#this was me reading The Unwanteds as a kid honestly

[vibelladonna]

❛ 𝒷𝓇𝓊𝓈𝒽𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓀 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝓍 𝑔𝓃!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

· ─────── ⋆⋅♤⋅⋆ ─────── · 

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Solivan Brugmansia, or just Sol, a super mysterious artist who kinda blends the lines between being the creator and the creation himself. His piercing eyes and his quirky style pull you into his world of raw creativity and quiet intensity.

When you're invited to his studio to complete a college art project, you’ll be sucked into his art, his silence, and that eerie feeling that he sees way more of you than you expected. The real challenge? Keep your focus on your brushwork.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: Fem Body! Reader, Forced Proximity, Domestic Fluff (At the start), Artistic Passion, Obsessive Behavior, non-consensual, unwanted touching, grinding, dubious consent, predatory behavior, penetration, very rough sex, whiny submissive Sol at one point and dominant Sol at another point, same goes to you—reader as well, and somewhat long ass word count—I got carried away, took two days straight to write—I’m so so sorry.

I honestly wasn’t planning on writing Sol because, let’s face it, he already gets plenty of love from the fandom (and, not gonna lie, he scares me—a LOT). That said, I still love his character design and how he was created! But someone asked for more, so here we are. I’ll be putting together a master list soon and opening up requests since I wasn’t expecting so much love for my Crowe fanfic. Seriously, thank you! Anyway, hope you enjoy reading this one!

You stood outside the apartment door, the faint hum of the building’s creaky pipes filling the silence. A faint scent of paint and something sweet—floral, maybe—escaped through the crack at the base of the door. Your fist hovered briefly before you knocked, your knuckles rapping gently against the wood.

You'd come here to his apartment for a college project on Expressionism, drawn by his reputation as the quiet genius in your class. The space was a living embodiment of his mind—a sanctuary of creativity and controlled chaos. Canvases leaned against walls, his surfaces erupting with bold strokes and raw emotion. The air hummed faintly, tinged with the smell of oil paint, charcoal, and the faintest trace of something floral—perhaps the namesake of the mysterious Solivan Brugmansia—Sol for short. 

There was a pause. The sound of footsteps approached, deliberate and unhurried, before the door clicked open.  

Sol stood there, framed by his apartment’s warm, ambient light. His black hair, streaked with vibrant green, gleamed faintly, catching the dim overhead light. The half-up, half-down style gave his sharp features an ethereal quality, the long central streak of hair falling between his orange and crimson eyes while two smaller strands framed his face.  

Today, he was dressed as part of the canvas he worked on. A black shirt, fitted but comfortable, paired with matching pants, both splattered with faint remnants of past creative frenzies. Over this, he wore a painting apron streaked with the vibrancy of forgotten colors—a kaleidoscope of blues, yellows, and pinks. It looked almost ceremonial, as though he were a priest of Expressionism itself. 

“Hey,” Sol said, his voice soft but resonant, as if each word had been weighed and measured before leaving pierced lips. He stepped aside, gesturing you in.  

You entered cautiously, suddenly hyperaware of how much space you were occupying. Sol’s apartment was an eclectic mix of chaos and artistry. The walls were lined with shelves stuffed with books, jars of brushes, and sketchpads in various stages of use. Canvases leaned haphazardly against one wall, his surfaces alive with strokes of vibrant, chaotic color.

A large easel stood in the corner by a wall, its frame splattered with years of paint, and next to it was a table strewn with tubes of oil paint, jars of water, and what looked like a half-finished sculpture.  

The furniture was minimal but intentional. A worn, paint-streaked couch sat across from a low coffee table, which had been overtaken by sketchbooks and coffee mugs. The faint glow of string lights wound around the ceiling added warmth, softening the industrial feel of the concrete floors.  

Sol closed the door behind you, the lock clicking faintly. “Shoes off, please,” He said, his gaze flicking briefly to your feet. He was wearing socks, his black shirt, and matching pants, giving them a striking silhouette beneath the paint-streaked apron he wore. “Do you always live like… this?” you asked, gesturing vaguely at the organized chaos.  

Sol glanced around as if seeing the space through your eyes for the first time. “It’s functional,” He said simply, before pulling a stool toward the easel and sitting. “I know where everything is.” He reached for a brush, spinning it absently between his fingers. “Did you bring the sketches?” You nodded, pulling a folder from your bag. “Yeah. I mean, they’re rough. I wasn’t sure if they���d fit the theme.” You hesitated before handing them over.  

Sol didn't say anything right away. Instead, he put the brush down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he flipped through your work. His gaze was intense, those fiery eyes scanning each page with a focus that made you feel bare.

His eyes were a masterpiece in themselves, an intense study of Central Heterochromia: an inner ring of burning orange encircled by an outer hue of crimson red. When he looked at you, it felt as though he were dissecting your very soul, layer by delicate layer.

“This one,” Sol said finally, tapping one of the sketches. It was an abstract piece—a swirl of jagged lines and harsh shading. “It’s raw. Honest. Use this as your foundation.”  

“Really?” You leaned closer, your shoulder brushing his accidentally. Sol didn’t pull away. “I wasn’t sure if it was too… messy.”  

“That’s the point,” Sol said, his voice quiet but firm. He set the folder aside and stood, moving toward the table where his paints were arranged. “Expressionism isn’t about clean lines. It’s about emotion. About what’s inside.” He picked up a palette, his long fingers deftly squeezing out colors in no particular order. “You brought what’s inside. I’ll help you pull it out.”  You couldn’t help but watch as he moved, each action deliberate and fluid.

“So… how do we start?” You asked.

Sol turned to you, the faintest trace of a smile playing at his lips. "You start by not overthinking. Paint what you feel. I'll be here if you need guidance."  He handed you a brush, his fingers brushing yours for just a moment before pulling away. "The colors are ready. Paint whatever you like.”

For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the lights and the soft beat of your heart. Something in his presence was grounding, even as his piercing gaze seemed to strip you down to your essence. You took a deep breath and stepped toward the easel, the weight of Sol's quiet encouragement settling on your shoulders. "All right," you said, gripping the brush a little tighter.

"Let's do this.” You added.

Sol’s eyes followed your every movement, unblinking and intent. The way your hand gripped the brush—a touch too tight, almost desperate—and the soft inhale you took before the bristles kissed the canvas was enough to captivate him.

To Sol, it was as though he was watching the birth of a masterpiece, even if the real art hadn’t yet materialized on the canvas. He was utterly mesmerized, a silent spectator to something far beyond mere paint and pigment.  

Then, in a sudden, mischievous shift, you dipped your brush into a light green on the palette and, without hesitation, swiped it across his cheek. The coolness of the paint startled him, his eyes widening as he froze in place. For a beat, Sol said nothing, stunned into stillness. Then, slowly, a small smile began to tug at the corner of his mouth, the icy veneer of his composure cracking ever so slightly.  

He raised an eyebrow, amusement glimmering in his crimson-and-orange gaze. “Really?” he asked, his voice carrying the faintest undercurrent of a chuckle as he wiped at his cheek with his fingers. “Was that necessary?”  

As he spoke, his hand casually reached for another brush, dipping it into a bold shade of red.  

Your grin widened at his reaction, a playful spark lighting your eyes. “Necessary?” you teased, tilting your head. “Maybe not. But it was definitely worth it. Besides,” you added, twirling your brush between your fingers, “your reaction was priceless.”  

Sol’s smirk deepened, his eyes narrowing as though calculating his next move. He leaned forward slightly, closing the space between you as the red-tipped brush hovered just inches from your skin. “You’re asking for it now,” he said softly, his tone playful but laced with a subtle edge. “Challenging an artist in his territory? Bold move.”  

Your heart skipped at the proximity, but you held your ground. Meeting his gaze with equal intensity, you let your smirk turn sly. “Oh, I’m not just asking for it,” you quipped, your voice low and teasing. “I’m daring you to try.”  

Sol’s eyes darkened, his playful expression giving way to something more intense, almost… predatory.

The brush in his hand swayed, the paint clinging to the tip as it hovered closer to your face. His voice dropped to a whisper, sending a shiver through you. “You don’t even know what you’re playing at,” he murmured, his lips curving into a slow, wicked smile.  

Then, with a sudden and deliberate movement, he swiped the red paint across the bridge of your nose. The cool sensation made you blink in surprise, but the shock quickly melted into a laugh. You reached for another brush, dipping it into a rich green. “Rules, you say?” you said with mock defiance, a glint of mischief dancing your eyes. “But isn’t breaking them half fun?”  

You drew the brush across the canvas instead of retaliating directly, your strokes bold and deliberate. Sol’s eyes flicked between the emerging shapes and your determined expression, his lips twitching with a mix of admiration and confusion.

A low chuckle rumbled from his throat, the sound rich and unexpected, sending a pleasant chill down your spine. “You’re not only cheeky,” he said, watching the paint flow in deliberate curves. “You’ve got the right attitude for this. Art isn’t about staying in lines—it’s about breaking through boundaries.”  

His words carried a teasing edge, but beneath them was a subtle warmth, an acknowledgment of your courage and creativity. Still, as his gaze lingered on you, there was a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.  

“Careful, though,” he added softly, a smirk creeping back to his lips. “You might end up inspiring me more than the canvas.” The tension hung in the air like a taut string, electric and alive, as the two of you exchanged another glance.  

You noticed the way Sol cast fleeting glances, darting his eyes between the canvas and your face. His expression was perfectly schooled, calm, and unreadable, but the tiniest flicker of amusement betrayed him. You knew he was holding back, his true opinion hidden behind that enigmatic smirk. Your eyes narrowed slightly, a spark of determination flaring within you as you paused your brush mid-stroke. 

You met his gaze with a sly smile, your voice dripping with playful accusation. “You’re such a liar. Just say it—I’m bad at painting.”  

Sol chuckled, a soft, throaty sound that was more amused than menacing this time. The smirk on his lips grew, and he didn’t bother to hide it as he leaned slightly against the edge of the table. “All right,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “The truth? You’re terrible at painting.” Before one could object, he held up a hand, his expression mock-serious. 

"Your brushwork technique is messy, your composition is unbalanced, and your color harmony… well, let's just say it's as chaotic as your personality.” He said.

Your jaw dropped, and a flicker of indignation flashed in your eyes. But you composed yourself quickly, raising your chin in defiance. "Oh, is that right?" you retorted coolly, crossing your arms. "Well then, I suppose you think you could do a lot better."

Sol’s crimson-and-orange eyes gleamed with mischief, and he raised an eyebrow as though the answer should’ve been obvious. “Of course I could.”  

Without waiting for permission, he stepped closer to the canvas, grabbing a clean brush from the palette. He leaned forward, studying your piece intently, his head tilting just slightly as he took in every line and stroke. For a moment, he said nothing, and the quiet stretched between you. 

Then, with a smirk, he glanced back at you. “But don’t worry,” he said, dipping his brush into a pale yellow. “I’m not going to paint over your work. That would be cruel.” His tone softened slightly, almost imperceptibly, as he added, “You’ve got potential. Under the right tutelage, of course.”  

You watched as Sol began painting over the blank spaces on the canvas. His brush moved lightly, in long, deliberate strokes. Each movement was precise, controlled, and yet carried an effortless grace. His hand didn’t hesitate, the tip of the brush gliding across the fabric like it was an extension of himself.  

Your eyes drifted to his hand, caught by its hypnotic rhythm. It was larger than yours, bony yet strong, the veins along the back prominent as they flexed with the motion. The way his fingers gripped the brush with such confidence… It made you wonder, for a short second, what it might feel like if those same hands brushed against your skin instead of the canvas.  

You blinked, startled by the thought, and shook your head slightly. But your gaze returned to his hands almost immediately, as though they had a gravity of their own. Something was captivating about them—the way they moved with purpose and elegance, the way the bristles danced under his direction.  

“What?” Sol’s voice broke your trance, and you snapped your eyes up to meet his gaze. His lips curved into a teasing smile as though he’d caught you staring. “Don’t tell me I’ve already inspired awe.”  

You scoffed, rolling your eyes to cover your embarrassment. “Awe? Hardly. I’m just… observing your technique.” You gestured vaguely toward the canvas, trying to sound nonchalant. “Mm-hm,” he murmured, clearly unconvinced.

He leaned back slightly, his free hand resting on the table as he continued to paint. “So, what do you think? Learning something?”  

Your lips twitched into a small smile, your earlier indignation melting into something lighter. “Well,” you began, tilting your head, “I can see that you’re good with your hands. I’ll give you that.”  

Sol paused, glancing at you sidelong with a raised brow. His smirk deepened, taking on an almost dangerous edge. “Careful with compliments like that,” he said, his voice soft but laced with a playful warning. “You might give me the wrong idea.”  

Heat crept into your cheeks, but you held your ground, determined not to give Sol the satisfaction of flustering you. Instead, you stepped closer, the faintest hint of a challenge in your stance. “Oh, I’m sure you’re used to hearing it,” you shot back. “You’re practically begging for praise with the way you show off.”  

Sol laughed, low and rich, the sound like velvet brushing against the charged air between you. Straightening, he set his brush down and leaned slightly against the table, his gaze never leaving yours. “Maybe I am,” he admitted, his smirk widening just enough to make your pulse quicken. “But it’s working, isn’t it?”  

Your brow lifted, and you tilted your head, feigning disinterest even as you studied him. His piercing gaze, the subtle confidence in his posture, that maddening smirk—it was infuriating how self-assured he was. And yet, there was something magnetic about him, something that made it impossible to look away.  

You rolled your eyes, breaking the moment with a scoff. “Fine,” you said, lifting your brush again and stepping toward the canvas. “But don’t expect me to call you a genius. Not yet, anyway.”  

“Fair enough,” Sol replied, his voice tinged with amusement. He shifted slightly, leaning down, watching you with a quiet intensity. The air between you felt electric and playful but threaded with an undertone of something deeper, something neither of you dared to name.  

You focused on the canvas, trying to tune out the way his gaze burned into your back. But as the moments stretched, your thoughts wandered again. Did he feel it too—that spark, that pull? Or was it just your imagination running wild?  

“Do you want me to guide you?” Sol’s sudden question cut through your thoughts, startling you. You glanced over your shoulder at him, your brush hesitating mid-stroke. “Guide me?” His expression flickered with faint amusement as he straightened, stepping closer. “Your brushwork on our painting,” he clarified. “Are you sure you’re paying attention?”  

The flush on your cheeks deepened. You’d been so wrapped up in your thoughts—most of them about him—that you’d completely zoned out. Trying to cover your embarrassment, you huffed, lifting your chin slightly.  “Of course, I’m paying attention,” you retorted, though your voice betrayed you with its defensiveness. “I’ve been observing, just like you said.”  

The corner of Sol’s mouth quirked, a small, knowing smirk that sent a spark of irritation and something else through you. “Is that so?” he murmured.  

Before you could respond, he moved closer, standing just behind you. The air around you shifted, warmer now, charged with his presence. You felt the heat of his body at your back, the faint rustle of fabric as he leaned in, close enough that you could feel his breath against your ear.  

“You’re about as good at lying as you are at painting,” Sol said softly, his voice low and teasing. “You haven’t been paying attention to anything but me for the last five minutes.” Your protest died on your lips as his hand—larger, warmer—wrapped gently around yours, guiding your grip on the brush. You froze, your heart pounding as his chin rested lightly on your shoulder, the weight and proximity making it hard to breathe.  

“Okay,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. “Just follow me.”  

Your hand moved under his guidance, the brush sweeping across the canvas in a smooth, deliberate arc. Together, you created a perfect swirl, the paint gliding like silk beneath the bristles. Your breath hitched, your gaze darting to his face out of the corner of your eye.  

Sol’s focus was entirely on the canvas, his eyes following the line of the brush with the same intensity he’d given you earlier. A faint smile ghosted across his lips as he added another gentle stroke, the motion fluid and practiced. When his gaze finally flicked to yours, the warmth in his expression sent a jolt through you.  

“Pay attention, please,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.  

You swallowed hard, trying to steady the rush of emotions his proximity stirred. But then his eyes lingered a moment too long, and a small, knowing smirk curled at the edge of his lips again. Finding a burst of courage—or recklessness—you turned your head slightly, your faces just inches apart now. “I thought you said I wasn’t paying attention,” you said, your tone playful, though your voice was softer than you intended.  

Sol’s smile deepened, his eyes flickering between yours and the canvas. “You weren’t,” he said, his breath brushing against your skin. “But maybe you’re finally getting the hang of it.” His low chuckle reverberated softly against your back, and the way his fingers guided your wrist—it was impossible not to feel the heat rising in your cheeks.  

You swallowed hard, determined to keep your focus on the canvas in front of you, but Sol's presence was utterly overwhelming. "Maybe I just needed the right tutor," you managed to say, your voice wavering just enough to betray how unsteady you felt.  

Sol let out a quiet laugh, warm and teasing. "Maybe you did," he replied, his tone carrying a playful edge. His hand adjusted slightly, guiding the brush into a smooth curve. “But you’ll need to focus for it to work.”  

