoulders and mutter, “Stop that.”

He does, then pulls out, takes a second to stare at your pussy—worked open from his size and still dripping. It would make a very pretty picture, but Mike wouldn’t dare try that with you. 

You roll onto your back, a huff of air leaving your lungs as you scrub a hand over your face then tilt your head to him. It looks like you have something to say, but you just chew on your bottom lip, eyes moving from Mike to the door.

And, he can take a hint. You don’t have to say it. 

With a self-deprecating snort, he pulls the condom off, tying it then tossing it into the trashcan by your bed. 

“Yeah, okay,” he nods. “Let me just…” Mike tugs his clothes back on, kindly tosses you your top so that you can cover yourself like you obviously want to. 

He makes sure to grab the Hawaiian shirt that brought him here in the first place, tossing it over his shoulder then striding to the door. 

Chancing one more glance at you, you force a smile and try to pad his bruised ego. “Don’t worry, it was good. You were good. It’s just not gonna happen again.”

Mike fights a smirk, raises a hand in a wave, then steps out.

Not gonna happen again, he chuckles to himself. Yeah, right.

*

You don't understand how this keeps happening, how you keep ending up in bed with Mike fucking Zacharias. 

This time you had gone to the disgusting bar right off campus, got one whole drink in your system before the familiar trio walked in. They were all in khakis and pastels—Erwin in blue, Nile in yellow, Mike in pink. Again. 

You actually slammed your head down on the bartop because despite how basic he looked in his light polo, Mike was still hot. 

Is still hot. 

Back at the Pi Kappa Alpha house, you're a mess of limbs on his bed. You take immense pleasure in tugging his shirt off, and once his arms are free again, he's lifting the hem of your little skirt and mouthing over your thong. 

You're more than tipsy after a couple more drinks but nowhere near as drunk as you were the first night. It hadn't taken much convincing from Erwin for you and Hitch to play pool with them, and when Mike had come up behind you to help you line up your shot, you knew you were a goner. 

While he's busy between your legs, you take off your shirt and bra. Green eyes flick up as soon as you toss both articles on to the floor, and without any hesitation, Mike reaches up to grope your tits. 

He's clumsy and distracted as he tongues over the warmth pooling in your underwear, squeezing plump flesh and pinching your nipple so that you whine and push your hips further into his face. 

Mike groans, just as drunk if not more so. He's messy as he kisses your thighs, nearly rips your thong when he pulls it off of you. 

His tongue feels good, too fucking good as he laves over your entrance, soothing an ache that isn't quite there anymore but definitely was a few days ago. 

"Taste so fucking good," he grumbles, slurping and sucking and making you squeeze your thighs around his head. 

"Okay," you pant. "Okay, okay." You grab him by the hair and lift his head from you, stomach flipping at the sight of the bottom half of his face absolutely covered in slick. 

God dammit, why is he so sexy? 

Your mouth waters, and the thought of possibly giving him head this time crosses your mind. You're just inebriated enough to stay relaxed, didn't drink to the point of throwing up, and he has gone down on you the last two times so... 

Lizard brain taking over, you sit up, tell him to flip over, then start making your way down his body. 

Mike grabs you before you can turn to face him, fingers digging into your thighs and pulling you down to sit on his face. 

"Fucking—I'm trying to blow you, for Christ's sake."

He moves his head just enough to tell you, "So? You can do that while I do this."

And, he's not wrong. It just means that you're gonna get distracted. 

For a while, all you can really do is control your breathing and undulate on top of him, but eventually you fall to your elbows and lick up his shaft from base to tip. 

Mike really does have a nice cock—a beautiful cock—bigger than you've ever taken in terms of both length and girth, and veiny in the perfect way. Even his balls make your pussy throb, large and round, the right just slightly bigger than the left and now dripping with saliva as you lower your mouth further and further onto his cock. 

The feeling of his tongue buried in your cunt is making you delirious, eyes rolling, muscles going slack as you gurgle around the tip hitting the back of your throat. 

Mike groans into you, his legs starting to shake, and you assume in your half aware state that he's trying to not just skull fuck you into oblivion. 

You know you're making a mess, both on his face and on his cock. The fingertips that have been holding you open shift, one of them slipping into your clenching hole, and your hips begin to move on their own volition, riding what he'll give you while moving your tongue back and forth. 

You've only taken about half of him, doubt you can take any more. He's hot and heavy in your mouth, and when you pull off to breathe, you can taste pre cum on the back of your tongue. 

It triggers something in you, makes you raise up and clumsily turn around so that you can work him inside of you. 

Mike groans a long, "Fuuuck," and immediately starts thrusting upward. 

You're lucky you're as wet as you are, but the burn that comes with getting so stretched out still makes you hiss. You brace yourself on his broad chest, feeling the dampness of sweat forming a sheen on him, and your own body starts to feel too hot. 

You had wanted to ride him to feel in control of the situation for once, but you quickly realize it's not gonna happen, Mike gripping your hips and moving you how he sees fit. 

He's raw this time, a thought that should scare you, but he feels so good even through the discomfort. Every vein and ridge hits all the sweet spots inside of you, the flared head of his cock smooth as it presses just where you need it to. 

You're squirting again—he just seems to be able to fuck it out of you. It's not the high you're looking for, but the release in pressure still feels divine. 

Mike seems to enjoy it too because he looks down at where you're connected, swears at the way you gush on his cock, then starts swiping fingers over your clit so quickly it almost hurts. 

More fluid leaks from you, and Mike breathes a low, "Come on, baby, come on, 'm gonna fuck you dry tonight." 

Hearing him talk like that—his hand rubbing over your overstimulated clit, his thick cock threatening to split you in two—causes heat to travel up your legs and down your arms until it settles in your stomach and floods you. 

You cry out, stars and tears behind your eyes as Mike keeps going, taking everything he can from you until he's laying in a huge wet spot in his bed. 

He lifts you just in time to shoot cum upward on your chest, white splattering then dripping down in strands to pool on his stomach. 

You stare down at him, mouth hanging open and find him looking up at you with the same expression. 

It's hands down the best sex you've ever had, but you're not about to tell him that. Instead, you dismount him like the fucking horse he is and stand on weak legs, actually have to lean on the bed for support. 

"Just stay the night." His voice is deep and full of gravel. It's entirely too hot. 

"Absolutely not." You shake your head, grab your shirt and his boxers then ask, "Where's the nearest bathroom?" 

"Down the hall on the right, but you don't have to sneak out the window or anything. Just use the front door if you're tryin’ to run away."

You can't help but snort. Stupid. "I'm not trying to escape, dummy. I just need to pee." 

"Oh. Right."

You slip out of the room, hoping it's late enough for everyone to be asleep, but you have no such luck as the door to the bathroom opens and fucking Erwin steps out. 

He hums, looking you over for a moment as his lips lift on one side. 

"Don't say anything," you grit through your teeth. 

He holds his hands up in surrender, chuckles, acting all innocent. "Wasn't going to."

You squint, not believing him for a second, then move around him to get to the bathroom. Before you can shut the door, you hear him mutter, "Another one bites the dust," and consider running out and strangling him.

*

"Please please please come with me to this game," Hitch begs, her hands clasped together, imploring eyes wide and doe-like. 

"No. You have plenty of other friends to go with. You don't need me there."

"But, I want you to be there. It's gonna be such a good match. Rival schools and all that."

You roll your eyes. "Hitch, in all the time you've known me, have you ever seen me give a single fuck about sports?" 

"No, but you'll finally get to see Mike and Erwin and Nile play."

"All the more reason not to go."

"Do you not like them or something? Why wouldn't you like them? Everybody likes them!" 

She doesn't know, and you don't want her to. She had been too caught up with that Marlowe kid at the party, then was kept busy playing pool with Nile to see you and Mike slip out of the bar together. 

It's the only secret you've ever wanted to keep from her. You will take it to the grave. 

"I just… I just don't, okay? I get a… Sleazy vibe from all of them."

You really don't. Not exactly. You're not a big fan of the 'fuck-every-chick-on-capus' mentality, but most college boys think like that. Only difference is these three can actually achieve it. 

Hitch crosses her arms over her chest and gives you a look you've seen on your mother's face many times, usually when she has a point to prove. 

"You know I'm just gonna keep bothering you until you come to one, so why not just get it outta the way?" 

And, there's that point. 

"Ugh." You know she's right, and you really can't put up with this all semester. "Fine, but I'm gonna bitch the entire time."

Hitch squeals and claps, bouncing where she stands. "Yes! Wouldn't have it any other way."

You dress in school colors, put your hair up so that it won't be on your neck as the sun beats down, then take Hitch's little hatchback to the field. You try to talk her into sitting toward the back of the crowd that's gathered on the bleachers, but she just pulls you to the front without acknowledging your request. 

Even with the helmets, you can easily make out who's who, mostly because of their size. Mike and Erwin are doing some kind of pregame ritual where they hit their sticks together, shout something, and chest bump. It's the most alpha thing you've ever fucking seen and makes you question why you ever thought screwing one of them was a good idea. 

To be fair, you never really did think it was a good idea. It just kind of happened. Three times. 

But, it needs to stop. 

You repeat that thought to yourself as you watch Mike sprint across the field and launch the ball into the goal several times. You repeat it as he dances around his opponents with ease, quick footwork until he can throw them off. You repeat it as he stands on the sidelines and takes his helmet off to shake out sweaty hair and squirt water into his mouth. 

And, none of it really helps. Mike is pretty incredible on the field, especially with Erwin and Nile backing him up. Everyone in the stands is screaming, yelling their names and chanting. It's a little contagious, you have to admit. You get as far as clapping but refuse to actually cheer. 

At some point, Erwin jogs over to the bleachers and waves his arms for everyone to get louder, and they sure do. Even through his helmet, you can see his sparkling white smile, and your own lips curl up as you shake your head at him. Unbelievable. He has all these people at his beck and call. 

Erwin has to get back on the field, though, fueled by the crowd like the other nine players. They end up pulling ahead of the other team and finishing the game eleven to seven. 

Naturally, Erwin announces a party at the Pike house, and naturally, Hitch drags you to it. 

This one is even bigger than the last. It offends every one of your senses—too loud, alcohol permeating the air, bad drinks, worse dancing, and strangers rubbing against you as you pass them. 

You give up on your beer before you’re even halfway through with it, just set the can on one of the counters and start milling around. You’d rather be anywhere else but here. Your head hurts from the game earlier, baking in the sun and not drinking enough water. Should’ve taken an Advil… And some Benadryl. Hitch wouldn’t have been able to bring you here if you’d been unconscious. 

All of the lacrosse team is there, flanked with guys who won’t stop slapping them on their backs and girls who won’t stop batting their eyes and squeezing their biceps. It’s comical, really, the fairweather trend. There’s no way this would be happening if they’d lost their last three games. Instead, the team would be getting harassed and pestered, not so subtle comments about practicing more and replacing members. You’ve seen it all before. 

Leaning against a wall, you watch it all unfold. It’s probably the most entertaining thing at the party other than the group of sorority girls dancing on a table. Things are getting out of hand already, and you would prefer not be here for the aftermath, but just as you're about to leave, Mike breaks away from the group and strides over to you.

“Hey, didn’t expect to see you.” He takes a sip from his cup, smiling around the rim.

You use your usual excuse: “Hitch,” and he nods. 

“Right. Did you watch the game today?”

Crossing your arms, you mumble a, “Yes,” that Mike can’t hear but can definitely see.

He beams then asks, “You gonna tell me I played well? ‘Cause I did.” He’s all cocksure and giddy, and it makes your body run hot in a few different ways.

“I don’t think you need anyone else fawning over you,” you say with a condescending laugh.

“You mean you don’t want me to flex for you?”

“I’m leaving. Right now." When you push past him a little too roughly, it causes him to drop his cup, and your shirt is suddenly plastered to your chest and stomach. The white isn’t discolored, which leads you to believe, “Fuck, is this just straight vodka?”

“No, Christ,” he cringes at your wet state, looking genuinely apologetic. “It’s just water. Sorry.”

You scrunch your top up to wring it out, wondering what he’s doing drinking water instead of liquor, but you’re not about to pick on him for staying hydrated. 

“It’s fine. I was about to leave anyway.”

He’s quick to stop you with a, “No, don’t. Just… change into one of my shirts or something."

Narrowing your eyes, you contemplate how many ways this can go wrong, how much you should not allow this, and even go as far as accusing, "You're just trying to get me in your room again."

"You wanna stay in a wet shirt?" Not really. "Come on."

He jerks his head toward the hallway, and you end up following him, grumbling the whole time because you swear to God if you end up on your back for him again, you're going to be very upset with yourself. 

Mike beelines it for his dresser as soon as you're in the room, much quieter than the rager outside. He digs around in it, flipping all the way to the bottom then pulls out a heather gray tee. 

"It'll probably still be a little big, but it's from high school, so you shouldn't drown in it."

He tosses it to you then, to your surprise, turns back to the wall to give you the privacy to change. You eye him the whole time, peeling off your top as well as your bra since it soaked through. His shirt still covers your little shorts, and you assume you look a lot like one of those sorority girls, but it's good enough, has that super soft feeling from being worn too much. 

"Thanks. You can, uh… You can turn around now."

Mike looks over his shoulder, like he's making sure you're decent, then turns around fully. 