Easier said than done. He leaned in closer, his chest brushing lightly against your back, his breath warm on the side of your neck. Your heartbeat hammered, your skin prickling with the awareness of how close he was. His scent—a faint mix of paint, something floral, and the slightest hint of musk—filled your senses, making it almost impossible to concentrate.  

The brush wavered slightly in your hand, the line on the canvas faltering. “Careful,” Sol murmured, his lips almost brushing your ear. “Don’t move too much. You’ll smudge our work.”  

Your grip on the brush tightened as you fought to focus, but it was no use. The combination of his steady breathing, the warmth radiating from his body, and that damn smirk you knew was probably still on his lips—it was too much. Your arm shifted slightly, your elbow bumping against his.  

Sol sighed, soft but pointed, his hand slipping away from yours. “All right,” he said, straightening up and stepping back. His tone was still calm, but there was a flicker of something firmer beneath it, something that sent a shiver down your spine. “If you can’t be still, maybe we need to change tactics.”  

You blinked, turning to face him. “What do you mean?”  

Without a word, Sol reached out, his hands firm but careful as he grasped your waist and guided you backward. Before you could process what was happening, you found yourself seated in his lap, his hands steadying you.  

Your heart nearly stopped.  

“Wha—Sol!” you sputtered, heat flooding your face as you tried to wriggle away. “Please stop moving,” he said, his voice quickly said, almost in a warming tone. His arms rested lightly on either side of you, effectively caging you in. “You said you needed the right tutor. This is part of the lesson.”  

Your protest died in your throat as you felt his breath against your ear again, his warmth surrounding you completely now. Your pulse was racing, your cheeks burning, but there was something about his calm composure—like this was the most natural thing in the world—that left you utterly speechless.  

“You’re too restless,” Sol said, his voice softer now, almost teasing. “You’re going to ruin our painting if you keep squirming.”  

“I—I’m not squirming,” you managed, though your voice betrayed you. “Sure you’re not,” he replied, his smirk practically audible. His hands moved to guide yours again, steady and sure as he returned your focus to the canvas. “Now, relax. Let me show you how it’s done.”  

Despite your flustered state, his voice and the firm yet gentle pressure of his hands steadied you, guiding the brush in smooth, deliberate strokes. The rhythm of his movements and the closeness of his presence made it impossible to think about anything else.  

As you followed his guidance, your breaths began to sync with his, the tension in your shoulders loosening slightly. His hand stayed over yours, directing the brush with practiced ease.  

“There,” he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. “See how much better that feels?”  

You swallowed, glancing over your shoulder at him. His gaze was focused on the canvas, but the faintest smirk still played at the corner of his lips. His eyes flicked to meet yours briefly, and the intensity in them sent another wave of warmth rushing through you.  

“I think you just like being in control,” you said, trying to sound teasing, though your voice was softer than you intended.  

Sol chuckled, his breath brushing against your neck. “And I think you like making things harder than they need to be.”  

Your heart raced as his words lingered in the air, the tension between you palpable. But before you could respond, Sol’s hand guided yours in another gentle stroke, pulling your focus back to the canvas. “Now,” he said, his tone a bit more playful, “are you going to let me teach you, or do I need to keep you here until you finally pay attention?”  

The challenge in his voice made your cheeks burn even hotter, but you rolled your eyes, gripping the brush tighter. “Fine,” you muttered. “I’ll pay attention.”  

“Good,” he said, leaning slightly closer. “Because we’re not done yet.” Your pulse raced as Sol’s hands guided yours, the rhythm of the brushstrokes steady under his control. He sat perfectly at ease, holding you on his lap like it was just another part of his creative process.  

And you? You were anything but composed.  

“When doing this stroke, pay close attention,” Sol murmured again, his voice low and coaxing, his breath brushing against your ear. All you needed to do was Relax. As if you could do that when every inch of you felt like it was vibrating with awareness of him. “No pressure,” he added, his hand over yours, moving the brush in a smooth arc. “Unless you want to mess up and start over.”  

You scoffed, tilting your head just enough to glance back at him, a mischievous spark lighting your eyes. “I think you like having me mess up,” you said, your voice laced with defiance. Sol’s lips twitched into a smirk, but he didn’t take the bait. “Maybe,” he said, his tone calm and measured. “But it’s our project. If we waste more time because of you being difficult, that’s on you.”  

Something about the calm way he said it made you bristle. You shifted slightly in his lap, testing his patience as you pressed back just enough to feel the firmness of his chest against your back.  

“I’m not being difficult,” you said, your tone saccharine and falsely sweet. You turned your head more, your eyes narrowing as you added, “I just think you’re enjoying this a little too much, Sol.”  

His brow arched slightly, the only indication that you’d gotten under his skin. “Am I?” he asked, his voice still maddeningly even. But as you shifted again—this time deliberately moving in a way that pressed closer to him—you felt the way his body tensed beneath you.  

The faintest hint of red crept into Sol’s cheeks, and his hand on yours tightened slightly before releasing, his composure faltering just enough to make your lips curve into a triumphant smile.  

“See?” you said, turning fully now so you were half-facing him, still perched on his lap. “You do enjoy it.”  

His crimson-and-orange gaze flicked over you, lingering for just a moment too long before snapping back to your eyes. Something about him was... off.

Not in an unsettling way, but in a way that made your skin prickle with awareness. The piercing gaze from those luminous eyes seemed to see more of you than you intended to show. His silence spoke volumes, each glance and measured movement a language of its own.  

The way he painted and the way he carried himself made it hard to distinguish where the artist ended, and the art began. Sol wasn't just quiet. He was quiet. And in that stillness, you found yourself drawn to him like a moth to a flame—a dangerous, beautiful thing you couldn't resist.

You noticed it then—the way his expression shifted, the way his pupils dilated slightly as he took in the way your outfit clung to you, a simple, black shirt with a matching pencil skirt, looking like a dress, more fitted than he’d probably realized earlier.  

“You’re pushing your luck,” Sol said softly, his voice carrying a warning edge. He was stiff beneath you, his posture taut, as though holding himself together with sheer willpower.  

But you weren’t backing off.  

Instead, you tilted your neck and leaned in, your face stopping mere inches from his. “Am I?” you whispered, the deliberate echo of his earlier words carrying a teasing, brash confidence.  

His reaction was almost immediate. The flush on his cheeks deepened, painting his pale skin with a rosy hue that crept to the tips of his ears. You shifted back slightly in his lap, letting your back brush against his chest, and the sudden contact made him jerk awkwardly on the stool.  

Sol swallowed hard, his hands gripping the edges of the seat as though he was anchoring himself. “Please stop,” he said, quieter this time, his voice almost a plea. But the way his molten gaze locked onto yours betrayed him—he didn’t mean it. “Aw.. Why?” you asked, tilting your head with mock innocence. “Am I distracting a great artist from his work?”  

His jaw tightened, the muscles flexing as his hands flexed on the stool. The tension radiating from him was palpable, and it only spurred you on. His composure was crumbling, piece by piece, and you were determined to break it completely.  

“You’re impossible,” Sol muttered, his voice strained.  

The triumph in your smile grew, and you leaned closer, just enough for your breath to tease the sensitive skin of his neck. “You could always make me stop,” you murmured, your voice soft and challenging.  

For a moment, Sol didn’t move, his gaze flicking between your lips and your eyes. His breathing grew heavier, each exhales brushing against your cheek. You could almost hear the war raging inside him, every bit of his control battling the undeniable pull between you.  

Then, in one swift motion, his hand slid to your waist. The firm but steady grip steadied you as he leaned forward, his lips brushing against the side of your neck in a fleeting, feather-light kiss that sent a jolt of electricity racing through you.  

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you pressed back further into him, daring him to take another step.  

Sol’s response was immediate. His teeth grazed your neck, the gentle nibble enough to leave you breathless and your pulse hammering in your ears. His other hand moved to your hip, holding you firmly in place as he pressed another kiss to your neck, this one lingering longer, his lips warm and insistent.  

“Still think I’m enjoying this too much?” he murmured, his voice rough and ragged against your skin. Your smirk faltered as heat flushed through you, your ability to respond stolen by the heady sensations he was creating.  

Sol chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your neck, sending another shiver coursing through you. “What’s the matter?” he teased, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just below your ear. “You’re quiet now.”  

You swallowed hard, forcing your voice to steady. “I-I’m just giving you a chance to prove your point,” you said, though your defiance was flickering with every second.  

“Oh, I’ll prove it,” Sol murmured, his lips curving into a smirk against your skin.  

His fingers brushed the hem of your top, skimming the fabric aside to expose more of your collarbone. He continued his trail of kisses, his lips soft but deliberate, his teeth occasionally nipping at the sensitive skin and likely leaving faint red marks.  

Your breath came in shallow gasps, your mind clouded with the sensation of his mouth, his hands, and the heat of his body enveloping you. When you shifted slightly, testing his patience, Sol growled low in his throat.

He tugged you closer with a sudden movement, turning you slightly on his lap so you faced him. His hands gripped your hips, firm but careful, making sure you wouldn’t lose your balance. His body pressed flush against yours, his thighs anchoring you in place, leaving no space between you.  

The sudden awareness of your positions sent a jolt through you, the contrast between his firm frame and your softness making you hyper-aware of every point of contact. His chest brushed yours as he leaned closer, his voice low and dripping with intensity. “Was this an accident?” he asked, his gaze burning into yours. “Or was it on purpose?”  

You swallowed thickly, turning your neck behind yourself to allow your eyes to drift to the hollow of his throat. Slowly, you reached out, your index finger tracing a light, teasing path along his collarbone. “Possibly… both,” you murmured.  

His hand shot out, catching your wrist before you could trail your touch any lower. His grip was firm but not painful, his expression a mix of frustration and desire as he forced you to meet his gaze.  

“How long,” he asked, his voice dangerously soft, “are you going to keep staring at me?”  

Your lips curved into a slow, teasing smile as you tilted your head. “As long as I want to,” you said with a defiant edge. “What’s wrong? Are you going to punish me more?”  

His grip on your wrist tightened slightly, and his other hand pressed against the small of your back, holding you steady as he leaned in closer. “Don’t be cocky,” he warned, his voice dropping to a rough, predatory whisper. “You don’t want to know the kind of things I’m imagining.”  

You glanced down at the growing tension between you—at the unmistakable bulge pressing against your thigh. A flicker of boldness sparked in your expression as your fingers teased over his chest. “I think I already know,” you whispered.  

Sol’s eyes darkened, his breath hitching as he tensed beneath you. His lips brushed your ear, his voice a strained mix of frustration and want. “You’re playing with fire,” he murmured, his tone rough, almost ragged.  

Before you could form a reply, Sol leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that stole the air from your lungs. It wasn’t gentle—it was raw, demanding, and full of the hunger he’d been holding back. Your eyes widened in shock at first, the boldness of his move catching you completely off guard.  

But that shock melted quickly, replaced by an undeniable pull that made you lean into him.  

Sol’s hands moved to your hips, gripping firmly as he turned you fully to face him on his lap. The motion was smooth but decisive, his strength evident as he shifted you effortlessly. Your knees now rested on either side of his thighs, your bodies pressed flush against one another.  

The new position heightened the intensity, your chest brushing his with each labored breath. Sol’s hands slid up your back, pulling you closer, while his lips moved against yours with a hunger that left you breathless.  

You didn’t hesitate, your hands moving to the sides of his face, holding him there as you matched his fervor with your own. The kiss deepened, turning messy and desperate, your mouths moving in sync as though trying to consume each other completely.  

Sol broke away for a moment, his forehead resting against yours as he caught his breath, his eyes burning into yours with a heat that made your skin tingle. “You’re relentless,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, his fingers pressing into your lower back.  

You smirked, your lips brushing his as you replied, “And you’re loving it.”  

Before he could respond, you leaned back in, reclaiming his mouth with a force that left him no room to argue. Your hands moved instinctively, reaching behind him to untie the apron, quickly removing it from him to have a clear view of his chest.

Slowly, your index finger drags itself down his chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt. The urgency of the moment consumed you, and your fingers found the buttons of his shirt, fumbling at first, then unfastening them one by one with increasing speed.  

Sol groaned softly against your lips, the sound vibrating through you and making your pulse race. His hands moved again, one slipping up to cradle the back of your head, the other gripping your waist to keep you anchored against him.  

As his shirt fell open, your hands splayed against his bare chest, your fingertips brushing over his warm skin. The contrast between the cool air and his heat sent a shiver through him, his tone muscles tensing under your touch.  

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, your eyes raking over him as you took in the sight of his now-exposed chest. His skin was pale smooth, his collarbone pronounced, and the faint sheen of sweat glistening under the low light made him look utterly irresistible.  

Sol’s lips twitched into a smirk at your lingering gaze, though his eyes were heavy with want. “Like what you see?” he teased, though his voice was uneven, betraying his arousal.  

Instead of answering, you leaned in again, your lips finding the hollow of his throat. You pressed open-mouthed kisses down the column of his neck, nipping at the sensitive skin as your hands continued their exploration. Sol tilted his head back slightly, giving you better access as a low growl escaped him.  

“You’re insatiable,” he muttered, his voice thick with desire. You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, a wicked smile playing on your lips. “And you’re complaining?” you shot back, your tone dripping with challenge.  

Sol’s hands slid up your sides, his thumbs grazing the edge of your ribs as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing yours again. “Not a chance,” he murmured against your mouth, before pulling you into another searing kiss.  

The kiss deepened, growing more fervent with each passing second. Your fingers tangled in his hair, the strands silky yet wild, as his grip on your waist tightened, pulling you flush against him. The heat of his bare chest against yours, the intoxicating rhythm of his lips moving over yours—it was overwhelming, drowning out every thought but him. Your breaths mingled, uneven and ragged, as you both surrendered to the storm of desire building between you.  

With deliberate boldness, your hand began a slow descent, sliding over his toned stomach to the waistband of his pants. While he remained engrossed in the kiss, you let your fingers drift lower, brushing against the hardness beneath his pants. A sharp intake of breath escaped Sol’s lips, his body tensing against yours. His grip faltered briefly, but his response was immediate.  

He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his heterochromatic eyes ablaze with unfiltered desire. His breath came in quick, shallow gasps as he tried to regain control. “You’re playing with fire,” he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly whisper, both warning and temptation.  

Instead of pulling away, his hands found your hips once more, his fingers digging in just enough to ground you, to anchor himself. He tilted his hips slightly, pressing into your touch as a shudder ran through him. His challenge hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown at your feet, daring you to keep going.  

Your lips curved into a sly smile, your voice laced with teasing defiance. “Then I’ll just have to handle the heat,” you murmured. Leaning closer, your breath ghosted over his ear as you added, “Didn’t you say I need to work on my brushwork?”  

With deliberate intent, you slid your hand along the curve of his waistband, unbuttoning his pants with practiced ease. Sol groaned low in his throat, the sound reverberating through his chest and into yours. His hands gripped your hips tighter, pulling you impossibly closer as if trying to meld you into him.  

“I didn’t mean… this,” he muttered, though his tone betrayed how much he wanted it. His lips found your neck, trailing heated kisses along your skin as he fought to keep his control intact. His body trembled beneath your touch, his breath hot and ragged against your throat.  

Your hand ventured lower, and as his pants gave way, you were met with the proof of his desire. The sight of his cock—pale like his skin, flushed with need, and curve glistening pink tip—sent a wave of heat through you. You couldn’t help but marvel at him, at how his body responded so wholly to you.  

Sol groaned again, his head falling back as he fought the urge to completely unravel. “F-Fuck this shit,” he muttered, his voice hoarse and raw. 

With a sudden burst of need, he grabbed your hand, his rough fingers intertwining with yours as he guided you to his cock, wrapping your hand around it. 

His eyes burned into yours, a silent plea and a command wrapped in one. “If you’re going to do this,” he growled, “then do it right. After all, I’m the tutor,”  

The juxtaposition of his firm grip and your softer touch sent shivers through him, his body responding instinctively to your every movement. He bit back a curse, his jaw clenched, yet his eyes remained locked on yours, filled with both vulnerability and hunger as he helps you move his cock up and down.

The way his hand enveloped yours, guiding you with deliberate control, sent a jolt of heat through your body. His skin was hot beneath your palm, pulsing with need, the intensity of it making your breath hitch. The sensation of being so intimately connected, of having him at your mercy, was intoxicating. Your lips curved into a sly, knowing smile as you met his gaze with a sultry intensity.  

"Then guide me, Sol," you murmured, voice low with a hint of teasing.  

His eyes darkened, his breath catching at your words. For a moment, it seemed as though he might lose his composure entirely, but instead, he pressed closer, the heat of his body radiating into yours. His hands tightened over yours, steady and commanding, as he guided your movements with aching precision.  

"Guide you?" he rasped, his voice rough with barely contained desire. "Gladly."  

His fingers wrapped firmly around yours, leading you in a slow, deliberate rhythm around his cock. Each movement was an exquisite torment, a maddening mix of control and surrender that left you craving more. His voice, low and gravelly, brushed over your skin like a caress. "Like this," he whispered.  