"I was trying to get outta there anyway. Spilling a drink on you was a good excuse."

You open your mouth, choking on a scoff, then ask, "Did you do that on purpose?" 

"No! It really was an accident. I'm glad it was just water, but I still feel bad."

You're squinting at him, but now you're curious about something else.

"Why'd you wanna get away from the party?" 

Sighing, Mike shows a tired smile. "Honestly, I'm still worn out from the game. I'm already sore and covered in these god damn bruises. I just wanna relax."

"If you're covered in bruises, I can't imagine how the other team feels. You smacked the shit outta some of 'em."

"So, you were watching."

"I may have glanced up once or twice," you lie. "Anyway, why don't you just hide out in here?" 

He shrugs his shoulders. "Erwin insisted I show my face, and I didn't want him to give me shit about being a recluse."

You can relate. It's why Hitch drags you everywhere. You wouldn't even leave your dorm for classes if you didn't have to. 

Still. "Dude. You're definitely not a recluse. You're fucking everywhere. All the time."

"So? I can get tired too."

He's got a point. 

"Can we just chill in here for a while?" He asks you. 

"Why do you need me to chill? You basically just said you needed a break from social interaction."

"Yeah, but not all social interaction," he corrects with a small grin. "Please? I've got movies and video games, Zelda and shit."

Again, the contemplation kicks in, all the pros and cons. You know very well what this can (will) lead to, but you also want to escape the party. And, if Hitch whines about you leaving, you can tell her you were there the whole time. Not like it's a lie. 

"Fine, but I have some stipulations."

"Oh, do you?" 

"I do."

Mike waves a hand for you to go on. "Let's hear 'em then."

Holding up one finger, you tell him, "You have to let me snoop around your room—" he laughs. You lift another finger, "—and we are not, under any circumstances, having sex."

"Deal." 

You tilt your head, taken aback at how quick he is to agree. "Wait, seriously?" 

"Seriously. Go ahead. I'll pull up Hulu."

You hum, still suspicious, but start making your rounds, taking in photos from what you assume to be the high school soccer team he played on, then a fishing trip with Erwin, a middle-aged couple with a dog, and some pinned up tickets to sporting events he's attended. 

He has a bookshelf against a wall, textbooks at eye level, but the top and bottom shelves are filled with sci-fi and fantasy novels that make you smile. His TV is fairly large, big enough to see the picture from his bed which is also sizable and draped with a plush comforter. The last thing that catches your eye is his closet, halfway open and full of jerseys and Polos. A few different pairs of shoes sit at the bottom, but pushed all the way in the corner are a few boxes of fucking Magic the Gathering cards. 

"Oh, man. You really are a closet nerd. Like, literally."

"Huh?" Mike looks over at where you're kneeling, realizes what you're looking at and actually sounds self-conscious when he admits, "Yeah, uh, I wasn't joking the other day." 

"I've never played—too technical for me—but my friends in high school did."

"There are baseball cards back there too if that makes me any cooler."

"It doesn't," you say bluntly before straightening up and reaching to shut the door to his room. Plopping down on the floor next to him (where he was smart enough to sit), you add, "But even I can admit it's kind of endearing."

"Oh yeah?" He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, that stupid lopsided grin on his too-handsome face. 

"Don't get cocky, Zacharias." 

"You wouldn't let me if I wanted to."

Both of you agree to a Batman movie, and you make yourself comfortable, kicking your sandals off and leaning against the bed behind you. You're a little too aware of Mike's body beside yours, but you're able to ignore it for the most part, keeping a few inches between your arms and legs. Of course, he still brushes against you when the movie ends and he takes the time to stretch. His shoulders roll, making his shirt strain over his back, and when he holds his arms out, linked at his fingers, you can't help but take a quick look at his bulging biceps. 

"Fuck, I'm gonna feel like garbage tomorrow," he complains. You can see the bruises littering his arms, some of them thick lines while others are almost perfectly circular from where he was hit with the end of a lacrosse stick. 

"You have any classes?" You ask. 

"Just my ten o'clock and three o'clock."

You make a noise of acknowledgement then fall silent. You're not sure how to hold a conversation with him that isn't sarcastic or snippy since you haven't actually done a lot of talking in the first place. 

"Sucks," is all you can come up with. 

"It's alright. I've probably dealt with worse."

"Probably?" 

"Well, nothing really comes to mind, but I'm sure I have."

You should get going. It's late, and you have a nine AM tomorrow. Plus, the longer you sit next to Mike, the more ideas pop up in your head. Dirty ideas. Ideas that will leave you disappointed in yourself. 

"Well, I'm gonna head back. This has been…" You're unsure of what word to use, don't want to get his hopes up by saying 'fun'. 

Mike figures you out and offers, "Tolerable?" 

"Yeah, we can go with that. I'll get your shirt back to you sometime soon."

Mike chuckles and gets to his feet. "Just whenever you can." He grabs your wet top from the ground and holds it out to you, then reaches for the door as you slip on your sandals. 

You feel him close behind you, close enough for his chest to push against your back when you straighten up. His arm is pressing into your side, hand curled around the knob and twisting it, but he's unable to open the door as you let your head fall against it. 

"God dammit." 

"Hm?" You can tell he's leaning down because his breath falls just over your ear. 

"I said we weren't—"

He cuts you off, "But, you want to."

He's too hot and too smooth, and you can’t stop yourself from turning around and breathing, "Yeah, I want to." 

It's different tonight. Mike takes his time undressing you, kissing and sucking your neck, your collarbone, your nipples that pebble against his tongue. It's unnerving even as you squirm and moan. 

He eats you out lazily, flattening his tongue against your folds then dipping into your slit so that he can slip into your twitching hole. 

When he adds a finger, you immediately grind down on it, silently begging him to work you open enough to take his cock, but he doesn't move any faster, apparently content to just drive you insane. 

You're nearly begging by the time he turns you on your side and moves to lay behind you, hiking your leg up and pushing most of his length inside of you in one faultless motion that makes you choke and sob his name. 

That stretch is back, delicious as it is painful as he splits you open. His thrusts are the same slow pace, cock dragging against gummy walls as he drapes an arm over you to toy with your swollen clit. 

It takes you both longer than usual to come, but when you do, your whole body trembles against him, and you have to suck in several deep breaths until you feel like your lungs start actually filling with air. 

Mike paints your back with warm cum, groaning right in your ear as he rubs against you, his cock sliding easily up and down your skin and making more of a mess. 

That unnerving feeling blooms in your chest again, crawls up into your throat. 

Tonight had been too casual, too natural. The way you hung out and watched a movie was already a little strange. Him fucking you from behind, holding you tight against his body, was too tender. And, now, after he leaves to grab a wet towel and uses it to clean your back, you find yourself searching for words again only to come up with passionate—intimate. 