The feel of him beneath your touch was overwhelming, a mix of heat and tension that made your chest tighten and your pulse quicken. As his hand fell away, relinquishing control to you, the look in his eyes—half-lidded and burning with need—was almost too much to bear.  

Taking charge, you continued the motion, your strokes deliberate and teasing. Sol's breaths grew heavier, his head falling back slightly as he tried to stifle the low groans that escaped his lips. But he couldn’t hold back the quiet whines that followed, each sound unraveling you further.  

The weight of you on his lap, the way your hips shifted against him—whether intentional or not—drove him wild. His hands gripped your waist tightly as though grounding himself was the only way to keep himself from losing control—and you from falling.

His face flushed a deep red, his jaw tightening as his breaths came faster, his body trembling beneath you. His arousal was undeniable, glistening with beads of precum that caught the light as they slid down his length. The sight alone was enough to make your stomach tighten with desire, but it was the sounds he made—low, broken groans turning into quiet, breathless whimpers—that truly undid you.  

Sol’s tired yet desperate eyes met yours, silently begging for more, even as his body surrendered entirely to your touch. The vulnerability in his gaze was intoxicating, and you couldn’t help but feel a wicked thrill at the power you held over him. Every gasp, every shudder, every barely audible plea only pulled you deeper into the moment, the fire between you burning hotter with each passing second.  

You begin rudding the slit on his tip, dipping your finger on the pre-cum, smudging it across the tip, “A-ahh…” That alone sent a chilling feeling down his spine. Then you wonder for a second.

Just how far you could take this? 

And, as if he could read her mind, Sol’s voice was broken into another gasp at the feel of her finger on his tip. You smirked, leaning in close to his ear. “Does that feel good, Sol?” You smirked, leaning in close to his ear.

Sol let out a strangled, guttural moan, his body shuddering at your touch, his breathing labored and strained. He gripped the edge of the stool as if holding on for dear life, his knuckles turning white. "Y-Yeah," he managed to gasp, his voice trembling the words out.

"Feels... so good." His head fell back, his eyes fluttering closed as you continued your ministrations, his body completely at your mercy.

As he tried his best to muffle the pathetic whimpers that were threatening to escape his lips with his free hand covering his mouth, Sol was coming undone, every touch, every gentle caress pulling him closer and closer to the edge. And he couldn’t get enough of how your delicate fingers all wrapped nicely around his cock.

Hearing his voice, broken and needy, sent a thrill coursing through you, intensifying your desire for him. This side of Sol—a man usually so composed and enigmatic—was uncharted territory, and you were quickly losing yourself in the discovery. 

You leaned back slightly, just enough to drink in the sight of him, a teasing smirk playing on your lips. “Just good?” you purred, your voice dripping with mock innocence. “Or does it feel better than that?”  

“Pumpkin,” he rasped, his voice deep and trembling with barely contained restraint. It took everything in him to hold back, but the way your sharp, half-lidded eyes bore into him, your smirk only widening as your hand pumped him faster—it was driving him to the edge. “I-I’m close, please… please...” He moaned,

“Oops, sorry~” you cooed, amusement dancing in your tone as if you weren’t purposefully unraveling him by slowing down. 

Sol’s body jolted under your touch, another strangled moan escaping his lips as his grip on the stool tightened. He was trembling, the effort to maintain control wearing thin. His breaths came in ragged gasps, each one sharper than the last. “Come on… Please…” He whines, “Let me cum, I want to cum… Will you let me, pumpkin?” He begged.

His breathing is ragged, tiny beads of sweat rolling down his cheek, some of his hair sticking to his face as you pump his cock—dare you say, he looks hot like this. 

You grin again, that same slow, cat-got-the-canary sort of smile from before. Are you enjoying this? Maybe it’s just a teeny bit too much. 

“Mmh, I don’t know,” You say, tone light and mocking, considering it while pumping him faster. “Are you sure you’ve been good enough to deserve that, Sol~?”

Sol's face flushed crimson as he groaned under your touch, his body reacting with an involuntary twitch. He could barely hold himself together, the effort nearly breaking him. Your teasing, the way you toyed with him like this. It was enough to drive him insane with need. And yet... he loves it. 

“Please,” he panted, his voice choked with need. “Please, pumpkin... don't tease me anymore.”

You grin, your breath catching in your throat for a brief moment at the sound of his pleading. He’s so desperate, and again—it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

Before you get to reply, you are stuck watching, listening to him. With one last stroke, he came. You feel a warm, sticky substance splatter against your face, and you gasp in surprise, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment. When you open it back up, you see your hands are covered in… his cum.

He whines, trembling under your touch. “Fuck…” He grumbles… before chuckling breathlessly, his chest rising and falling with each ragged inhale. He looked at you, his eyes darkened with desire, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"You're a tease, you know that...?" he murmured, his voice still hoarse. He reaches up, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers leaving a smudge of his cum on your skin.

You laugh softly, eyes fluttering closed at the touch of his fingers against your face. You can still taste him on your lips. “I’m aware, and I love it,” You say, your tongue darting out to lick a stray bit of his cum away, “Such a good boy.”

Sol's heart skipped a beat at the sight of your tongue running across your lips. He could hardly contain himself, his body still thrumming with a mix of need and satisfaction.

"You're... you're going to be the death of me, Pumpkin," he said, strained and thick. "I swear... you're going to drive me insane." Before you could respond, his hands shot forward, gripping your wrists roughly, halting your movements. “You know, It takes a true artist to know how to use their hands,” he muttered through clenched teeth, his frustration and desire boiling over. 

“Right now, I feel inspired. With your body so close to mine—” his gaze flicked to you, sharp and burning, “—you gonna feel so good once I get through painting you.”  

His words sent a shiver down your spine, his grip on your wrists firm and electrifying. Yet, you didn’t back down. Instead, your smirk deepened, and you tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Aww, it’s cute when you get all frustrated like that.” you quipped, resuming your teasing pace despite his attempt to rein you in.  

Sol’s jaw clenched, a growl rumbling deep in his chest as his eyes blazed with irritation and helpless desire. “Teasing me like this,” he gasped, his voice cracking under the weight of his need, “You deserve to be punished.”  

“Sorry? Punished?” You repeated, arching a brow, your smirk faltering for a moment as curiosity mingled with arousal.

His hands released your wrists, moving instead to the hem of your shirt. Slowly, deliberately, he began sliding it upward, his touch igniting sparks along your skin.  

He lifted your shirt, his movements were unhurried yet firm, tossing it aside without a second thought. The cool air kissed your bare skin, making you shiver, but it was nothing compared to the heat in Sol’s gaze. His eyes roamed over your body unabashedly, dark with want, his intensity sending your pulse racing.  

The way he looked at you—devoured you—was intoxicating. You felt your breath hitch, your skin tingling under his gaze as if he were leaving invisible marks with every flick of his eyes. Sol leaned in slightly, his voice low and gravelly, sending shivers cascading down your spine. “Now let’s see if you’re ready for what you started.”  

The lace of your black bra barely had a chance to tease him before Sol unclasped it with uncharacteristic haste. His breath caught in his throat as the fabric fell away, leaving your bare skin exposed to the cool air. The curve of your shoulders, the elegant line of your neck, and the sight of your hardened nipples sent a shiver of desire coursing through him.  

You were breathtaking, more so than any image his mind could have conjured. The reality of you—your warmth, your movement, the way you bared yourself so freely—was utterly consuming.

As you slipped off the remaining layers with deliberate ease, Sol found himself captivated, unable to look away. "You're staring," you teased, your voice low and sultry, tinged with amusement. "See something you like?"  

He tried to respond, but the words caught in his throat, his mind blank save for the raw need coursing through him. He swallowed hard, his gaze trailing shamelessly over your body, lingering on every curve, every delicate line of skin.  

He wanted to touch, to claim, to make you his in every sense. But he hesitated, almost afraid of the depth of his desire. The way you looked, so confident and alluring, made him feel as though he was standing on the edge of a precipice, and all he wanted was to jump.  

Sol's hands moved almost without thought, tracing the length of your legs, the curve of your knee, the delicate arch of your foot. His reverence for you bordered on worship, a devotion so intense it frightened him. He had tried to keep it at bay, but now that he had you like this, so open and vulnerable, he felt the weight of his restraint snapping.  

He was a man who could get lost in his own obsession, and with you, it was dangerously easy. Sol didn’t just want you—he craved you, a hunger so profound it threatened to unravel him entirely.  

With trembling hands, he slid your pencil skirt down your hips, the fabric pooling on the floor with a careless toss. He left the lace of your black panties on, unable to resist the way they hugged your body so perfectly. His lips found your neck, pressing kisses against the sensitive skin as he let his hands explore.  

The only thing separating you now was the thin layer of fabric between you, damp with evidence of your arousal. Sol’s thumb moved instinctively, pressing gently against the damp spot, and the soft gasp you let out was like fuel to the fire burning inside him.  

Your reaction sent his heart racing, his body trembling with restrained need. But when you whispered his name, your voice breathless and trembling, it pulled him back from the brink.  

“Sol,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the racing of your heart. “Wait… you’re going a little too fast.”  

The words hung in the air like a sudden stillness before a storm. Sol froze, his hands pausing mid-motion on your body. His breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling heavily as he pulled back, his intense gaze locking onto yours. A mix of frustration and unspoken yearning flickered in his eyes, the tension between you crackling like electricity.  

“Too fast?” he echoed, his voice hoarse and tinged with disbelief. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “You’re the one who started the fire, said you can handle it, and now you’re telling me to slow down?”  

He let out a soft, strained laugh, the sound laced with both amusement and restraint, as though he was trying to tether himself to reality. Still, he relented, easing the intensity of his movements.

Slowly, he reached down, unzipping his jeans and pushing them just enough to loosen their grip, his shirt discarded in the process. His gaze softened, though the heat in his eyes remained, a smoldering flame that refused to extinguish.  

“This is still your punishment, Pumpkin,” he murmured, a crooked smile playing at his lips as he leaned in, brushing a featherlight kiss to your lips.  

The kiss was different this time—rough, more forceful. His lips trailed from your mouth to your jaw and down to your neck, each kiss feeling like a vow unspoken. The world outside faded, leaving only the two of you suspended at this moment. He moved further, his lips exploring your collarbone and sternum with reverence, his warmth leaving a trail of fire across your skin.  

His hands trembled slightly as they cupped your chest, his touch reverent but firm, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. His breath hitched as he brushed his thumbs over your nipples, the gentle pressure sending a shiver down your spine.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered, more to himself than to you, his voice thick with wonder. “So damn pretty.”  

Your mind swirled with the weight of his words, his touch, his presence. The heat between you was overwhelming, your body arching into his hands as he explored with care and devotion. Each kiss, each touch, sent waves of sensation rippling through you, leaving you breathless.  

“Sol…” you breathed, your voice trembling with both hesitation and longing. “Please…”  

But instead of heeding your plea, he pressed forward, his lips finding the sensitive peak of your chest. He kissed you there with aching tenderness, his tongue tracing slow circles as his hand mirrored his movements. A soft moan escaped your lips, and he hummed in approval, his grip steadying you as you began to unravel under his touch.  

He paused only to meet your gaze, his eyes filled with something deeper than desire—an emotion too profound for words.

He quickly shifted you, his hands firm yet careful as he turned you toward the painting you and he both made. The cool air against your heated skin made you shiver, the contrast heightening your awareness of his every movement.  

He moved behind you, his breath warm against your neck. For a moment, he hesitated, his fingers brushing down your skin to the fabric of your panties. He slid them down slowly, his movements deliberate, almost reverent, before throwing them on the floor.

He forced you to lean on your back against his firm chest, the back of your head resting against his shoulder as his hands stayed on your hips. 

Soon his hand slid beneath your chin, tilting your face upward with a tenderness that made your heart flutter. His gaze locked onto yours, a tempest of emotions swirling in his red-orange eyes—desire, restraint, and something unspoken yet intense.

“Sorry, Pumpkin,” he murmured, his voice a low, velvet whisper, “but I need you.”  

He adjusted your position, the shift sending a jolt of sensation through you as his cock settled snugly against your bare heat. A soft, broken sound escaped your lips—a breathy, high-pitched “A-Ah!”—and your half-lidded eyes met his. In his fiery gaze, the pupils seemed to ripple, almost heart-shaped, as though they reflected his overwhelming hunger for you.  

Sol began to move, rubbing cock rather fast and rough against your cunt, his hips pressing forward until he found that sweet, electrifying spot. Your voice spilled out again, light and melodic, each sound like a chime caught on the breeze. His movements became more assured, each thrust purposeful as he reveled in the way your body responded to his.  

He had you now—completely, utterly his.

Your bodies melded together in perfect rhythm, your breaths and sighs tangling as if they were one. Sol’s senses were flooded with you: the subtle rise and fall of your chest, the faint tension in your spine that dissolved beneath his touch. Each reaction, each sound you made, only drove him deeper into the intoxicating realization that you were exactly where he wanted you—wrapped in his embrace, utterly lost in him.

He has you in his grasp, but he wants to hold onto you tighter. 

He focuses on where your lower bodies meet, tongue poked between his lips and furrow in his brow. Drives his hard cock rubbing against your bare cunt, catching the crown into your clit until you’re shaking underneath him. Sol can’t think anymore, lost in the feeling of wonderful pleasure. 

If it feels so good like this, being inside you might be too much.

So close in proximity that Sol can hear each of your short pants. Erratic and almost thoughtlessly driven by one single thing: pleasing you. Feeling each other, all wrapped up together. 

Drawing out those moans as he pinches your nipples at your tits, making you feel how hard he is. How pent-up, needy, and fucking horny he is all for you. Just humping your soft, sweet cunt makes Sol want to risk everything he’s got with you.

The push and pull of too much and not enough at the same time. It’s so fucking euphoric. Your cunt keeps wetter and wetter, and Sol doesn’t know if it’s you or him - his pre-cum dribbling agasint your needy cunt. He can feel your pussy pulse and tremble. Your spine goes stiff, and Sol pulls away to look at you.

You’re so pretty. You’re on edge, in complete bliss, and so fucking pretty only for his eyes to see.

“A-ah, Sol—please, wait,” you gasped, your words trembling as pleasure coursed through you. Sol froze for a moment, his eyes wide and blazing, the sound of your plea cutting through the haze of his need. Frustration flickered across his face, mingling with something softer, something more conflicted.

He didn’t want to wait—couldn’t—not with the way your body moved beneath him, flushed and trembling, your breath hitching with every touch.  

Your mind was a haze of heat and sensation, your body barely keeping up with the overwhelming pleasure that had left you spiraling. And when you both reached that peak together—his cum spilling over as yours soaked on tophim in return—it was a moment that burned itself into his memory.

A first—he made you come with him. The sight of you arching against him, your cries echoing in his ears, left him undone, his breath ragged and unsteady as he trembled, listening to your pretty moans.

Sol’s hands remained firm on your hips, anchoring you as his gaze devoured you. Again, the image of you—writhing, broken, and entirely his—was seared into his mind, a memory he wanted to relive over and over again. His heart pounded as he leaned forward, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was both desperate and adoring, his tongue teasing yours in a way that left you breathless.  

“You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, I need…” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and raw with emotion. His nose nuzzled against your cheek before he kissed the corner of your mouth, his words pouring out in a slow, deliberate cadence.  

“I want to see it again,” he said, his tone steady but trembling with need. “I want you to cum again, Pumpkin.”  

The vulnerability in his voice stirred something inside you, but your body was already at its limit. You pulled back slightly, your breath still uneven as your gaze met his. “Sol, I... I don’t think I can,” you admitted softly, your voice tinged with exhaustion.  

His eyes darkened the fire in them dimming for a moment, replaced by something closer to concern. His hands softened their grip, and he leaned back just enough to study your face, his expression caught between worry and restraint. “Did I hurt you?” he asked gently, his voice quieter now, though the tension in his body remained.  

You shook your head quickly, your words coming in a rush. “No, no, you didn’t. I just—”  

“Then you can keep going,” he interrupted, his tone almost pleading, his patience unraveling at the edges. His gaze was intense and unwavering, and you felt your resolve waver under the weight of his need.  

“Sol,” you tried again, shaking your head as you placed a hand on his chest. “I’m tired. You’ve... you’ve worn me out. And you’ve got to be tired too—don’t you think? What about our project?”  

His brows furrowed as he let out a frustrated groan, his body taut with tension. “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly. “It can wait.”  

Your breath caught as his hands slid down your sides, gripping your hips again and pulling you against him yet again. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips grazing your skin. “You look so damn good like this,” he murmured, his voice tinged with reverence. “Messy and perfect—covered in our cum.”  

A shiver ran through you as his hands explored your body, his touch deliberate and reverent. "How much more should I paint you?" He kissed a trail down your neck and shoulders, his lips soft yet possessive. The warmth of his breath against your skin sent a fresh wave of heat through you, despite your exhaustion.  

“Sol, please,” you whispered, though the words lacked conviction.  

He didn’t respond, his silence heavy with meaning as his hands moved lower, his touch firm but gentle, as though committing every curve and contour of your body to memory. His fingers brushed over your thighs, then between them, the featherlight touch making you tremble.  

When he finally touched you—his fingers tracing over the sensitive folds of your cunt, slick and sticky from your shared cum—a sharp gasp escaped your lips. He groaned softly, the sound vibrating against your skin as he focused on you, his movements both precise and overwhelming.  

“Can you feel it?” he whispered, his voice rough but laced with tenderness. “How much I want you, need you? How much I love you?”  

The words struck something deep within you, and though you were overwhelmed, you couldn’t deny the magnetic pull of his touch, his voice, his very presence. He didn’t need to say it aloud; every caress, every glance, told you everything he couldn’t put into words.  

Sol was an artist, and you were caught in the vision of it—a dangerous one. You’re trembling with anticipation. A sense of contentment washes over Sol as his breath fans over your neck. 

Sol can feel how worked up you are. You’re quiet and tense. Some part of him wants to leave you like that, waiting, but the other part of him wants to give you everything you’ve ever asked for. He gives into the latter because that’s what he wants more. 

He used his free hand that was grounded you to lap, reaching down to lift his now hard cock agasint your bare cunt with a deep sigh, and a pleased hum.

He loves the way you smell, the scent of sex and arousal mixed with the fancy soaps you keep in your bathroom. 

Your pussy is as pretty as you are, a sheen of arousal all along your slit. Your clit peeks through, swelling from need. Sol uses his tip to kiss your opening without thinking. He starts slow. Lays his cock flat against the seam of your cunt before dragging it up and down once, rubbing you again however, this time, it almost slips inside of you. 

You lose a little of what little control you had. Your body jerks back against him, and you bite back a moan. Sol felt that—he can’t get enough of you. Neither can you.

He moans in appreciation, repeating the gesture as he pulls your pussy closer. He gazes and looks down at you. You’re so pretty it makes him want to please. He repeats this over and over, grinding on your clit on his hard and needy cock, throbbing against the soft, smooth muscle as he gains a sort of rhythm.

He gauges your reaction when he tries something new, adding pressure until you’re squirming underneath him. When you start growing noisier, Sol knows he’s hit the right pace. 

And he stays like that for a bit, your pussy soaking more of his cock. He adjusts himself slightly, rubbing his fingers between your folds. You let out a soft "A-ah" above him, making him want to laugh. He keeps at it, his fingers sliding far enough to tease your entrance. Your hole is squeezing without him having done much at all, his middle finger teasing and prodding. 

“Sol stop! Don’t t-tease so much,” You pant. Sol nearly blows again, listening to you talk like that. He didn’t think you could be so cute. 

Sol couldn’t help but smirk, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. "But I love teasing you," he whispered against your skin, "hearing you pant and moan, wanting more but not quite getting what you need."

His finger kept playing around your entrance, just kind of going in circles on your sensitive bits. "Besides, it's fun to watch you squirm to my touch," he said, sliding his middle finger into you like it was nothing. It's not that hard. You're so wet for him, it's crazy. Your walls feel super soft and inviting, all syrupy when he touches them. 

Sol loves the way your cunt feels, taking his time to go in and out slowly enough that the tension just fades away. He really gets in there with his middle finger, and when it looks like you're not tense anymore—he goes and adds another one. He's doing both at the same time—and there's this moment where it's just a whole lot of sensation for you.

Eventually, it stops being just a sensation, and it shifts into pleasure. He presses his fingers into you hard, really massaging that soft spongy spot, he can feel you lean forward, nearly lurching forward.

Your back arches, mouth hanging open, “S-Sol!” You moaned.

Another feeling of pride spreads through his chest, his whole body. He wants you to let go again just like this. While he fingers your weepy cunt—he wants to see how far he can push. How wet you can get before he ever gets inside. 

His fingers can feel the way your walls tighten up so hard and the tremors of the aftermath. Your back curves against him as you cum again closing your thighs, hard for him, and he can feel it.

He can feel you cum over his cock once more. He can see you, see the pleasure crash into you like a tidal wave. A second. Sol made you cum twice in a row, this time without him. You practically pry him off as you ride the wave of your high. You sighed deeply as you watched Sol lick his fingers. "You taste so sweet, all because of me~" He breathed out, looking down at you.

“Are you done?” You asked, tiredly wore out.

Sol's eyes darkened at your question, his body still thrumming with a unsatisfied need. He took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind.

"Done?" he echoed, his voice rough. "I'm far from done, Pumpkin.” He sits you up on his lap, fixing you to completely lay back naked and beautiful, tugging open your thighs for your cunt to rest on top of his cock once more. “Sol I can’t please.” You quickly reached onto his shaft, stopping him. 

Sol's mind went blank when you touched him, the sensation sending a shiver down his spine. His breath hitched, and he looked up at you through hazy eyes, his body quivering with need. He wanted you, desperately, but he also knew he had to stop.

"Pumpkin," he panted, his voice strained. "I... I don’t think I can handle any more of your teasing.” He said with heart eyes, “Just let this happen, please.”

His tone is so needy, so desperate, and it shoots straight through you, making your body shiver. You can feel just how badly he wants you, needs you. Already itching to do it a third. 

"I-I wasn't trying to tease you,” You whisper, your voice soft and shaky. “I’m just... I’m just tired, Sol. I am.” 

You try to pull back, even just a little, to put some space between them, but he's holding you tight against his back, “We’re almost there. Just one more…” He breathes out, stroking his cock, guiding the tip to your cunt opening, ‘I wanna feel you…” He mumbled, slowly pushing himself inside, “A-Ah, Sol!” You pleaded, trying to close your legs, but he forced them open.

“Don’t fight it.” He warned, pushing himself in. Your cunt squeezes your opening, not letting his cock inside before he goes in frustration while biting your neck to distract you, “Ahhh!” You mown in pain.

His hands gripped you tightly, anchoring you to him as though he couldn’t bear to let you go. He was completely undone, his desire for you eclipsing everything else, his body responding to the need pulsing through him.

In the haze of his hunger, he vaguely registers the absence of protection, but it barely registers in his mind, overshadowed by the overwhelming need to have you. A fleeting moment of tension flares before it melts into pure, white-hot pleasure, every inch of being inside you sent him aflame.

You feel incredible—like nothing he’s ever known. His arms tighten around your body, pulling you closer, coaxing you down another inch on his cock. His lips find your neck again, this time with more urgency, his teeth sinking more into your skin as he fights to hold himself back.

The taste of you, the feel of you—it’s almost too much. He wants to make this last. He won’t let it slip away too quickly. Sol’s not ready to lose himself just yet; he wants to savor every second of this.

Sol lowers you steadily until all of him is inside. Your expression is slightly pinched, and your whole body trembles, uncomfortable, almost in pain as you adjust to his size. You arch your back, hands reaching to take root in his hair. “P-Pumpkin!” He moaned. The sensation of tension on his scalp makes his cock twitch inside you. 

The pressure is almost too much, making you gasp in the air through your teeth. You hold on tight to his arms, “Oh god,” You moan, your head falling back. “You’re... you’re actually intense. I can feel...” Your voice trails off, replaced by a whimper. Every nerve feels like it’s on fire, overwhelmed.

Before you get a chance to adjust to the feeling, he picks your hips and slams them back down on his cock without breaking a sweat. You nearly scream, your hands immediately reach down, squeezing his wrists, trying to make him slow down. He gives you a wry grin; he almost wants you to plead for your mercy. 

“Aw.. want me to go slower?” Sol asked, “You have to beg for it~” Your eyes widen, and another soft gasp slips past your lips, your body tensing against him. The pressure and the fullness are almost too much, overwhelming in the best way possible.

He feels so good, so good...

You nod slightly, your voice coming out as a whimper. “Please,” You whispered, “Just stop, please...” Your body shakes as you speak. “Too much... too much at once...”

Sol's eyes gleam with a feral look, his body trembling with the effort to control himself. He pauses for a moment, his hands stilling on your hips, his breathing ragged.

"Too much for you, huh?" he murmurs, his voice low and hoarse. "You can't handle it, can you, Pumpkin?"

There's a hint of challenge in his tone, a hint of desire to keep going, to push your limits even further.

Repeating the motion but slower showing his hint of worry. He knows he needs to be careful, rocking you steadily onto his cock. The pace is controlled and smooth, a rhythmic pass of your hips over and over. 

Your insides threaten to dissolve him whole, turn him liquid from the inside out as he makes you ride him in reverse, moving his hips up and down while keeping you in place.

He watches as your breasts bounce as he leans forward, his chin coming to rest against your neck just enough for Sol to see the concentration etched upon your face. He watches you as you discover your pleasure in this moment—it makes you look utterly captivating. The feeling of him is nothing short of exquisite.

He shifts his hands to your hips to pull you closer to him, not changing the rhythm he wanted as you hug him tight.

The room resounds with the sound of skin meeting skin: a sticky smack as your body strikes Sol's thighs with enough force. Every nerve in his body is on edge, alive with sensation. His hand glides gently before your body, teasing your clit as he urges you to ride him. 

Sol forces as he feels you again, a new surge of excitement drenching him. He's becoming more sensitive to the times when you approach your climax. Your wetness is so invitingly greasy for him because of him. It is so messy that it's running down his length down onto his balls, turning his pants into a wet puddle from underneath you. 

He feels you stiffen in expectation—little contractions that bring you to the brink. His breathing comes in quick, shallow bursts as he watches you chase your climax, his hands gripping your hips as if to bring you even closer.

He knows he can't hold on much longer, the way you feel, the way you look riding him, your smell—god your pretty moans. It’s all too much. But he pushes down the rising tide, wanting to prolong this moment

His voice came out in a strained whisper, his grip tightening as he spoke. "I'm gonna cum soon. I want you to come right after me, yeah? Can you do that for me, Pumpkin?" He gently lifted your chin, locking eyes with you. His gaze searched your face, watching as your expression blurred with the overwhelming sensations.

Your mind felt hazy like everything was fading into a fog, too overwhelmed to form coherent thoughts. The pressure building inside you was almost unbearable—so huge, so intense, hitting you all in the right spots.

"Yes," you whispered, your voice barely audible, filled with a desperate need. "Yes, yes, I can do that... please, Sol, please..."

You could feel his desire building with you, like an unstoppable wave crashing over both of you. "Please, please, please..." You whispered it over and over, lost in the need for him, unable to say anything else.

Sol's eyes blaze with a renewed intensity, the plea in your voice driving him over the edge. His hands tighten on your hips, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

"Pumpkin..." he pants, the words almost catching in his throat. "Pumpkin, I... I can't hold on much longer."

Your eyes are wild, and your body is trembling, every muscle tight and tense, “S-Sol, ah…”  You laugh, breathy. The third time you cum is less intense than you thought. It’s a shorter wave, a softer sort of orgasm that seems to ease you more than it does anything else, more hazely and oversensitive.

But you can feel still his cock inside of you, how close he is, how close he’s been. Even still, you clench around his cock hard—getting so much wetter than you were a minute ago. 

"Ah, f-fuck..." Sol growls, the sound catching in his throat. He's right on the brink now, his body straining with the effort of holding back. And then your muscles clench around him, the sensation enough to drive him over the edge. 

"Looks like I have to catch up, hold on..." Sol moans, his voice a low, gutt, picking up your thighs, “Sol! Wait—what are—!!” He loses himself completely, slamming himself inside you rather rough and fast, his balls slapping against your cunt.

He wants more of you—all of you—after all, you can take more of his paint, you are his true canvas.

Finally giving into the sensation that’s been drowning him, He feels it in his entire lower body. Every atom of him finally catches up to the high of the release. It’s so intense when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out than heavy breaths. His eyes shoot open, then go back closed. 

The coil in his stomach loosens more slowly at first than all at once, like a car crash. When Sol finally cums he sees nothing but white hearts in his vision. He can’t scream, can’t speak—so he holds onto you tight and finishes inside you, cock deeply buried inside of your pussy. So much cum spurts out of him, thick and hot painting your walls, so much in fact that it was leaking out of you, dripping down.

Sol tried his best to keep all of it inside of you, as it'd ruin his version. He didn’t even try to pull out, he rode out his orgasm with heart eyes, still fucking you slowly, wanting to keep all of himself—and cum, tucked deeply inside of you.

The sensation lingered long after the moment had passed. When Sol finally opened his eyes again, he found you collapsed against him—your body wrecked, spent, trembling from the overwhelming intensity.

You felt achingly sensitive, every nerve alive and raw, yet your mind remained a hazy blur, struggling to grasp onto anything, while your body felt heavy, as though you were floating just above the surface of consciousness. Everything was a gentle, blissful silence, a welcome respite from the chaos.  

Just how long had it lasted? How many times had he brought you to the edge? The last time he counted, it was three, maybe more after what he pulled. He couldn’t be sure. The last clear memory he had was of you, twitching on top of him, your back pressed firmly against his chest, every part of you quaking from the intensity.  

Sol took a slow, steadying breath, his own body still trembling from the exertion. He looked down at you, your limp form lying against him, completely drained. The exhaustion in your body was palpable, and in that moment, a part of him realized he’d pushed you farther than he’d intended.  

“Pumpkin...” he whispered, his voice soft and concerned as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer into the warmth of his embrace.

“You did so good for me... You okay?” He waited, but you didn’t answer.  

Your mind was still foggy, still trying to make sense of the world. Words felt distant, impossible to grasp and form into something coherent. Your body felt like it belonged to someone else—limp, exhausted, utterly spent.  

A soft, unintelligible noise escaped your lips, a simple affirmation that you were still with him, still connected. It was enough to make him nuzzled you into his chest, his body instinctively seeking the comfort of his warmth of his wonderful creation.

Sol chuckled quietly, a playful smile tugging at his lips. He knew exactly what he’d done to you—how thoroughly he had worn you out—and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of quiet pride.

You were his, finally.

He gently played with your hair, twisting it with his fingers, his touch tender as he held you against him, giving you time to recover, knowing you needed it before you two could complete the art project that’s—he thinks that’s due tomorrow?

Oh well… if you don’t wake up in time he’ll complete it all for you.

“You’re adorable like this,” he murmured softly, his voice low and affectionate heart-shaped eyes, holding you tight against him, “All this... started from a simple brushstroke.”  

· ─────── ⋆⋅♤⋅⋆ ─────── · 

[bloop-bl00p]

So who’s in the wrong?

Trigger warning: talks of sexual coercion, abuse, it’s long as fuck and the mention of St**as may trigger some unwanted rage.

• Don't argue about how I’m wrong without reading this first, look I’m a person it’s natural to be incorrect and I’m all for debate. Thank you. Obliviously I won’t always directly agree with you and will defend my arguments, respect is mutual be respectful and I/any other people ready for debate will be respectful to you.

• I tend to post these at night (at least in the country where I live) don’t expect me to respond to you immediately because most of the time, I’ll be sleeping.

• This post is mostly for me, I was really trying to recontextualize their relationship and came up with my own conclusion. There’s lots and lots of repetition, especially at the end so it can get annoying.

Actual start of the rant

I’ll be honest here, I’m biased and I don’t like any of these two, especially Stolas, my girls Millie and Octavia are underappreciated but I’m gonna stick with them no matter what.

While I have a clear animosity toward these two, I decided to be completely objective, I’m gonna point out what both of them did wrong since the beginning of the relationship and the writing issues.

Childhood friends, really?

The first time Stolas met him they were kids, and considering how he blushed when he saw Blitzø performing at the circus we can guess he got his gay awakening here….

Wait are we really going to take into consideration the feelings of a child? Childhood crushes are rarely relevant, and it’s not like they were long-time childhood BFFs, no he just saw him and blushed. We also have to consider the fact that he saw him the day he learned that his entire life was premeditated to his displeasure, Stolas was a kid, and he never wanted to get married so he naturally sought to find a form of escapism to his situation. Which is a pattern that followed him to his adulthood.

His father saw that he took a liking to the imp and bought him for the day and they played buddy. But Blitzø wasn’t having it at all.

He never wanted to be here and honestly, Stolas’s interest in literature isn't his cup of tea. he then proceeded to use Stola's naivety against him to steal items on behalf of his father.

This is the moment where I lost it completely, the first time they met was Blitzø using Stolas’ feelings in order to steal, why didn't Paimon beat the crap out of Stolas? These two literally stole everything and you’re telling me that Stolas did not get scolded? that’s hardly believable when he got smacked just for bowing to an imp. Paimon is the type of parent who only notices his kids when they are making a mistake, the fact that he didn't punish Stolas or even try to pursue Blitzø’s family is more than odd.

Don’t take this as me blaming Blitzø, if anything I blame his father for purposely using the name of his mother to influence his child. Blitzø was just doing it for his family, most importantly for survival.

Blitzø was a child living in poverty in a society that looked down on him because he was an imp, with the influence of his father and the people around him, he learned that he needed to steal in order for him to survive.

Even if there was this “cute” little montage of the two smiling and “playing” Blitzø wasn’t having it he was not here for Stolas he was here to make sure his family ate tomorrow.

But you wanna know why they couldn’t have Stolas actually punished by Paimon because they needed him to still hold onto his Blitzø fantasy.

The messiest meeting I’ve ever seen

Stolas grew up, married Stella, and purposely stayed in a marriage he could have avoided for the simple excuse of “I stay for my daughter.”