And, words like that scare you.

[ n e x t ]

[rudemaidenswrite]

Don't Belong Here

Part 1

Fandom: Bright

OC Fogteeth Orc x Reader

By: @pusantheamazonian​

You're dragged to one of the monthly Fogteeth party's against your will. For once it doesn't end up a bad night for you.

The music's too loud, there's too many people and now this. You’re staring up at the orc, and he’s standing in front of you mumbling something.

"Sorry but you're going to have to speak up. Bad hearing." Tapping your right ear, you scoot over on the couch. Allowing him to sit down.

"You don't belong here." Huffing he leans over before sitting.

Chuckling, you already knew that. A packed house party with strobe lights, mosh pit  and dubious activities is not your idea of a fun time. You'd rather be at home under a mound of blankets with all the food watching Gravity Falls.

Why not amuse him. It's not like you're going to come to another one of these ever again and he'll probably be with someone else by the end of the night.

"Flaming red asshole hair." Pointing at the bar. "My sister and her girlfriend. They are the ones who dragged me here."

"Yeah they've been here before." Nodding he takes a drink.

"Said I was a bad night shifter and needed to socialize. So this." Gesturing at yourself. You had purposely worn an oversized hoodie and sweatpants. Sat in the back corner away from everyone. So that people would avoid talking to you but not this guy. Apparently he didn't get the memo.

“Sitting in the corner is not socializing.” Teasing he gives you a lopsided grin.

“Eh, close enough.” Waving your hand you dismiss that accusation.

The more you look at him, he's kinda cute and not entirely threatening looking. You know orcs have quite a bit of range on them. From looking terrifying to absolutely adorable. He's chunky but it works for him, honestly it's doing it for you.

God this not what you are supposed to be doing. So what if he's your type. Stop oolging. The Fogteeth jersey he's wearing means he's bad news.

"Name's Ronnie."

"Y/N." You quickly scan the crowd to make sure you haven't lost your two hooligans. Cause those bitches would leave you for a dirty alley quickie. And you’ve lost them. "Is it always this loud?"

"The barbeque is a lot quieter."

"I would hope so." You don't know why but you find yourself smiling and laughing. The more you talk to him the less grumpy you are about being here. His humor is out there but he's very pleasant to talk to.

God. He doesn't know what's going on. You smell faintly of blackberries. He keeps getting a whiff every time you lean in to hear him. Most humans run away in disgust from him, especially women. But you're still here.

You don't know how long it's been, hours you imagine but you're ripped from peace very suddenly.

"Y/N! Y/N! Y/N!" Your sister is screaming at the top of her lungs.

"What Charlie?" Panicked, you immediately stand up.

"Come on! You're up next. You can't miss your turn!" She’s jumping excitedly.

"Turn for what?" Confused, you look at Ronnie hoping he might know. He shakes his head no. You haven't seen anyone playing games that would require turns.

"You'll see." Giving you a suspicious smile and pulling your arm.

As she starts to drag you away, you instantly grab a hold of Ronnie. Dragging him with you through the sea of people. You know her suspicious smiles never lead to anything good. It’s best to have another witness or at least someone on your side.

To his surprise he lets you drag him along. Your warm hand tightly interlocked with his. Whatever your sister has planned can't be that bad.

He was wrong.

"You got to be kidding me."  Horrified you let go of everybody and back away. Charlie has led you to a back room where it is fight club night.

"Nope!" Olivia is squealing, suddenly appearing on your left. Trying not to shake in excitement or else she'll spill the contents in her arms. "Three shots of Everclear and a can of Fat Orc."

"Are you serious? This the real reason you brought me?"  This is so uncalled for and obviously something that they have planned. They've been doing shit like this a lot lately.

"No we did want you to socialize but then we found this and everything else was thrown to the side." Olivia rambles on.

"I hate y'all so much." So offended you can't process what’s really happening.

"Awe come on you can do it." Charlie tries to pep talk you further into it.

"No I'm not! I'm not thunderdome-ing it so y'all can win some money. This-" In processing of telling them off you're interrupted by an asshole.

"Yes run on home girl. This is a man's room. Don't want you to hurt yourself." Sneering he leaves just as quickly as he appeared.

"That's your opponent." Olivia whispers.

"How much Charlie?" Glaring you watch him disappear back into the crowd. Fuck it. Eye twitching, inner alpha bitch activated.

"$100." She knows you're hooked now.

"Give it." Still staring off into the direction he went, you hold a waiting hand out. Grinning wickedly Charlie tosses the Fat Orc at you. Cracking it open, you chug the entire thing in one go. With the boiling rage inside of you, the can is crushed with one hand. Everything else can wait. This asshole needs to be taught a lesson.

The current fight ends and the orc ring leader is yelling out different things. The bookie next to him is frowning. Apparently he betted on the wrong guy.

"Give me your sweatshirt and finish the shots.” Olivia giggles.

"Hold your horses." Grumbling with a grimace you downed the last shot. Somehow your sweatshirt’s already off and Charlie's pushing into the ring. It's a stupid makeshift ring. Just a circle outlined in chalk.

"Place your bets!" The ringleader shouts.

"Oh you going to stay?" He smugly questions.

"To beat your sexist ass? I wouldn't miss it." Snapping back you're fueled with liquor and hatred. Dude looks like a unsanitary version of fuck boy. Which just further fuels the fire.

He can’t believe what he's seeing, you have transformed into a completely different person. The quiet girl who didn't even want to be here is now a feral animal.

A crowd is gathering. Often it's human men that enter the ring on these nights. Testing how long they can last against an orc or other humans. Rare is it that a woman enters, even rarer that they win. Causing this much uproar has reached the top of the command chain. Seeing Dorghu enter the room. Everything has escalated and Dorghu happens to stand next to him.

"With the house cut, she'll get over $900 if she wins." Craft informs.

“Who is she?” Dorghu demands, not many capture his interest.

“She came in with Ronnie.” Craft grins at him.

"Ronnie?" Dorghu turns in surprise.

"We were talking then her sister brought her back here.” Nodding at Charlie. “He made a sexist comment and she flipped. Did three shots, a can of Fat Orc and got in. She’s been drinking water all night."

“Interesting.” Dorghu turns back to the match to watch you counter a punch and punch him in the middle of the throat. With a kick to the stomach you knock him to the ground.

"The winner!" An orc yells to a sea of angry groans, briefly holding your arm up. Exhausted everything is spinning, ears are ringing and the liquor burps start.

"Give me my stuff." Slurring you almost lose your balance looking for Charlie and Olivia. Staggering a few steps you make it safely to them. You have forgotten everything about Ronnie and exactly where you are. It's too hot in this room and you need a nap. You are going to regret everything in the morning. Tugging your hoodie back on you doesn't bother zipping it.