I explained why this is a stupid reason →HERE← going back to him. The security eventually brings him Blitzø who was trying to break into his room to which he brings the imp in it and starts casually flirting.

This is the moment when each of y’all are going to burn me. Stolas isn’t that much in the wrong here, yes, it’s a bit weird to flirt with a guy you haven’t seen in years but first, he drank a lot prior to their conversation. While he wasn’t drunk, it’s safe to assume he wasn’t in full control of his speech. Second and last, Stolas said it better than me.

It’s teasing, I don’t think he was actually aroused and more amused by the possible implication of why Blitzø would try to sneak up during the night specifically in his room. This is a man who canonically read smut, what he said was relatively vanilla. Plus Blitzø didn't express any form of disgust except a subtle “ew” before directly getting into his game and playfully flirting back.

In his head, it was just a friend coming back after a long time to see him, he was genuinely trying to catch up.

Is it stupid from a writing perspective that he somehow never realized that he was fooled as a child? Yes. Do I believe that the second he saw Blitzø he should have been more wary because he should have known that the last time he saw him he literally stole from his parent’s castle? ABSOLUTELY!! But the writing gymnastics perpetuated by the writers allowed Stolas’ cluelessness to be believable, in the story at least.

How ‘bout Blitzø?

He wants to start his killing business and goes on a mission to steal the grimoire from Stolas, in order to do so, he flirts back with the Prince and lets things escalate quickly.

He’s more in the wrong, with this context at least, he’s trying to manipulate Stolas in order to steal. The first reaction Stolas had when Blitzø actually went on with the more sexy talk was to back off, ‘til now Stolas just made a few innuendos Blitzø actually elevated the situation. Birdie eventually gets bitten and all of that pent-up frustration from his marriage drops and he starts to say very very questionable comments.

I’m not gonna blame him here because again, Blitzø was manipulating him, to him, that was what Blitzø wanted. They eventually fucked, because Blitzø pitied Stolas. Does this remove accountability for everything he has done to the Prince until now? No.

Verdicts

➤ Stolas not getting grounded as a child for letting an imp steal stuff is nonsensical it was probably a deliberate decision so he could act all friendly with Blitzø for their meeting. He drank not to the point of drunkennes, but still a lot. Alcohol will always affect the brain even when you have not reached a drunken state, so it’s safe to assume that Stolas wasn’t fully in control of what he was saying or doing.

➤ Blitzø is not in the wrong as a child, but he definitely used Stolas to get what he wanted as an adult, he takes the L.

The “Passionate fortification”

Coercion definition

It’s persuading someone to do something by using force or profiting from a possible disadvantage.

There’s sexual coercion where you convince someone to have sex with you by force. The instance of a boss using his power to have sex with one of his employees will be sexual coercion because he has power over them. He can threaten to fire them at any moment, even if he’s a “nice guy” and “will never do such things” That doesn’t remove the control he has.

Even without being threatened, the employee may accept because they do not want to risk their job or negatively affect their career. There’s a difference between genuine concent and the one you gave when disadvantaged. Power imbalance makes it hard to actually evaluate if the concent given is sincere or not.

Going back to Stolas and Blitzø

Stolas, unfortunately for Blitzø, realized that he got robbed and oh well, what does he do?

A. Get rightfully angry for being stolen but since he’s reasonable simply get the book back pacifically?

B. Get more than angry and completely destroy Blitzø’s building in order to teach the Imp a lesson about messing with Royal?

C. Prostitution 2.0 without concent.

If you choose C, congratulations you’re correct.

Now many people seemingly don’t think the deal was sexual coercion because Blitzø accepted it and because Stolas would never even think of actually threatening Blitzø, with the definition I gave I explained why they were weak arguments. The power dynamism is unhealthy, let’s look at how this deal even came up in the first place.

Blitzø was in danger actively running for his life telling Stolas “Hey dude, it’s literally not the time!” he’s getting shot at! You cannot tell me Stolas couldn't hear him getting chased, worse, he was seeing it before his eyes.

It was mentioned that they had a discussion about the grimoire before and that Stolas allowed him to use it. Why couldn’t he make the deal at this moment? Considering that he can actually see Blitzø, there’s this disturbing impression that he waited for him to be in danger, thus in a situation where he couldn’t process information properly so he could make the deal. It’s just an icky impression I had when rewatching the scene.

Even without the whole thing of Blitzø being in danger, the deal would have been unhealthy. Blitzø needs the book for the sake of his business and, y’know, get money to make sure he has a shelter above his and his daughter's heads and he doesn’t know Stolas personally. How could he possibly know that this practical stanger would have been “nice” and accepting if he refused, Stolas is a Prince, he can ruin Blitzø company with the snap of his fingers, it’s this whole power imbalance all over again.

But I kid you not when I heard someone have this take:

It’s still Blitzø's fault because why the hell would he specifically choose to own a business where he needs Stolas’ book? He brought this unto himself.

My brother is Christ are you dense? Blitzø did not choose this, the writer chose to make IMP a human-killing business. What the Hell?

But since I like to dismantle every argument on the internet I’m gonna open parentheses to explain, why, in the story, Blitzø chose to have this business…

( First of all, owning something as complicated as a business for an imp is weird, most of the people Blitzø has talked to have pointed out how surprising it is for him to thrive. Millie’s parent literally thought she was poor.

The fact that he still decided to go for it stems from insecurities I’m going to explain.

We have to evaluate the fact that he always wanted to own his own company, first completely based around circus. Then later killing people. It’s a childhood dream that persisted.

We are shown that he did try to work in a circus as an adult, but he was overshadowed by Robot Fizz. Blitzø is someone with a lot of self-image issues, when he explained to young Stolas what he wanted to do, he explicitly said that he wanted to become the most famous imp with a lot of money. We know that his performance was considered mediocre compared to the better Fizzarolly. As an adult Fizz literally did what Blitzø couldn’t and even without being physically there he put him to shame.

Which led me to believe that he sought something that only he could do correctly. At default of being a clown, he would be something else.

We don’t know how he got into killing business exactly but my guess is when he was Verosika’s bodyguard. She did say “Unlike you, he (being Vortex) actually does his job well.” While it’s more of a theory, I believe he quit the industry Fizzarolly was dominating and went on to protect the succubus.

The sentence was mostly for teasing and picking fun at but there’s also the possible implication that maybe Blitzø was actually bad, why? Because it was his first time, maybe he got better and realized “Hey I actually like killing people.” Then the whole “stealing credit card and ditching her” happened and he eventually started his business in Hell.

But here’s the thing, he’s not the only one killing other demons, he probably doesn't have enough money to buy angelic weapons and alleviate his business to kill royalty like Striker does, and hell, considering where he lives Striker seems to sacrifice a lot to afford those things. Blitzø and his team will just be hitmen over many, so what do you do to push your business agenda, you kill humans directly on Earth.

Blitzø started the company to prove himself that he was good at something else, which is killing. In an effort to seem original from any other killers in Hell, he decided to go for killing humans which he needs Stolas’ books for.

You could ask why he simply didn't get an Asmodeus Crystal because he needs to be registered to use them. How do you get registered? Is it like a passport? Do you need to pay, maybe he just didn’t have enough money to do so and simply resulted in stealing as a last resort. I said it at the beginning when discussing Stolas and Blitzø’s dynamics as kids, he learned in his childhood that in order to survive he needed to steal. A behavior that still stuck with him. )

BOOM parentheses closed.

Verdicts

➤ Stolas flipped the situation and is in the wrong for coercing Blitzø, I’m not saying that Blitzø is a saint here. But his relationship with other people does not matter right now, he’s clearly a victim, just not a perfect one.

➤ I can’t believe that I had to actually explain why Blitzø chose to have this business, he always brags about how good he is with guns and deserves recognition. That’s something he uses to inflate his ego. Not saying that he shouldn’t be proud of his company of course.

Lust and Codependency but not Love

Stolas

Stolas never had a really tangible idea of what healthy relationships look like outside of fiction, we’ve seen him throughout the series reading two books, “Imp in the Sheet” and “Passion & Brimstone.”

Considering that Stolas almost always tends to specify the nature of Blitzø which is an imp (basically a race in this world) it leads me to believe that Stolas is fetishing Blitzø.

Think about it, throughout all of season 1 he was always pointing out how small he was compared to him, mentioning most of the time in his flirting that he was an imp, sexualizing his body, and speaking of how big he was. Not just to him, while he wasn’t flirting with others he always found a way to remind everyone “Hey, y’all are small imps.”

Honorable mention to “Impish little plaything.”

This is not love, it's lust, he likes getting dicked by people hierarchically inferior to him. It’s the white girl having sex with the POC wild man all over again but make it gay with demons.

But why Blitzø out of all people? Because Stolas sees him as a way of escapism.

Every time Stolas is in danger he calls unto Blitzø. In the face of danger, he thinks of Blitzø. In his little fantasy, Blitzø is the one who is going to “save” him from this boring marriage he absolutely has no control over. Except that no, he was indeed forced to have Octavia which is tragic but that ends here. He easily called unto divorce the second a stranger came into the picture as if he was confident that his happiness was guaranteed now that Blitzø was here.

Notice how I used the word “easily” to describe the divorce, he did not face the consequences that should have happened, Stella made parties about how they were still legally together as if it were an accomplishment. Stolas could have left without any problems.

“I’m staying for my daughter” is a weak argument, I’m sending you back to the purple link. If he really wanted to stay for Octavia, why did he throw all of his effort for Blitzø? When the divorce was officialized, he directly went in to get a crystal with the hope of Blitzø staying otherwise he would have sunk into misery, he does not want to be responsible for his own happiness.

You’ll tell me he uses anti-depressants but most of the time, he takes a good amount of them once and that's all. I’m pretty sure that you shouldn't take a shit tone of them in one gulp immortal prince or not it does not help. On top of that, he doesn’t make any effort to fix his drinking issue that has been showcased in the show. Stella is mean? Quick the alcohol! There’s literally a scene where he wakes up from a blackout caused by drunkenness,

He’s miserable, acknowledges it, and has all of the tools to ameliorate his life but he doesn’t. He preferred fantasy, a fantasy he is projecting onto Blitzø. I don’t care if he wants to be better, we all do but he needs to put in the work.

OCTAVIA IS RIGHT THERE BEGGING YOU TO PAY ATTENTION TO HER!

Yes, it’s not romantic but it's still something! Before seeking deeper bounds you need to work on yourself and learn to be content with what you have first, he’s acting as if nobody ever loved him completely disregarding his daughter’s.

When I said put in the work I mean multiple things regarding Stolas’ situation, the fact that he, whether consciously or unconsciously, believes that Blitzø is the solution to all of his problems and not HIS action reeks of a shitty self-esteem. He could have got rid of Stella who clearly has a negative effect on him, which he did but way too late and it affected his daughter out of all people.

He could have surrounded himself with people who actually cared for him, Better, Stolas is isolated, and the introduction of Vassago in the trailers, and the confirmation that he isn’t evil, means that there are probably other positive figures in the Goetia. He could have tried to socialize and go to parties or special events about his favorite subject.

Most importantly, he should seek professional help, there's rehabs and anti-depressants in Hell, and you’re telling me there’s no therapist?

I’m not a therapist myself but I did have a period of my life where my self-esteem was relatively low, those are the solutions I applied during my healing journey and while I definitely still have work to do, I can say that I’m fine now.

Because I worked on myself.

Blitzø

Tell me how could he love the one guy who constantly belittled him throughout most of their interaction.

Often the counter-arguments to that will be that Stolas did not realize that he was making Blitzø uncomfortable, but that doesn't mean that he did not hurt him. If I shot you in the shoulder, you wouldn’t care if it was accidental or not, I still shot you and now I have to make up for it. The same goes for Stolas.

Also…

How bad do you need to be to be unable to read the room and realize that someone's facial expressions show discomfort, how deaf do you need to be to not hear when he blatantly says “Hey, I don’t like how you call me that all the time!”

The fact that the writers make it seem like he did not realize how uncomfortable he was is to me a writing issue again. Or Stolas is just that braindead.

I already explained why Blitzø hasn’t given his consent to the deal in the coercion/unhealthy power dynamics parentheses, so let’s skip ahead to the dependence part.

Here’s my take, Blitzø does not love Stolas.

We all know how bad this guy is at relationships, his last bad experiences make it so he constantly sabotages his connection with others because he cannot fandom the thought of being vulnerable with someone. Being vulnerable is exposing yourself to potentially being hurt, something that happened too many times to him. I believe his relationship with Verosika was just a regular hookup, she mentioned that he only left when she confessed leading me to think that it never was official. He enjoys casual sex because he still wants to feel wanted but leaves when feelings get involved, a pattern he most likely had with other people.

Does this trauma justify him being a dick to everyone else, no. But, he recently showed a desire to make up for his bullshit. While I believe the resolution was fast, he worked out his issues with Fizz and they are friends now. It’s still salty with Veronika but it’s implied that she doesn’t hold that much of a grunge anymore. He still has work to do though.

So how does Stolas fit in all of this?

The deal was made way before he started apologizing to people, meaning that he was vulnerable so here’s the situation:

He’s a guy so bad at showing his true colors that he purposely makes his relationship with people unbearable because at least it’s something that he would see coming. He got hurt but deliberately, he’s in control of the situation. At the same time, he actually craves intimacy making him seek casual sex as a form of replacement for genuine attachment. Now you have this powerful man being the one controlling the situation and weirdly being obsessed with him forcing him into a sexual relationship.

Stolas came like a little flower, offering him the thing he want in the fucked up way possible, a form of attachment, and now Blitzø is stuck in this situation where he doesn’t want the relationship but still accepts it. First, because, it's for the sake of his job, and second because it’s the only form of “attachment” that he could get. He might as well entertain Stolas with sex long enough just so he doesn't get disinterested in him, for the money and for the sense of false intimacy it provides.

Verdicts

➤ Both are codependent on each other but Stolas is the one in power, he’s the abuser who is projecting his savior fantasies onto Blitzø. Some will say that Blitzø is just as a shitty person as Stolas, what he did to Mox is disgusting but does he deserves to be coerced?

When people said that, it felt like they said “He’s a bad person therefore karma bitch!” no, Blitzø is not meant to be a perfect victim. What he did to other people was awful but it did not have any impact on his relationship with Stolas, whether you like it or not Blitzø is a bad person but he’s also a victim.

Hey! It’s the episode with the best song in the first season!!

So Moxxie and the best girl of the show after Octavia had a little rendezvous in Ozzie in order to celebrate their marriage. Moxxie again proves himself to be a lucky boy.

To which Blitzø decides to stalk them… now I mentioned he’s bad at relationships. The fact that he stalks them can be explained by the fascination he has, he is probably jealous or trying to leave something he thinks he would never have thought them. Which does not justify the stalking or sexual harassment! No, I merely explain why he does it.

Unlucky he is, he needs a partner to continue following them in the restaurant to which he calls Stolas feigning inventing him to a date in order to do so… look, calling someone just so you can use them to stalk your employees without specifying your true intention is bad. He’s in the wrong there.

So Stolas was alone in this castle hinting at his solitude, and got existed when he was asked out. While they were still the annoying flirting and infamous “Blitzy” you cannot say that he did not try a bit to get closer to him. He wanted to have a good time, I mean he thought that Blitzø actually wanted to see him, not just because they had a deal. So you’ll notice that he toned down the flirting a bit.

He was not only aggravated that Blitzø wasn’t paying attention to him, which makes sense in this context because anyone would be pissed if the date that invited them didn't give a shit. But despite this, he is actually trying to have a conversation, with how surprised/confused Blitzø looks, I can only assume that it’s the first time Stolas is addressing him over anything else than bad attempts at sexy talk.

He still fumbled despite his best effort.

They weren’t uncomfortable until Asmodeus, a figure of great authority, pointed them out. To Blitzø this means one thing, he is something that Stolas will love to brag around among the lesser, he will toy with him and use him as he pleases but the second their relationship threatens his reputation, the second he will be in the company of the higher folks he will drop him. He’s a kink, a toy to be ashamed of.

You can tell me all you want that this is not what Stolas wanted to convey but the comparison feels so much clearer when Millie and Mox are in the picture. They are unapologetically sweet to one another not caring about anything or the judgments of people, Millie literally knocked out Fizz to protect her husband! Then you have Stolas who’ll brag about how hot Blitzø is, but not too much to make sure it does not reach higher ears. Blitzø realized this and that's why he refused to stay with Stolas at the end of the episode.

“Hey, now that we’re alone we can act all lovely-dovely, sorry for not defending you earlier but my reputation is more important.”

Because of this gesture, all of Stolas’ attempts at getting close felt like some sort of roleplay the bird was planning, but got cut short the moment he got humiliated. It's why rather than saying “I don't want to spend time with you tonight” he says “I don’t want to fuck you tonight.” Blitzø believes his feelings are getting played again.

Stolas said it, it’s just a transaction, a favor for-favor thing. Blitzø does not want the illusion of being a couple to settle in, and despite all of this he still apologizes for not sleeping with the bird.

He got his confirmation that Stolas could never truly love him, one of the reasons being societal. He’s dead set on keeping this relationship as it is.

Verdicts

➤ Blitzø once again used Stolas to entertain his immoral behavior, while the stealing of the grimoire wasn’t immoral because it was for the sake of his companies. Dude literally just wanted to stalk his employees, what the hell dude? He takes the L.

➤ Stolas isn’t the reason for this rendez-vous and actually came with genuine interest, intending to actually have a genuine conversation with Blitzø to flesh out their relationship. But he just dug his own grave and he proved to Blitzø that he was just a toy, a toy to be ashamed of and only used in private to whiting the minority he belongs to.

Honorable mentions

➤ At the beginning of Harvest Moon, during Stolas and Blitzø's conversation, it is implied that it’s not the first time that Stolas advanced the dates of their meeting to align with his princely duties. Now I want you to think of one thing, how many times do you think Blitzø had to completely drop everything he was doing just so he could reluctantly go fuck one bird without even respecting the schedule. And I’m insisting on the “reluctant,” Blitzø cannot say just “no” to the sexy part, he can’t just drop the books no he has to have sex with Stolas.

➤ People take the scene in Truth Seekers where Stolas got all big and angry as proof that he cares about Blitzø, potentially meaning that he was watching over him and decided to intervene to save him.

Not only does he call him “Impish Little Plaything” reducing him once again to the role of toy and dehumanizing him completely, but what does he do after traumatizing the agents? He asked for a little “thanks” When you do something genuinely nice you do it from the kindest of your heart. Blitzø obviously did not see any other possible so he slept with him to satisfy him.

➤ When rewatching the show I noticed something all the way through the first episode of Truth Seekers. When Stolas starts aggressively flirting with Blitzø, his natural reaction is to call out of his bullshit which unfortunately falls on deaf ears. In Western Energy he even allows himself to push Stolas away when he’s too touchy. (at 0:33)

However, in Truth Seeker, we can see he’s still uncomfortable/annoyed but doesn’t do as much as he did in the first episode. He got used to Stola's behavior and stopped trying to assert boundaries, he knows the Prince won’t listen anyway.

➤ People in Western Energy were angry at Blitzø for not jumping on his horse to fulfill Stolas’ fantasies of being saved by him.

First of all, he mentioned that he had a shot to give to Loona, an appointment that took him five fucking years to get. So yeah, sorry I ain’t available to save your ass.

Second, Stolas has a legion of demons he rules over (S2/Ep.1 = 1:32) why the hell would he call that one random imp who has a life outside of him? He even has the nerve to say “I think you should come save me.” (S2/Ep.4 = 2:00) bitch call one or two members of your legion maybe?!

Third, not only did Blitzø apologize for being rightly busy with his own life but, just because he was worried, and also for the sake of his business, he sent Millie and Moxxie to get him. He still assured that help was in the way without asking for anything else unlike someone.

The “passionate fortification” gone wrong

Stolas realized that coercion is bad and decided to ask Blitzø to meet him so he could have a proper conversation about the unhealthy nature of their deal and… oh. Wait…

Stolas: I’m sorry if anything I said or did may have offended you tonight. Blitzo: ITZ WUTEVS Stolas: Next time you come over. Maybe we can talk about what happened at Ozzie’s? Blitzø: Y? Stolas: I’m sorry nevermind. It’s not a big deal. I was just worried about you. You seemed very upset and you took off so fast. But maybe I read too much into that. I’m glad that it’s not the case. I wasn’t upset either I just wanted to make sure you weren’t and obliviously you can handle any stupid joke a clown can make. Asmodeus can be very invasive with his humor. But I thought it was pretty funny. What he said about me at least. I enjoy being the subject of the jest. Maybe you can say mean thing s to me too the next time you come over. If you want? Blitzo: SHUR

→ HERE ← is a link to other much-needed phone calls between these two.

Stolas does show some levels of care in those banters and seems to be driven by wanting to respect Blitzø boundaries. Those happen in parallel with him realizing that the deal he made was fucked up so he wanted to give Blitzø is the choice. The fact that Blitzø did not acknowledge these attempts as genuine affection was explained earlier, in Ozzie he basically got the confirmation that every Stolas is acting like that it’s just to fuck with him.

Right now after what seemed to be months where Stolas gave him the choice he deliberately chose to stay away from him before coming back to the full moon, Stolas failed to do one thing to convey the seriousness of what they were gonna adress.

That little piece of lyrics from Blitzø let me once again think that this was Stolas who asked for the meeting using the full moon as an excuse. Considering Blitzø was more than happy to get back to square one and how he prepared himself to do the nasty to Stolas, he clearly did not get announced that this wasn’t going to be their casual sex. Which is a big mistake.

Just to remind everyone, Blitzø uses this relationship to get the feeling of closeness he thinks he’ll never have and doesn’t deserve.

Quoting myself:

“Stolas came like a little flower, offering him the thing he want in the fucked up way possible, a form of attachment, and now Blitzø is stuck in this situation where he doesn’t want the relationship but still accepts it. First, because, it's for the sake of his job, and second because it’s the only form of “attachment” that he could get. He might as well entertain Stolas with sex long enough just so he doesn't get disinterested in him, for the money and for the sense of false intimacy it provides. .”

We the audience know this but Stolas doesn’t. But even without this knowledge, why would you not mention that you do not want sex but serious talk? Be for real! Miscommunication is when you fail to convey information, he did not try to tell him beforehand that this was gonna be serious!

So Loona essentially planted the seeds in Blitzø’s head that Stolas was getting bored of him, and well… it fucked with his mind, so how does he respond when the unintended suddenly serious talk happens? With denial then anger.

Can he seriously expect sincerity from Stolas? To Blitzø, there are two solutions, Stolas is roleplaying with him or he’s throwing him away after his fun. It’s the worst-case scenario, he had the power, he put Blitzø to shame stripped him away of his pride, constantly belittled and tossed him to the role of toy, a toy he cannot show off to royalty because of his statue. And then what? Does he leave him after everything?! Seriously?!

And Stolas?

He understood coercion was bad and we can give him the thumbs up for that. He fucked up on everything else, first because it’s the only thing he seems to acknowledge, he only reflects on the unfairness of the contract and not how his past behavior hurted Blitzø.

When Blitzø started going to roleplay, rather than stopping him and further showcasing the seriousness and sincerity of his action he just left like he got a full fleshed-down answer.

You dropped a bomb so suddenly, out of nowhere, using the pretext that you two were going to fuck and you expect him to proceed with this information in a matter of seconds?! Not only did you not leave Blitzø at least a few days to prepare himself psychologically by saying that the night wouldn’t be about sucking your ass for once, but you go and abandon the ship when you don’t get a desired answer?! What the hell is wrong with you?!

The bitches are fighting now

Why did Blitzø come back to Stolas if he hated him so much?

Trauma Bounding

Trauma bonding is when you feel a deep attachment to your abuser. In my opinion, this is what happens here.

This is the relationship Blitzø thinks he deserves, he feels entitled to Stolas because Stolas is what he has coming. He ruined the lives of all of his past lovers/hookups, and his family hates him, yes his friendship with an old crush was fixed but it’s a very minor improvement when you compare it to the years of self-deprecation Blitzø suffered from. Stolas is a prince, Blitzø cannot ruin his life, he cannot blow him up like he did with Fizz, he cannot run away from him, he cannot do anything but please him.

From having sex with him, he gets the semi-form of love he’ll never have with the guarantee that he won't be able to leave. He gained a fully long-lasting “relationship”, a toxic one but it’s better than nothing.

But now that he has the choice, the Asmodeus crystal, with his mind so ingrained in the idea that Stolas is the only thing he deserves, he tries to reinstall the only thing he seeks in this. Intimacy. Stolas doesn't reciprocate, which is surprising.

“You usually like it when I talk all dirty, and fucky, and shit.” (S2 Ep.9/0:52)

Blitzø doesn’t want to lose his VIP pass to a semblance of what love could look like, he can still stalk his employees but it would be drastically different from actually acting on his frustration.

But less talking about Blitzø, why is Stolas so upset with Blitzø? Because despite everything  that happened he still can see that he is genuine. He’s frustrated that Blitzø cannot see it outside of sex.

Honey, you put yourself into this situation.

Must I remind you of the “favors for favors” thingy, you were the one who initiated sex as the center of the relationship? In addition, you ruined the image he has of you. You refused to listen to his complaints when you were aggressively flirting and touching him, and you built this image of superiority and dominance over him with your actions, which nullified all of your attempts to try and be soft because it’s simply not possible to think that you could be genuine with him.

Now you have the chance to apologize and listen to him, but you choose to be sassy and hold the most hypocritical speech I have ever seen.

Watch me lose hours of my life dismantling some of his bullshit:

“As shocking as this might seem, Blitzo- I don't think I'm in the mood to "do sex" with you. In fact, I don't think I'm even in the mood to do words with you! So, how about you respect that?”

And I’m sure Blitzø wishes he could have said the same thing to you multiple times, while Blitzø is clearly disrespecting Stolas’ boundaries here, you cannot tell me how hypocritical that sounds from him.

“I don't look down on you! How many times do I ha- When have I ever?! You speak just like that vile Striker friend of yours. The one who tried to kill me and you couldn't be bothered to come help me. Remember him?”

Imagine changing the subject when the conversation had absolutely nothing to do with Striker. Isn’t Stola's award of the racism toward imp in the society? I mean, he can not be aware of his own bigotry, but why does he sound so surprised when someone points out how royals and even himself talk down to Imps? Granted, Striker was torturing him while doing it, but with Blitzø? That should have been the moment when he realized that maybe he was racist without realizing it. You know a self-reflection you make by actually thinking about what the other is telling you rather than dismissing them.

“I suppose you are right, silly me. It's not an imp's place to protect a Goetia, is it?”

You own a legion of powerful demons, why do expect an imp to constantly save you?

“That's all you were waiting for, wasn't it? For me to play into this idea you have of me that I'm this prince who thinks he's so much better than you. Well, I don't! Why would I allow everyone to see how much I like you? How I've tried so fucking hard to spend time with you, to support you? You don't owe me those things, but you can't just ignore all that!”

I explained most of these things already, but my question is why bother? Why are you wasting your time and energy on someone not reciprocating your feelings when you could redirect them to your daughter?

– Oh, you think I can't apologize?! For what?! You want me to be like- Oh, sorry, this entire time I assumed the worst because I was convinced a prince could never love someone like me and I've let my self-hatred stop me from apologizing to anyone I could ever care about! – Well, yes. That.

I… yeah I’m absolutely going to make you apologize when I’m partially the cause of why you see me that way. What? Apologize myself? Ah! No.

“Do you feel any kind of remorse for what you do?”

Also Blitzø: “Stolas, don't act like what we have is anything but you wanting me to fuck you, okay? You make that really clear all the time. *voice breaking* But, I just, I-I can't do it tonight, okay? I'm sorry.”

“Stolas, wait! I'm s-”

The last verdicts

My final thought will start with a question, where is the love?

This fandom and the series are constantly beating us with the allegation that this is just a miscommunication issue that is going to be fixed at the end!

They are soulmates, everyone!

You know what I see? I see a man unable to face his issue himself and projecting his savior fantasy onto a stranger leading him to eventually trap this other person in a shitty deal just so he could fulfill his dream. On top of that, the person he trapped clearly doesn’t give two shit about him, and seeking the comfort they provide made him neglect the important parts of his life. AKA his child. He’s waiting energy on someone who doesn’t care and torturing this person at the same time.

I see another man trapped in a shitty deal, unable to leave because his life depends on it and because he deeply believes that it’s the only form of love he could get, so he simply content himself with it. Despite not being 100% in control, he still finds little cracks where he can manipulate the one who has the power in order to do immoral shit.

How romantic, but seriously…

Where the hell do you get the conclusion that yay they bone and love each other?! They are two miserable people searching for consolation in a very destructive situation! Not only is the narrative using the most badly affected in the relationship as a punching bag but it is also trying to fly over the radar and showcase this mess as an endgame. A match made in Hell, everyone!

What could have been a powerful story exploring how childhood trauma can let two people fall into a toxic relationship just so they could cramp onto each other to feel the warmth of the flesh turned into… whatever soap opera subgenre it is.

What should have happened is that Blitzø should have realized that he deserves a better form of love, he has a daughter and a friend who cares about him, if anything he should seek to rebuild healthy dynamics with his family and with himself.

Stolas should have realized that one of the many factors of his misery is himself and should have focused on the things that matter, his daughter and mental health. By the end of season 2, they should have separated realizing how they both fucked, mostly Stolas. Season 3 would have been based on their healing journey and how they are focusing on it before seeking relation.

But no… apparently, what they have is love, they are miskomunicatatatin… and they should fall in love to fix all of their issues. Yay! Season 2 is about the end and it's way too late to hold Stolas accountable for everything I’ve mentioned up there, with how the narrative focused on beating the dead horse that is Blitzø, I’m getting the vibe that when they address Stolas it will never feel truly satisfying.

Anyhow, I’m gonna sleep now, rewatching Helluva Boss again and again gave me a migraine.

And → HERE ← you can find a good video, it helped me with the making of the script and the channel is too underrate, go support them.

[winchesterwild78]

Unspoken Words pt 8

Master List

Characters: Jensen Ackles x Reader, Reader’s daughter, other characters

Warnings: Angst, Accusation of Cheating, Childbirth, SMUT!, fluff

A/N: Another collab story with @cheekygirl2309. This one is about a single mother with a nonverbal autistic daughter who loves Supernatural. The reader is going to a Supernatural Convention with her daughter and things unfold from there. The daughter character is near and dear to my heart. I have someone very close to me who is nonverbal, but he’s such an amazing kid. 

*Last chapter. Features a time jump or two. * This chapter got a bit long, sorry not sorry.

This is a work of fiction and does not depict real life. Jensen is single in this story. 

All work is my own and @cheekygirl2309, don’t take it or use it as your own. Reblogs and likes are appreciated. 

Minors DNI 18+

*8th Month of Pregnancy*

Standing at the mirror I placed my hand on my belly. I couldn’t believe I was just over 8 months pregnant. 

Lily was getting more excited about the babies. She was talking more and was helping me with the nursery. 

Jensen had been working and gone filming a lot. He’d missed a few appointments but I understood. At the last ultrasound appointment they were going to tell me the genders but I asked them to wait. 

My heart ached for Jensen to come home. I knew his job was important and I was so proud of him. I just missed him. 

It was late at night and Lily was in bed. I had changed and glanced at myself in the mirror again. 

I could feel the little kicks and flutters in my stomach, it made me smile. A pang of sadness filled my heart. 

Chalking it up to the hormones I tried to push the thoughts away. I know Jensen loves me, Lily and our children, but I couldn’t help but feel alone and unwanted. 

When Jensen would get home he’d be exhausted and focused on other things. He hadn’t touched me in about a month. My heart ached for his touch. I didn’t say anything to him because I didn’t want to add more stress to him. 

Sarah encouraged me to talk to him, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. 

I took out my phone and sent him a text. 

Me: Hey baby. Just wanted to tell you I miss you and can’t wait until you’re home. You’re still coming home in a few days, right? 

I watched the bubbles appear and disappear several times before it stopped. No reply came in. My message was shown read. 

Maybe he’s on set and glanced at his phone. He’ll message me when he can. 

I sat on the couch and turned on the television for some background noise and honestly to try to pull me out of my head. 

I dozed off around 1am and didn’t hear my phone go off. I slept for a few hours, waking up around 5:30am I glanced at my phone and saw a message notification from Jensen. 

A smile crept across my face, but quickly faded when I read the text. 

Jensen: Thank you for tonight. I needed to blow off some steam. You looked beautiful. 

I swallowed hard and my heart pounded in my chest. I felt sick. Who was this message meant for?! Who did he go out with? 

I opened Instagram and saw a ton of new pictures Jensen was tagged in. He was out at some bar with the cast of his latest project and there was a female co-worker hanging on him. He had a huge smile on his face. She was gorgeous. Young, skinny, and very beautiful. The total opposite of me. The kind of woman Jensen previously had on his arm. 

My heart broke. What was I going to do? How can I raise three children on my own? I’ve been a fucking fool to think he would stay with me. I sobbed. 

Not knowing what to do I followed the pictures back to the original post and it was from her account. 

The original post talked about how lucky she felt to be welcomed to this crew and how much she admired Jensen and his kindness on and off the set. The next part made me want to vomit “Thanks Jens for an incredible night. You definitely know how to make a girl feel special. 🫶🏻❤️” 

I took a screenshot and sent it to Sarah. She said she’d be right over. 

I sobbed harder. My heart felt like it was breaking in my chest. 

Sarah showed up about 15 minutes later and wrapped me in her arms. “Shh, sweetie. I’m sure there’s an explanation for this. Jensen loves you so much. He’s loyal to you.” 

Sarah held me as I cried. “Y/N, think about the babies. You’ve got to calm down. This isn’t good for them.” 

“No, what’s not good for them is their father cheating on their mother with a fucking child!” Sarah had sent Steve a text and told him what happened before she came over. He said he’d call Jensen and get to the bottom of it. 