The bookie appears as you're putting everything back into your pockets. Of course you have to be the one to collect the money.

"$936 all yours." Smiling he hands you the cash. You see his eyes dip for a second before leaving to collect money for the next round.

"Thanks." Great, he just got an eye full down your shirt. What a pervert. Spinning back to the hooligans, it is time for their punishment. "Ten for you and ten for you. Two four six eight for me."

"Come on-" Whining Charlie starts pouting.

"Zip it! It's whatcha get for signing me up without my permission." You whip around determined to give it back to the bookie.

You visibly pause when you make eye contact with Dorghu. You're not stupid you vaguely know what he looks like. Change of plans. Drunk you who is still pissed has decided on a new dumb plan. You march straight to Dorghu, maintaining eye contact. Everyone watching you is confused.

Out of sheer intoxicated boldness you grab his hand and put the winnings in it.

"Keep it. Fun party. It was nice talking to someone besides Ronnie's kinda cute. So do what you do."  

The room freezes. You can feel the tension but could care less about it. Clear as day you touched the leader like it was nothing then spoke perfect Bodzvokhan to him. Before toddling off complaining about getting fresh air and water.

~

Your sister said you were probably at the car cooling off. He checked the parking lot twice. No sign of you. That's until he gets a whiff of you.

After making it outside you disappeared down an alley by the car. Much quieter, no people and the breeze is nice. Sitting on the ground you can feel yourself nodding off.

"Ah!" Jumping from the sudden cold against your neck. It's Ronnie holding a water bottle. "Dang it Ronnie you scared the bejeezus out of me." You accept the water bottle.

At this position you can really see how tall and massive he is. Sort of reminds you of the Strongman Champion Brian Shaw. Your mind drifts, wondering how he would taste and feel in your hand. Your insides quiver from the thought. What the fuck? Trying your hardest you focus on the bottle.

"You shouldn't be trying to sleep in the alley then."

"Fair point. Thank you for the water." Struggling for a second you finally open the water.

"You speak Orc?" From this angle he can see straight down your shirt. He can see that you were hiding a great set under that hoodie.

"Learned it in high school trying to impress a boy. Some of my co-workers are orcs so it works out." Shrugging speaking Orc isn't a big deal, anyone can learn it.

"You didn't say you could fight."

"Honestly, it's like some drunken boxing Kung Fu shit but the more intoxicated I am. The more berserker I get when fighting." Taking a swig of water. "I don't usually drink or purposely get into fights."

"Damn baby." Taking the risk, you have been an enjoyable companion tonight. Why not see what the limit is.

"Don't call me baby." You aggressively glare at him to make a point.

"Whatever you say, Sprinkles." Putting his hands up in surrender, he needs to change the subject quickly.

"Sprinkles? That…that's different but okay." Weird name to choose but he seems to get the point.

"How's your hearing?" Lowering himself, he sits down beside you. He has no plans for tonight.

"Much better. I can clearly hear you and not have to be all up on you just to listen."

You see his ears twitch at that comment. Maybe he does like being close to you.

"Brave move you did. Handing the money directly to Dorghu."

"Yeah. But it's the only way I knew how. The money would make it back for the next party. Does that make sense?"

"I get your point."

"I don't need the money and it's payback for them setting the fight up in the first place." You give him a mischievous eyebrow wiggle.

"So you think I'm cute?" Blurting out the question was not the smoothest thing he had planned but it’s the easiest way.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Your face gets a little warmer and you stare at the opposite wall. Hard. You forgot he could speak orc.

"Don't worry I think you're cute too."

"What?" Surprised and suspicious. You can't help but to stare at him like he’s crazy as you feel your heart rate speed up. "Are you sure it's not because I just kicked someone's ass?"

"About 90% sure." Teasing he gives you a genuine smile.

"Y/N!" Charlie yells.

"Y/N! We're ready to go!" Olivia is screaming.

"Y/N! Where - oops sorry for interrupting." Charlie yells louder, now walking down the alley. Until she sees you two.

"You two could wake the neighborhood." Groaning, you're still annoyed with them. It's going to be a long car ride home.

"Rude! Not my fault you're deaf." Charlie scoffs.

"Wait by the car!" You fling a rock in their direction and they scamper away.

“Oh I'm going to end up snapping one day and killing them.” Groaning you heave yourself off the ground. Ronnie does the same while trying not to laugh.

"Sprinkles, you get more interesting by the second. How about I get your number so I can stay up-to-date?" In bold fashion he holds his phone out.

"Really?" Stunned, no one’s asked for your number before.

"Yes." Nodding in reassurance.

"I guess since you're so adamant." Pretending to be exasperated, you enter your number under the name Sprinkles. Turns out socializing for once wasn't that bad.

[ringmaster-jack]

Pass the Kerosene

[ An intermitted drabble elaborating on what occurred between Jack and his firebreather during the events in Early August.  It’s long as shit and it took me forever to write but I’m sick of looking at it so herE.  Preemptive apologies for all the god damn fire puns.  Also this drabble gets kinda dark and psychological-like so if you’re bothered by that kind of thing, warnings inbound. ] 

                                                        ♤ ♠ ♤ ♠

"What do you mean he's GONE?"

"I mean what I said.  He's gone.  He left."

The ringmaster clutched his face in his hands, a desperate and unyielding attempt to quell some of the disorganized jargon that threatened to spill from his lips.  It took him a few moments to collect his barrings enough to speak again without screaming, but even then, it was barely contained.  There was only so much one man could take over the course of a day, and there had been too many days like this over the passing months.  Chaos, change, danger and all that came with it; it was something Jack had more than accepted as a part of his life, long before he ever began his showmanship.  But everything was moving too fast, now.  Much too fast, and much too much of it, with repercussions he couldn’t even begin to unravel.  The way his brow tightened against the press of his roughened fingertips seemed to mark the coming of a nasty headache.

"What did you say to him.”

It took a hyper sense of focus, an ungodly shade of self-control for him to even manage one line to the woman in front of him without snapping like a territorial wolf.    

"What he needed to hear." Just one.

"...SERA.  What does that even MEAN?  WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO.”

Even if the sturdy-shouldered firebreather had wanted to respond to him, he didn’t really allow her the time with which to do that before he began flapping his jaws again.  Never shutting up was one of the ringmaster’s most defining features.  It was why a lot of the crowds he drew in enjoyed him, though to this woman, it was his most aggravating trait.  He never listened. 

��For a time, she allowed him to continue his yammering, though she felt herself not far from her own tipping point. Jack was the only one who could insight such a very specific and special sort of rage in her that was otherwise left unexpressed to their fellow carnies.  Amber eyes narrowed gradually the more she listened to him blather on, locked to his frantic and emotive pacing.  