Sarah’s phone went off and it was a text from Steve. 

Steve: No answer yet. I’ll keep trying. How’s she doing?

Sarah: She’s devastated. I’m really worried about her and the babies. God I hope he didn’t cheat on her. 

Steve: I’ve known Jensen for decades, he’s really not that kind of guy. I promise. 

Sarah: I hope he’s not. 

“Y/N, come on sweetie take a deep breath.” 

I took a breath in and let it out. Then I felt a sharp pain shoot through me. Sarah made me lay down and brought me some water. “You have to relax honey. This isn’t good for the babies.” 

I nodded and tried to relax. My phone went off with a message notification. Sarah wouldn’t let me check it. 

Jensen: Hey baby. Yeah. I’ll be home in a few days as long as filming runs smoothly. I love you and miss you too. 

Sarah read the message and was pissed. He completely ignored the message he sent in the middle of the night. So Sarah sent a reply back. 

Me: Jensen, this is Sarah. You might want to make sure you know who you’re texting before you send it. Y/N saw the text you meant to send some other woman and I’m here picking up the pieces. I swear to god if you’re cheating on her I’m going to cut off your balls! “You had a great time and you needed to blow off some steam and she was beautiful?!” Who the fuck sends another woman a message like that?

Jensen read the message from Sarah and scrolled up. He ran his fingers through his hair “Fuck! I’m so fucking stupid!” 

I was laying on the couch and had Sarah help me up so I could use the bathroom. I sat down and then I saw blood. My heart started racing. When I stood up my water broke. 

“Sarah, come quick!” Sarah ran to my side, seeing the blood and where my water broke she took my hand. “Okay, this is fine. Let me call Steve and see if he can come over for Lily so I can take you to the hospital. 

“Sarah, I need Jensen. He should be here. Please call him.” 

She nodded, helped me change and called Jensen. 

Jensen saw my name pop up on his phone. He took a steady breath and answered it. “Hey baby. I know we need to talk.” 

“Jensen, this is Sarah. You need to get home. Y/N’s in labor. You caused her to go into labor. Please leave your girlfriend there and get to the hospital.” Sarah’s voice dripped with anger and venom. 

“Sarah, I don’t have, you know what, forget it. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Please tell her I’m on my way and I love her.” 

“Sure you do.” Then Sarah hung up. 

I looked at Sarah, “He said he’s on his way and he loves you.” She scoffed. 

“Sarah, please.” She sighed, “I’m sorry. It just pisses me off. You’re carrying his children and you’ve given up everything to be with him and this is how he repays you?” 

“Sarah, please stop. He has a right to explain.” Another pain shot through my body. Steve had arrived and Sarah and I were on our way to the hospital. 

I sent Jensen a text. 

Me: Jens I’m so scared. Please get home safe and quickly. 

Jensen: I’m boarding a flight now. I’m so sorry baby. I swear I didn’t cheat on you. I love you and our family. 

Me: I hope not. I love you too. I don’t want to have these babies without you. 

Jensen: I’m trying to get there as fast as I can. 

Me: I know. We do have a lot to talk about, but first we need to focus on these babies. 

I put my phone down as a contraction hit. Sarah pulled up to the Emergency Department and ran inside. She came back out with a nurse and wheelchair. 

Helping me out of the car they wheeled me in. 

I was immediately taken to labor and delivery and hooked up to the monitor. 

My contractions were close, but not unbearable. I kept looking at the door hoping Jensen would walk in at any moment. 

Sarah stood by my bed and held my hand during the contractions. 

The doctor came in and checked me and said the babies seemed okay for now but we would keep monitoring them for any signs of distress. If there was any distress I’d have to have a c-section. I nodded in understanding. 

A few hours later the contractions were closer and I was getting more worried Jensen wouldn’t make it. 

The doctor came in and checked me, “Okay, it looks like you’re ready to have these babies. Are you ready?” 

Tears started to fall, “No, it’s too early and Jensen isn’t here. Sarah, he should be here.” 

She held my hand, “I know sweetie. He’s on his way. I’m right here.” 

The doctor assured me once the babies were born they would be assessed quickly for any complications. 

It was time to push and the doctor and nurses got me ready. Jensen still wasn’t there and my heart broke more. 

“Sarah, does he really love me?” She wiped the tears away, “Oh Y/N I’m sure he does. He will be here soon.” 

As if on cue Jensen walked in the door. Bag in hand and sunglasses and hat on top of his head. 

He dropped his stuff and ran to my side, “Hey baby. I’m here.” He took my hand and kissed the top of my head. He looked at Sarah and then at the doctor. “How’s she doing? How’s the babies?” 

The doctor explained to Jensen it was early, but the babies would be assessed and taken to the NICU if necessary. 

Jensen nodded and kissed my head again. “I’m so sorry baby. We’ve got this. Come on baby, let’s meet our babies.” 

I nodded and took his hand in mine. 

About thirty minutes later the first baby was delivered. A healthy baby boy. The nurse took him to be assessed while I rested between deliveries. 

Jensen wiped my forehead and fed me ice chips. He took a picture of the baby for me. “Jens, he’s beautiful. Thank you.” He kissed my lips, “God I love you so much, sweetheart. What do you say we deliver our next baby?” 

The second baby moved into position and I was ready to deliver. I was exhausted but ready to meet my other baby. A few minutes of pushing, a tiny cry filled the room. I looked over and saw little legs and feet kicking wildly. I chuckled. Jensen walked over and took a picture. 

“Is the baby okay?” I asked Jensen. He smiled, “She’s perfect. Real fighter like her mama.” 

Tears filled my eyes, “We have a boy and a girl?” He kissed me, “Yeah we do baby. They are perfect.” 

Sarah gave me a hug and kissed my head, “You did great sweetie. I’m gonna call Steve and let him know.” I nodded and thanked her. 

As she walked out of the room Jensen followed her. 

“Hey, Sarah. Wait up please.” Sarah turned and looked at Jensen. He could tell she was pissed. 

“What Jensen?” “I just wanted to tell you thank you for taking care of her and making sure our babies were safe.” 

She stepped closer to him and poked his chest, “You don’t have to thank me. She’s like a sister to me. She wouldn’t have gone into labor if it wasn’t for your cheating ass.” 

“Sarah, I’m not cheating on her. I never have and never would. I love her. It’s not an excuse but I got drunk. I went out with the cast and we got drunk. The text was meant for someone else, but it’s not what you think. She was arguing with her boyfriend and some woman at the bar told her she looked like a cheap hooker, then kissed her boyfriend. She was devastated. I’ve known her for years, she’s like a sister to me. I can call her right now to clear all this up. Look, I know I fucked up and if there is anything wrong with my children I know it’s my fault, but I need you to believe me. I love Y/N and I have since the moment I met her.” 

Sarah stood shocked. She saw the pain in Jensen’s eyes and she couldn’t stop feeling he was telling her the truth. 

Sarah took a deep breath and touched his arm, “Jensen, go to her side. Tell her everything you told me. She loves you and I know you love her. You might have to call that friend, but if you truly mean it and love Y/N then you fight for her.” 

He nodded and they hugged. Sarah walked away to call Steve and Jensen returned to my side. 

I was being transferred to a private room. Jensen came in the room with his bag and set it in a chair. I was laying in the bed and looked over at him. 

He smiled softly “Hey baby. How are you feeling?” “I’m okay. Sore, but okay. I’m glad you made it. Have you heard anything about the babies?” 

He shook his head no, “No, but I can go find out if you want me to.” 

I reached out my hand, “No, I think we should talk first.” He looked down solemnly, “Yeah. I think so too.” 

Silence filled the room. Neither of us knew what to say or how to start the conversation. The weight of it all hung heavy in the air. 

Jensen sat beside me and took a deep breath, “Baby I swear I have never nor would I ever cheat on you. The text was meant for my friend, Leah, but it’s not what you think. We all went out last night to celebrate wrap. Leah was there with her boyfriend and they started fighting. Some woman at the bar said she looked like a hooker and then kissed Leah’s boyfriend. She was devastated. I’ve known her for years, she’s like a sister to me. I just wanted to let her know she looked beautiful. I swear I didn’t mean it any other way. I love you and I’d never do anything to jeopardize what we have. I know I screwed up and you going into labor early is my fault. If there is anything wrong with our children that’s on me.” 

Tears filled his eyes. I didn’t know what to say. 

I lifted my hand to his face and gently touched him. “Jens, it’s not your fault our babies came early. I should have trusted you and not gotten as upset as I did. I just let my brain run wild. I thought you didn’t want me anymore. You hadn’t touched me in a month and I was afraid you weren’t attracted to me anymore. I’m sorry Jensen. I should have talked to you about what was bothering me.” 

“What?! How could I not be attracted to you? Look at you. You’re beautiful and sexy as hell. Your beautiful body made and carried all three of our babies. I could never thank you enough for that. I was afraid I’d hurt you having sex with you. The last time we had sex you were in pain for a few days. I didn’t want to hurt you again. I’m so sorry baby. I should have been honest with you.” 

He leaned down, cupped my face and his lips ghosted mine. He stopped and didn’t move. 

“Is this okay?” I nodded and he crashed his lips to mine. The kiss was full of need and regret. When he pulled away we looked into each other’s eyes, “I love you, Y/N, so much.” “I love you too, Jensen.” 

About an hour later the doctor came in and gave us an update on the twins. They both passed their tests, but would be required to stay in the NICU for at least a week to get their lungs strong enough. She said we could go see them when I felt up to it. 

I looked over at Jensen and he smirked, “She’s ready now, doc.” The doctor chuckled, “Okay, we’ll be careful and call the nurse before you get up.” We nodded and called the nurse. 

She helped me up and we went to see the babies. We saw our son first. The nurse had me sit in the rocking chair and she put him on my chest. He was smaller than Lily was, but he looked good. He cooed and looked up at me. 

I gasped softly, he had the most beautiful green eyes I’d seen since looking into Jensen’s. 

The nurse smiled, “So do you two have a name picked out yet?” I looked at her and then Jensen, “Yeah his name is Michael Alan and her name is Josephine Marie.” 

The nurse smiled, “Beautiful.” She looked at Jensen and said, “While mom is holding him do you want to hold your little girl?” Jensen smiled and nodded. 

He sat in the rocking chair near her crib and the nurse handed the baby to Jensen. 

He looked down at his little girl and smiled. She looked just like Lily, but she had his green eyes. He looked over at me and smiled. “She’s beautiful. She looks like her big sister.” 

I reached my hand out and held his, “We made some beautiful babies. Didn’t we?” “Yeah we did. Thank you baby. Thank you for our beautiful little family.” 

We held the twins for a while and switched. I looked over at Jensen holding our son and I saw the pride on his face. My little girl fell asleep in my arms. I watched her sleep and she reminded me so much of Lily it made my heart full. 

We put the babies down to sleep and Jensen helped me back to the room. Sarah and Steve were bringing Lily to see me and the babies. 

Lily came in and climbed on the bed. She looked at my stomach and put her hand on it, “Babies?” “Mommy had the babies. You have a baby brother and sister.” She looked at me and then Jensen. “See babies” she said looked at Jensen. 

“Well they are in a special room because they were born early, but you can see them through the window.” Jensen said and she nodded. 

“Hey, I’ll take her. You rest” Jensen said as he leaned down and kissed my head. 

He scooped her up and started to carry her out. Steve went with them. 

When they left Sarah looked at me. “What?” I asked. “Did you two work it out?” I nodded, “Yeah. He told me what happened.” “Do you believe him?” I shook my head yes. 

“Okay, I just want to make sure you’re okay. You deserve to be loved.” 

I touched her arm, “I know, and I am. He loves me and I trust him. We even talked about why we hadn’t had sex.” 

“And? What was the reason?” 

“The last time we had sex I hurt for a few days after. He was worried he’d hurt me again so he didn’t pursue it with me.”

“Was that true? Did you get hurt?”

“Yeah. I was in some pain afterwards. It wasn’t his fault, but yeah. I understand his hesitation.” 

She hugged me, “Okay. Well I still meant what I said to him if he hurts you.” We both laughed, “I know. You’re mean that way.” 

*Time Jump 3 Months* 

“Jensen, can you grab Michael and dry him off and bring me Josie?” 

Jensen came into the bathroom and we switched off the twins for bath time. 

They were now 3 months old and growing. Jensen and I were a great team with them and Lily. 

Jensen still made time to play with Lily and she even helped feed the babies. She would help get diapers and wipes, but never changed a diaper. 

When we first brought the twins home, Lily had a hard time adjusting. She clung to Jensen for about a month. Anytime he left the house she went with him. I was worried she felt pushed to the side, but Jensen was great at helping her feel loved and cared for. 

After bath time we fed the twins and put them down for bed. Lily had her bath and we read to her and put her to bed. 

Jensen and I had some quiet time for the first time in a while. We usually had one kid awake or we were both so exhausted we fell asleep. Sometimes in our clothes. 

Tonight, however, we were both wide awake. 

He sat beside me on the couch and leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Hey beautiful, why don’t you go take a shower or bath and relax. If one of the kids wakes up I’ll take care of them. You can relax.” 

I looked over at him. I wanted him, I needed him. It had been months. Between the pregnancy and birth we hadn’t had sex and I really wanted to feel him again. 

I straddled his hips and leaned down kissing his lips. His hands grabbed my hips and pulled me close. “Jens, take me to our room.” 

He leaned back and looked in my eyes, “Are you sure?” 

I kissed him. Pouring all my love, need and desire into it. “Yes”. 

He lifted me up and carried me to our room. I tried to protest, “Jensen, put me down. I weigh too much.” 

“No you don’t, you’re perfect.” 

He carried me to our room, closed the door with his foot and laid me on the bed. 

He leaned down, his strong arms on either side of me. He smiled and kissed my lips softly. 

“You’re so beautiful, you know that?” I smiled, “Yeah, I’ve been told that a few times.” 

Jensen chuckled and kissed me again. His hand slid down my body and to the hem of my shirt. 

I bit my lower lip and my breath hitched. I could feel my desire course through my body. Jensen’s hand slipped under my shirt and to my breasts. He gently cupped them and I arched my back, moaning his name. 

He pulled my shirt over my head. Jensen began licking and sucking each nipple. My fingers in his hair, pulling him closer to me. 

He smirked against my skin as his hot breath caused goosebumps to erupt all over me. 

Jensen slid his hands down to my waistband and past my panties. He felt how soaked I was and without warning slid his fingers past my folds and into my waiting pussy. 

I gasped loudly as he hooked his fingers up. His thumb rubbing my sensitive clit. “Oh God, right there, Jensen. Fuck!” 

He stopped and I whined. “Jens, why did you stop?” He leaned up and pulled my pants and panties down in one pull, “Had to get better access.” He chuckled. 

Jensen continued and pushed me closer to my release. I felt heat and arousal fill my body. It had been so long since we touched each other I wanted it to last. My body was responding to Jensen. 

The familiar coil tightened in my stomach. “Jens, I’m close.” He leaned forward, lips ghosting my ear, “I know baby. Let go for me. Cum on my fingers. Let me feel you.” 

The coil snapped and I was cumming hard. My back arched off the bed and I soaked Jensen’s hand. My legs trembled as my body convulsed through my orgasm. 

By the time I was done I was panting and could feel my arousal running down my ass. Jensen stood up and I saw his rock hard cock through his sweatpants. 

I licked my lips and pulled my bottom lip in between my teeth. My breath hitched as he removed his clothes. He smirked, “See something you like, sweetheart?” 

I nodded and smiled, “Yes, I do.” Jensen climbed back on the bed and used his legs to push my legs apart. 

I laid looking up at him and saw the love in his eyes. My heart fluttered in my chest. 

Jensen pumped his length a  few times and looked down at me. I nodded and Jensen’s pink head slid past my lips and slowly sunk inside me. 

I gasped and he moaned as he pushed in. Jensen stilled himself as he bottomed out. 

“Fuck! I forgot how tight you were. Damn baby, even after three babies you fit perfectly around me.” He kissed my lips as he started to move his hips. 

Jensen moved his hips slowly, pulling his length in and out of me slowly. His hands and lips trailing over my body. Our moans and pants filled the air. 

I placed my hands on his biceps as his hips snapped into mine. 

“Baby, I want you on top. I want to see your beautiful body.” 

Jensen pulled out and laid on his back, I climbed on top of him and used one hand to steady myself while I used the other to guide him in me. 

I sank down on his hard cock with a whimper and pulled a deep moan from his lips. 

His hands gripped my hips as I rocked back and forth. Jensen snapped his hips up and pushed his cock deeper inside me. I grabbed the headboard and I continued rocking my hips faster. 

“Mmm, yes baby. Just like that. God, you feel so good. Fucking me so good.” I moved faster as I felt my second release building. 

Jensen’s hips moved faster moving up as I moved down. Our bodies were working together, chasing our release. 

Jensen grabbed my body and flipped me on my back, his hips slamming into me faster. My legs resting on his shoulders as my hands found his chest. I was close again. My fingers slipped between us and I started rubbing my clit, chasing my second release. 