"This is...bad. This is really really bad, this is not good this is a damned--catastrophe-- he can't--he has no place else to go, Sera, ANYTHING could happen to him--ANYTHING could just-- what, what was it?  What did you say to him?  WHAT DID YOU SAY? WHY? What the fuck possessed you to think that sending HIM --of all people--out-- THERE-- He was hurt, he--"

"He wasn't in critical condition. And he left on his own. He's a grown man, Jack, he can take care of himself."

"NO, HE CAN'T. HE'S NOT...THERE. MENTALLY."

"Okay, so then you took advantage of someone with a serious psychological condition.  That’s what you did, you haven’t done anything to actually help him. That’s pretty horrible, Jack.  You, you are pretty horrible. Y’know? "

Miss Seraphina Lefevre was many things, but she had never been one to pussyfoot about when it came to matters such as this.  For at least 5 years now she’d known and followed this man, which was why it came as no surprise to her when he turned on a dime and launched himself into her personal bubble to thrust her to the nearest tent rafter.  The framing of the big tops always held considerably sturdier than any of the personal tents, but even they shook with the force of his motion.    

"Don't you dare put that shit on me, Sera.  It’s not like--" 

The ringmaster didn’t have time to finish speaking before he felt a pain strike him where he touched her, a scorching heat that left blisters on his hands.  He should have known by now to never even try with this woman; the fire witch hadn’t even the need to struggle in order to get him to back down with a startled shriek.  

She pushed herself away from the pole she’d been so rudely knocked against, arms folding as she approached the man who by now had gotten over the momentary shock of having the first layer of his palm skin burned off. 

She spoke before he could finish, contemptuous and lucid in her speech, despite her obvious irritations over his lazy threats of violence.  Some people feared this man, but she knew him for what he was.     

"What is it like, Jack? Because from where I'm standing, this isn’t exactly out of your usual routine.  Maybe you’re invested in it now, but you know as well as I do you’ll eventually lose interest.  You always do.  You can go on and lie to yourself, if you want to believe you actually have feelings for him, then fine.  But it’s not the truth.  If you actually cared about him then you’d realize all you were doing was using him and playing games with his head. Hurting him. Like you do with everyone.  All. the time."

The heat that radiated from her person felt like stepping into a sauna, but Jack refused to swallow his pride no matter how many steps she took towards him.  He was sweating now, but his expression refused to crack under the very literal heat.  He was a stubborn sort.

"Why are you such a fucking bitch to me--”

"No, Jack. You're going to listen."

With every breach of distance, the showman's posture would sink.  Even with disregard to her firepower, this woman stood at a respectable and athletic 6′2″-- she was no delicate flower, and Jack, although he’d been healthier than in previous months-- was still not much of a match by comparison.  Not without his toys, or some backup-- and she was supposed to be his backup.  

"I don't care how much you think you want him. You do this every single time. You fixate on one person or thing and drain it of everything it has until there’s nothing good left."

"I don’t--want him, Sera, I need him--it was different with him.  I don’t know how to explain it, it just...I’ve never felt this way before.  You don’t understand-- you don’t-- get it.”

"Oh, I don't?"

Though she’d stopped moving toward him, her words were no less harsh than the fire in her veins.  Perhaps even worse, to one such as the ringleader.

"4 years ago, Cayri. Do you remember that name? 3 weeks of courting and one pregnancy later and suddenly you're not interested. She's madly in love with you but you push her away to the point of emotionally crippling her despite the child you left in her belly.  3 years ago, Scout. How about him? You certainly loved to push him around, and he was ready to give you the world, but whatever happened to him? You think he just--disappeared, Jack? He's probably dead now, and you don't even care anymore.  Left to rot somewhere in the catacombs for centuries, I’m sure of it.  2 years ago, Alice. Dead from an overdose on stimulants that you provided her with. She’d never done anything like that in her life before she met you.  2 years ago, Rosalie-- a prostitute and an addict now in the red light district.  She was in school to become a teacher before she met you, Jack. A teacher.  1 year ago, Khai. You--"

"Stop, stop-- just-- stop it. I get it.  I get it, okay?  What do you want from me?  I can’t control the way I feel. I don't know what to do. You don’t know all the shit I have to deal with Sera. I'm doing the best I can."

"THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH."

Ah, there it was.  Her breaking point. One could only listen to the crying, blithering bleats of a spindly, insane man-child for so long before losing their cool. She never really had that much ‘cool’ in her, anyway.  This was made abundantly clear by the flames that danced between her fingertips a mere inch or two from the man who spoke, exaggerating her gestures in the most intimidating of styles.  Jack ducked away from each movement she made-- she wasn’t making any conscious effort to injure him, not yet, anyhow, but he could still feel his unshaven chin hairs singe when she got too close.  

"I don’t CARE if you’re trying.  You need to be better.  You need to be a better PERSON.   Your mental disorders aren’t justification to be a horrible human being. You ruin everyone you come into contact with and you don't even CARE.  You can’t just keep doing this shit every other month and going on about your business like it’s okay.  It’s not fucking-- okay, Jack.  There are consequences.  Maybe not for you, but for everyone else who has the fucking misfortune of having to deal with you.  If you actually care about anyone then get your shit together."

Silence.

  The ringmaster heard nothing from her that hadn’t already been reeling around in his own mind-- and pretty often, in truth.  It didn’t make it hurt any less to hear it out loud.  Although his eyes followed the fire that swirled within her calloused hands, he gave no real reaction to it, now, unblinking and motionless.  There was a stillness that followed before his voice made its reappearance, indignant and soured.  He turned up the collar of his coat, a small expression of anxiety that he rolled into with a hefty side step, away from his second in command and her judging stare.

"...If that's really how you feel, then why don’t you just leave? Just.  Go. Get out.  Go ahead.  I don't need you."

"I can't.  I made a promise. Unlike some people, I actually keep my promises."

"And what promise is that, Sera?  To irritate me relentlessly until I develop high blood pressure and die of a heart attack at the age of 42?”

"This isn't funny Jack."

“No, it’s not.  You think I’m joking?  Leave.  I told you to go.  That wasn’t a suggestion, it was a demand.  Good day to you, madam.  Au revoir.  You are dismissed.  Goodbye, I am tired of listening to your bullshit.  Do not pass go, do not collect 200 gold.  Make sure to leave your keys by the door.  Get the fuck out.”

This did not earn the look of shock or terror that the jackal had initially expected.  In fact, she actually laughed at what he’d had to say, and genuinely so.  It wasn’t because of the content in his words; though, and he knew that long before her merry sounds were quelled.  Even with the heat of her flames still twitching through the air, he felt his blood chill.

“Jackie...” the redhead began, her voice softened from its previous state of enmity.  Coming from her, that didn’t necessarily mean something good was inbound.  

“I do...at least 70% of your paperwork.  Most of the documents for all this?” She gestured around them, her fire leaving streaks of afterglow in the dim light of the tent. 

 “Most of this is in my name.  Just because you’re the poster boy doesn’t mean you’re the showrunner.  I got you here, not the other way around. This is my circus.”

Well... she had him there.  It was never something he’d actually thought about, though.  Ever.  In fact, it was such a distant concept in his brain that it almost felt as if he’d just learned it.  How was he supposed to come back from that?  He hated arguing with this woman.  He hated this woman, period.  

“Well...then...fine,” He was defeated.  He knew when to admit that.  But it didn’t mean the lanky showman was going to take his defeat lying down.  

Instead, he’d walk away from it entirely.  

“Then I’ll leave!  I don’t need this place.  And I especially don’t need you.  See how well this garbage runs without me, I’m gone.  I don’t have time for this.”

A dramatic exit was the goal, here, but yet again, the witch superseded that in an instant by way of magic.  Before the ringmaster could even get halfway to the door, he’d been cut off by a wave of fire-- if he hadn’t sucked in and allowed himself to stumble and fall back, it would have most certainly burned him.  The uncharacteristically high pitched shriek that came from his lungs would have been funny in other circumstances, but this wasn’t really that sort of moment.

 The fire that spread formed a ring around them, a cage of flame that suspended itself at a height that made it nigh impossible to take his leave.  He was more than just a bit upset, now.  He was pissed.

“No.” the fire witch exclaimed, her voice strong and unyielding.

“Sera, what the fuck?”

"Jack..."

Through the veil of flame, the fire dancer had coast towards the ringmaster, unscathed by the heat of her element.  She’d made a point to kneel down beside him, her hands to her knees to speak to the man as if he were a child. Jack rebound from his momentary startle and returned to a state of violent irritation in record time, his brow heavily knit in her direction. 

"Why am I here?" She asked of him.

"Well, presumably to make mon--can you please stop it with the fire?  My nuts are getting steam-cooked here, "

"No. Besides that."

"Because you enjoy making my life miserable?”

"Jack...”

“...Let me go, Sera, I swear to your gods...”

Seraphina didn’t seem to have any intention of dropping the firewall that surrounded them.  Even as the ringmaster tried to slip back on his rump, she stayed where she was -- it wasn’t like he could really go anywhere unless he wanted to burn.  The possibility of crossing the flaming barrier wasn’t completely out of his mind, though.  Especially when she began talking again. 

“She asked me to stay with you.  Tabitha. She asked me to keep an eye on you if anything happened to her.  To make sure you don’t get into trouble.  I’m basically your caretaker, Jack.  We’ve talked about this.”

“I can assure you we most certainly have not.”

“Three times.  I’ve discussed this with you three times, now.  You’re not...well, Jack.”

“No, but I’d be a whole lot fucking better if you stopped holding me hostage like some kind of fucking domestic terrorist.”

While his anger was mounting, the firebreather remained static, indifferent.  Jack had begun the task of pushing himself back up to his feet again, though with a brief curse beneath his breath when he used his scorched palms to do so.  He’d forgotten about that.  

 “I need to go, Sera, I need to-- I don’t have time for this, I have to-- find him, he could be--”

“He hates you.”

Although he’d begun pacing around the flickering heat that surrounded them to try and find a means of escape, the showman stopped in his tracks when she spoke again.  Of all the things she’d said to him, this was one he hadn’t anticipated.  He gawked at the woman with more confusion than antipathy, his forehead dripping with sweat.    

“...What?  What does that even mean?”

“He said he hates you, Jack.  The jester.”

“...You’re lying.”

“Do you really think he would have just left like that if I was making shit up?  I didn’t want to tell you that part, Jack, but you left me no other option.  You nearly got him killed.  The gods know what else you’ve done to sway him in the other direction, but he told me himself how he feels.  Not in...so many words, but-- just let it rest.  Persuing him won't get you anywhere.  You’re just going to make yourself even more miserable. It’s been a long day.  For everyone.  It’s time to give it up.”

Whether she was being honest or not, this new revelation was one that Jack hadn’t the mind to even begin contemplating.  He didn’t want to contemplate it, but he knew that the moment he actually had a second to relax, it would be the first and only thing he’d be able to ruminate on.  He felt a hollowness in his chest that crept into his belly like the sensation one felt when falling.  He didn’t like it.  Not one little bit.  

“...Okay.  Fine, just.  Whatever, I won't--I won’t go -- looking for him.  Please, just... take down your stupid firewall. I need to get out of here, Sera, I need to--”

“You need to calm down.”

“I AM CALM.” Hardly.  He inhaled sharply and shot her a glare that was even sharper.  Everything in him was tense.

“I have to feed Umbra.  Do you have any idea how much I’m trying to placate this absolute trainwreck of a situation that is my life without having a total and complete nervous breakdown?  Because frankly you’re doing nothing to help with negating that scenario, woman, so if we could just please please please continue this conversation later, I promise promise promise you, I won't-- leave, okay?  Scout’s honor.  But I need to fucking go.  Now.  He has to be fed before this gets any worse.”

“I’ll get him food.  You need to go rest.”

“You can’t give him what he needs, I--”

“I know, Jack.  I spoke to him.  He told me what you’ve been feeding him.”

“...You...spoke to him?”

“Yeah.  The night you got stabbed, actually.  I took him to a diner.  Bought him a milkshake and everything.  I know what he is, Jack.  It’s inconsequential.  You were supposed to stop--”

“I did--I did stop!  But I have to now, for him.  You don’t know what will happen if I don’t...”

“You don’t know either, Jack.”

She just wouldn’t let up, would she?  The fire still blazing around them, Jack pushed his fingers into his eyes-- not enough to really hurt, just enough to blackout his vision and show him stars.  He pinched the bridge of his nose after this, no longer even attempting to take his leave as he tried, tried to compose himself.  As was the case with most situations for the ringmaster, he knew that the only way he was likely to get out of this was to smooth talk his way to the end.  But he hadn’t felt this angry in a long, long time-- and when he opened his lips to try and convince her again, all that came out was a bitter, tired,

“I fucking--hate you.  I hate you so much.”

The firebreather had pushed herself back into a standing position, if only to keep on level grounds with the ringmaster.  She’d remained unphased by the lazy insults or Jack’s penchant for traipsing the tent floor, something that had started again, like a caged lion.  When she spoke, it was much calmer than it should have been.

“I think you need to go back to Zaun.”

He halted in his tracks, but only to look at her.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you need to be hospitalized again if this is how things are going to be with you. In the past half a year alone you’ve almost died at least 5 times, you’ve happily invited an assortment of demons and malevolent spirits into our place of work, endangering everyone in the process, you’ve murdered an unknown amount of innocent people to use as sacrificial fodder to a literal dark god-- do I need to go on?  Because I definitely can, you’ve also-- ”

“Shut up.” he hissed, his voice barely a whisper.

“You’ve made it crystal clear to me that you’re a danger to yourself and to others.  You need things that I’m not capable of providing.  With the record you have, getting you involuntarily committed is a non-issue, Jack.  But I’d really rather have your consent.  You need help.  Please recognize that.”

“You don’t know what you’re fucking talking about!  They don’t help anyone there, Seraphina!  They make everything worse!  Exponentially!  Do you know what they did to me in there?  Do you have any fucking idea--”

“I’ve been given a basic summary of your history, yes.”

“Then you know it won't make anything better.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“NO.  NO I AM REALLY, REALLY NOT.”

Incapable of finding an exit within the ring of fire, he turned back to the flame dancer instead, her self-righteous attitude and confident stare doing nothing but fueling the anger that bubbled in his stomach.  He wanted to approach her, to scream in her face, or worse-- but he knew any attempt at fighting this woman would probably end poorly on his behalf.  Especially if what she said was the truth.  So he continued speaking, instead.  Aggressively and with a bit too many flippant hand gestures, but maybe she’d listen.

“2 years in that place was enough.  They kept me so doped up I could barely function-- I’m only just now remembering bits and pieces of it, Sera, but I don’t need to remember any of it to know the shit they do in there-- it’s not fucking good.  By ANY stretch of morality!” he exclaimed, to which the witch seemed apathetic.

“They don’t heal people there, Sera, it’s where you go when no one else will take you anymore.  They just lock us away with disregard to any kind of human dignity and throw away the key.  They do things that would never fly anywhere else in the world because nobody actually gives a fuck about people like me.  Do you understand where I’m going with this?  I don’t know what misguided garbage my sister funneled into your thick fucking skull, Seraphina, but I’ll tell you right now--her whim isn’t worth the trouble.”

“It’s absolutely worth the trouble.  I loved her, Jack.  And she loved me.  And regardless of what you think, I’m not your enemy.  You’re like family to me, now.  I just want what’s best for you.”

My gods, the emotional rollercoaster they’d been on over the course of the past 15 minutes was one for the history books.  Now, it was the ringmaster’s turn to laugh.  It was a cold sound that built up from a soft chuckle into a half-exhausted but deep-bellied cackle, one he made zero effort to hide.  It made the elemental hesitate; if only for a moment, shifting her weight to the opposite foot in discomfort.  When he looked at her again with a shimmer in his eye, that hesitation grew.

“Is that really what you think?  You think she actually loved you?  Oh, honey-- if that’s really what your whole life has been based around for the last 6 years, do I have some sad news for you--” 

She’d wanted to interrupt him before he spoke again, but she didn’t get the chance.  His body lethargic in the heat, Jack floundered his way in her direction-- though this time there was no intent to try and assail the witch.  His cruel smirk betrayed his intent.

“Tabi didn’t love anyone.  You think I’m bad?  At least I have the capacity to actually feel something.  I fucking hate it, but it’s a thing, no matter how much I try to ignore it, y’know?  Her, though-- all she ever cared about was power.  Progress, at any cost.  What she thought was progress, anyway. She’d do anything if it meant furthering her ‘career’.  She slept around a lot more than I ever did-- you were just one in a long, long list of others.  I really don’t think she wanted you to babysit me with my best interest at heart.  She never really did care what happened with me.” The bitterness that hung on those words was enough to crumble his facade of egotism, at least for a moment, before his speech would continue on, more somber than before.  Sera was left to her own rumination for those few protracted seconds.  

  “If you’re really telling me the truth-- if you really do care about me, then.  Prove it.  I made a promise to you, and I don’t intend to break it.  But I need.  To go.  And you need to trust me.  Please, Sera.  I’m begging you.”

The firebreather knew that Jack had a way with manipulating people in his favor, regardless as to whether he was in the right or not.  She was one of the few mortals who had lifted that veil and seen the ugliness beneath the surface.  She didn’t buy his bullshit, not for one minute-- but in the stillness of the evening, with only the sound of her embers crackling in a coil around them... she saw some sincerity left within this filthy but charming man she’d followed for half a decade.  Maybe it was something in the way his eyes gleamed with unshed tears, or maybe it was the sheer exhaustion in his voice.  She didn’t know at that moment.  He’d hit her in places that were much more damaging than the scorch of any flame ever was.  Things weren’t adding up.  

“...Fine.”  

Jack let forth a triumphant but passive ‘woo!’ when the intense temperatures that surrounded him where uplifted in a flicker of hot ash.  He knew better than to bolt immediately, so he took a moment to wipe the sweat hanging from his skin with the sleeve of his jacket, and offer her his graciousness.  Of course, the almost sardonic tone to his voice belittled that sentiment, now that the danger had been extinguished.  

“Thanks, boss, you won't regret it, I--”

Well, maybe not extinguished, so much as... muted.  Temporarily.  

His words garbled by the sensation of the firebreather taking clutch to his throat, Jack’s own hands instinctively moved to try and grab her arm-- a poor choice, as it only reignited the sting on his palms.  Her grip was so rough that the tips of her ruby-polished nails left crescent brandings around his neck.  Speaking was nearly impossible when you had a fire witch strangling you, which had perhaps been her intention.

“But let me make one thing clear to you first.”

Her amber gaze left holes in the man’s skull.  Jack did his best to avoid eye contact, but the panic in his expression was undeniable.  

“You’re not a hard man to track down, Jack.” 

That was all she said.  Nothing more, nothing less. One cryptic line that would stick with him in the coming weeks, though the burns on his neck would fade in a matter of days.

It didn’t take the woman long to release him, giving him the freedom of speech again-- but it took Jack a moment to compose himself through the fit of dry hacking.  He managed to rasp out a passionless, 

“Okay,” 

to her statement, though nothing more came for a minute still. Fire mages were never any fun, and though it was in his nature to poke fun of her for her amusingly heated temperament, he toned it down.  For once in his life.  

“I’m... leaving now.  If you want to dance again later, you know where I’ll be.  Thanks.  I suppose.”  

It was an anticlimactic ending to an incredibly intense night, enunciated with wounded pride that he did his best to uplift long enough to carry out the door with him.  He was no gentleman, but Jack would still do the bare minimum to at least present some sort of dignity, whatever that meant in his mind. It was a fine note to end on, he pondered, as he knew somewhere in the back of his thoughts that this was far, far from over.  

The stench of paranoia lingered in the air beneath the saccharine smell of late summer.  It hung itself heavily on the evening breeze that kissed the showman’s wet skin when he stepped out of the big top.