My release hit hard and I moaned his name like a prayer. My walls clenched around his length and pulled his orgasm out too. He came with a grunt and his release coated my walls. Filling me with his seed. 

He leaned down and kissed my lips as he softened inside me. “I love you, Jensen.” “I love you too, Y/N. This was perfect.” I smiled and nodded. 

Jensen pulled out and kissed my lips. He got up, went to the bathroom, grabbed a washcloth and came back to the bed to clean us both up. 

Tossing the washcloth to the side he crawled back in bed with me. Offering me his arm, I curled up to his side and laid my head on his chest. 

My fingers drawing circles on his chest. “Jensen, thank you for tonight. It’s been too long and it was amazing.” He tilted my head up and placed a soft kiss on my lips, “Yeah it was. Thank you for tonight. I didn’t hurt you did I?” “No, baby. You were perfect.” 

The two of us drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms. Finally reconnecting and falling more in love. 

*Time Jump 3 months* 

The twins were 6 months old and my birthday was in a few days. Sarah had planned a spa day for us and I was excited. Jensen was staying with the kids, and Steve was coming over too. 

Jensen and Steve were cooking dinner and my instruction from Jensen was to relax. 

Sarah came and got me and we headed to the spa. We got facials, full body wraps, manicures and pedicures. By the time we got back to the house it was close to dinner time. 

Walking in the house it smelled amazing. Jensen was standing at the stove when I walked into the kitchen. 

“Hey sweetheart, how was the spa?” I walked up to him and kissed him, “It was amazing, thank you. This smells amazing by the way.” “It’ll be ready soon. You go sit and relax. The twins are napping and Lily is playing with Steve. 

I nodded and walked into the living room where I found Sarah and Steve whispering. “What are you two talking about?” “Uh, nothing.” Sarah giggled. “Okay, whatever. Well just don’t have sex where the kids can see it.” Sarah turned red. 

A few minutes later Jensen was telling us dinner was ready. We all sat down at the table and ate. Jensen brought out a small birthday cake, candles and all. 

They sang Happy Birthday and Jensen told me to make a wish. I smiled, “But I have everything I could ever want right here.” I kissed him and then blew out the candles. 

We enjoyed some cake and ice cream. Later after Sarah and Steve left and the kids were in bed, Jensen and I went to sit on the back porch. 

We sat on the swing under a blanket and listened to the crickets and looked up at the stars. 

“So, are you sure there’s nothing you would wish for?” Jensen asked with a smile. “Jensen, I have you, our three babies and this beautiful life. I have everything I could ever need.” 

He smiled and nodded. “I have everything I could ever need too, well almost everything.” I looked at him confused, “What else could you need?” 

Jensen stood and dropped to his knee, “I’ve loved you since the minute I saw you at that convention. You and Lily came into my life when I least expected it. You’ve given me so much, a home filled with love, three beautiful children, and a companion for life. It would be my absolute honor if you would agree to become my wife. I love you, Y/N, and I can’t think of anything else I want more than that. Will you marry me?”

I gasped softly as he opened the ring box. I threw my arms around him and kissed him, “Yes! Yes I’ll marry you!” He kissed me and slipped the ring on my finger, “Perfect fit.” I looked at it and nodded. 

About a month after the engagement Lily started to retreat into herself again. I began to get worried about her. I wasn’t sure if it was because the twins were getting older and required more attention or if it was the engagement. 

I talked to Jensen to see if he could help with her, he went to her room to talk to her. When he came back I saw tears in his eyes. 

“Jens, is she okay?” He shook his head no. “She thinks she’s not family because she doesn’t have the same last name.” 

I sighed, “Oh no. Why didn’t I see it? I’m going to be an Ackles, and the babies are. She’ll be the only one who isn’t.” 

Jensen took my hand in his, “Hey, this isn’t on you. It’s natural for kids to feel this way. I did find this in her room, that’s how I knew what was bothering her.” 

He handed me a picture she had drawn, it was all of us and she wrote “Ackles” on the top. “Jens, is she asking what I think she is?” “I think so. So what do you say? How would you feel if I adopted her, made it official?”

“You’d adopt her?” “Of course I would. I love her like my own. I’d love nothing more than to adopt her. She’s already my daughter, let’s make it official.” 

I smiled and nodded, “Let’s go tell her.” 

We walked into Lily’s room. She was playing on the floor and Jensen picked her up and sat her between us on the bed. 

“Lily honey, we wanted to talk to you.” She looked at me and then back at Jensen. “We were talking and wanted to ask you how you would feel if daddy adopted you. You would be an Ackles for real. What do you think?”

She looked up at Jensen and then back at me and squealed. 

She leaped in Jensen’s lap and threw her arms around his neck, “Daddy, my daddy.” He chuckled, “Yes, Lily girl. I’m your daddy forever.” He looked over at me, “I think that’s a yes.” I nodded, “I think so too.” 

Lily climbed out of Jensen’s lap and ran to her closet. She pulled out her suitcase and Jensen and I looked at each other confused. Lily opened it and dumped the bag out. We saw some clothes, her stuffies and pictures of her with the twins and the family picture we had taken. 

“Lily honey, what’s all this?” Jensen bent down to help her pick up the stuff. “Lily, no go now.” I was confused then it hit me, She wanted to leave. I sat on the floor beside her and pulled her in my lap, “Lily baby, you will always be our baby girl. It doesn’t matter what your last name is or how many babies I have. You will always be my first baby and we will always love you so much.”

She put her arms around my neck and held me tight. “Love you mama.” “I love you too, Lily girl. So much.” Jensen pulled both of us in his arms, “And I love my girls so much.” 

Sitting on the floor with Jensen and Lily I reflected on the past few months of my life. From taking a chance and going to a convention with Lily, meeting the love of my life and having his children, to being engaged to him and he accepting my sweet girl, I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be, and I couldn’t ask for more.

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[atlabeth]

(they all say that) it gets better | luke castellan

bleedin' me dry for context (this is that reader's origin story!!)

summary: a look into your unclaimed year.

a/n: does it still count as fluff if you already know it doesn’t end well? idk but i’m having fun writing for this pair so it’s okay. i hope you guys are enjoying reading them!! this ended up becoming a hell of a lot longer than i thought it would be but these kind of one shots are my faves to write lol

title from teenage dream by olivia rodrigo bc apparently guts teenage angst works very well for a demigod who feels like they're worthless and unwanted for a good period of time!! shoutout to the gods

wc: 11.4k JESUS

warning(s): fem!child of demeter reader. typical anger at the gods, but luke is actually pretty sweet! crazy. mostly hurt/comfort, reader is going through it at the beginning (mentions of injuries and almost dying), honestly she's going through it the whole time but luke is very nice to her lol. barely proofread bc proofing 34 pages is a nightmare !!

It was your first day as a demigod and you were already off to a bad start. 

You didn’t remember much, obviously. There was a lot of stumbling, barely held up by your satyr as you crossed the border, and then full on collapsing. Somehow you managed to stay conscious all the way to the infirmary, enough to hear shocked murmurs from the people-like blobs around you and terrified, whispered affirmations from your satyr as he ran along with whoever was carrying you. 

You didn’t remember much. But you do remember thinking what a shameful existence it would be to die at fourteen. 

And now you were sitting in an uncomfortable cot, staring at the wall and counting divots. The first half of your visit was only there in flashes as you drifted in and out of consciousness, but now, unfortunately, you were fully awake. You belatedly wondered how many other kids began their camp life with a stay at the infirmary. 

The thought was dashed from your head as you jolted and cried out in sudden pain, and you shot daggers with your glare at the boy next to you.  

“Sorry.” The boy fixing you up was about your age, and he almost seemed to glow from within. “You dislocated your shoulder—I was popping it back into place.”

“You could have warned me,” you seethed.

“I did,” he said, and when he placed his hands on your shoulder they actually did glow. “You just weren’t listening.”

“...Sorry,” you said after a moment. “I’m having a rough day.” 

He shook his head with a slight smile. “It’s expected.” 

“It’ll be okay,” your satyr said, and some of the tension left your shoulders as you looked over at Tate. He’d been by your side for the past two weeks of disasters, and you’d saved each other’s lives more times than you could count. You were just thankful he didn’t have to watch you die. “Jace is one of camp’s best healers. You’re in good hands.” 

You nodded, not wanting to cause any more problems, so you bit your lip and bit your tongue and let him heal the rest of your injuries in silence. He was done soon enough, and you could feel both their eyes on you as you rifled through your backpack. Thankfully, Tate brought it in as you were dying. Your own blood stained the nylon. 

“How do you feel?” Tate asked anxiously. 

“Better,” you said, tearing your eyes away from it as you continued making sure all your belongings were still there. “A lot better. Not like there’s much competition.”

Tate chuckled, and Jace picked up a small bag from the bedside table and handed it to you—it looked like there were little pieces of fudge inside. “Here.” 

“What’s this?” you asked as you took it. 

“Ambrosia,” he said. “Wait a few hours before you have a piece, and only have a little if you feel a lot of pain. I already gave you nectar while you were out, and the last thing we need is you burning up.” 

You looked at Tate with raised eyebrows and he smiled a bit. “Ambrosia and nectar are the food of the gods. It heals demigods in small portions, but take too much and you’ll get a fever. Worst case scenario, you’ll literally burn up from the inside.” 

“Oh,” you said, and you stuffed the bag into your pack before zipping it up. “I’ll… I’ll wait.” 

“Probably a good idea,” Jace said, and he looked over at your satyr as he stood up. “I’ve gotta get back to my sword-fighting lessons. Can you give her a tour?” 

He shook his head. “I have to debrief with Chiron and Mr. D. There were some… rough things on the road.” Tate looked at you. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes— are you sure you’ll be okay?” 

“It’s fine,” you said with a smile. “Do your thing. I’ll look around some, then we’ll find each other later.” 

Tate nodded thankfully and went through an open door opposite your bed, and Jace gave you a tight smile as he started to put away all the medical supplies he used on you. You sighed, slung your bag over your shoulder, and walked out. 

You shut the door behind you and blinked rapidly as you tried to adjust to the sunlight. Then, you heard someone sigh. 

“Thank the gods you’re okay.” 

You turned to see a boy standing up from the wall. Dark curls hung just above his eyes, a contrast to his tanned skin, slightly red from exertion. He was wearing the same bright orange shirt that your healer was—Camp Halfblood, it said in curved text. He was far too pretty for his own good. 

“I’m the one who carried you in,” he said, and you realized you were frowning. “Wanted to make sure you were okay.” 

“Oh,” you said. “That’s… that’s nice of you.” 

“It’s been a while since we’ve gotten someone new,” he said. “Even longer since they’ve had such a dramatic entrance.” 

You shrugged. You didn’t exactly know what to say to this boy. “Sorry.” 

He paused for a moment, and then he nodded. “Not one for conversation. That’s fine.” 

“I did almost just die,” you said wryly. “I’m fresh out of icebreakers at the moment.” 

“Maybe I can help with that.” He held out his hand. “Luke Castellan. Head Counselor of the Hermes cabin, and apparent rescuer of damsels.” 

You huffed a laugh as you stared at him. “I’m a damsel?” 

“I’d say you were in as much distress as someone could be back there,” he said with a shrug. “I practically saved your life. I think that deserves a handshake.” 

The slightest bit of tension dissolved from your shoulders and you shook his hand. His smile grew. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked, dropping his hand. “You were pretty rough when I found you.” 

“Better,” you said, though you grimaced a bit as you tested your shoulder, and you decided to switch your pack to your other side. “Whoever that guy in the infirmary is, he’s good.” 

Luke nodded. “Son of Apollo—they’ve got healing abilities. Very useful when we’re all constantly getting injured.” 

Your brows knit together. “So it really is all real.” 

“You were nearly dead on our doorstep, and from those claw marks I’m guessing it wasn’t just a bad fall.” Luke offered a wry smile. “I’m sure you’ve known it’s all real for a while.” 

“Of course,” you said. “It’s just weird to really know that it’s all real. To see all of you, really. Just knowing I’m not alone.” 

He nodded. “That’s the best thing about it, knowing you’re not alone.” He looked around at your surroundings—various campers chatting as they walked with each other (some glancing at you as they went by), distant shouts and cheers, and a perfectly blue sky matching the perfectly blue house you just left. 

“I’d say the worst thing about it is feeling like I still have no idea what’s going on,” you said. “Unless the gods exist just to be deadbeats. That’d be disappointing.” 

Luke actually laughed at that, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and you found yourself smiling a bit. “I can tell we’re gonna get along.” 

Your own smile returned—it was like his joy was infectious. “You think so?” 

“I know so,” he nodded. “Just… try not to throw the gods’ names around like that. They don’t like to be talked about unless they’re being revered.” 

You huffed. “Sounds like an interesting place.” 

“Camp Halfblood,” he provided, and he gestured around you with his hand. “Keeping young heroes safe for over three millennia.” 

“What,” you said wryly, “are you their PR guy?” 

Luke laughed and shook his head. “It’s something Chiron likes to say.”

“You’re the second person to mention Chiron,” you said. “Who exactly is he?” 

“You haven’t gotten a tour yet?” 

You gave him a look. “Come on. You carried me in. You think I could have gotten a tour between then and now?” 

“Fair,” he admitted, and he tilted his head. “I can give you one, if you’re so inclined.” 

“I said I would wait for Tate,” you said. “He’s my satyr— I figure I owe it to him.” 

“C’mon,” Luke said. “He’s meeting Chiron and Mr. D—that’ll take long enough on its own, and if we don’t get out of here soon enough, you’re gonna get dragged into a whole other conversation with them. At least this way, you can get a little bit of downtime before all the lore of this place is dropped on you.” 

You bit your lip, and then you sighed and nodded. “Fine. But it can’t take too long.” 

Luke smiled and held up three fingers. “Halfblood’s honor.” 

-

You didn’t know where to start.

There were far more people than you expected, not nearly enough beds for all of them, and half were talking and a quarter were fighting and the others were just completely unfazed. All you could do when you walked in was stare.

“You get used to it,” Luke said, glancing over at you. “Everyone’s nice, I promise—just keep a hand on your pockets.” 

You frowned. “Why?” 

He gave you a crooked smile. “Hermes is the god of thieves. We learn by experience in this cabin.” 

Your hands instinctively reached back to the pockets of your jeans, despite the fact that you hardly had anything to your name. “Why do they put the new, naive kids in here again?” 

“God of travellers, too—all are welcome.” Luke saw your hand shoot to your pocket and laughed. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone mess with you too much—for now, at least.” 

“Oh, good,” you said lightly. “The hazing doesn’t start until later.” 

Luke smiled as he continued to guide you through the cabin, nodding to and greeting campers with equal parts names and handshakes as he walked past them. You got just as many stares as Luke did hellos, and your skin crawled at the attention. 

“Why are they all looking at me?” you whispered to him. 

“Like I said, you’re the first new camper in a while.” Luke glanced at you. “News spreads fast, especially in this wreck of a place.” 

“It’s not that bad,” you said , but your grip tightened on your backpack strap. “Just very busy.”

“That’s what happens when they shove everyone in here,” Luke said. “All are welcome means all are welcome—Hermes kids, unclaimed kids, and kids of minor gods.”

You frowned. “Minor gods don’t have cabins?” 

“This place is as much for us as it is in honor of the gods,” he said. “Twelve cabins for twelve Olympians. They don’t see it as a problem, therefore we can’t see it as a problem.” 

You decided to bite your tongue, but you couldn’t hide your sigh. “I guess I’m gonna be here for the time being.” 

He looked you up and down, and all you could think was that you must look like an absolute disaster. “I’m guessing you fall into the unclaimed.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line, a sad attempt at a smile. “Yeah, but I just got here—I bet my mom doesn’t even know it yet. Gods are busy.”

“They’re also omniscient,” Luke said wryly. “I’m sure she could have claimed you the second you crossed the border. Your parent could’ve given you a little divine intervention and kept you from nearly dying on the hill.”

“Well, I’m here for now,” you said with a bit too much force, and your nails dug into your palms. “So do you mind showing me around?” 

Luke stared at you for a moment before he smiled. “‘Course not. I can also give you a quick tour of camp too, if you haven’t already gotten one.”

You shook your head. “Only the infirmary.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” he said, “you heal up well.”

“I don’t think that’s a credit to me,” you said. “I think it’s whatever magical drink that healer gave me while he was trying to bring me back. Tasted like pecan pie.”

“Nectar,” he said as he started walking, and you followed behind him. “Drink  of the gods that heals demigods in small portions. It tastes like your favorite food—same as ambrosia.” He stopped in an empty corner and looked at you. “You like pecans?”

You shrugged, suddenly self conscious. “My dad makes it the best.”

“I hope you’ll be able to get the real thing soon,” he said, and then he gestured with a flourish at the same empty corner. “Welcome to your new home.”

You stared at him. “This is the floor.”

“We’re a little overbooked,” Luke said sheepishly. “If it makes you feel better, we’ve got sleeping bags. And this is a top tier corner. Quieter than the others.”

“…Great,” you said. “I feel very welcome.”

“I’m sorry.” To his credit, he sounded like he meant it. “Bunch of unclaimed kids, couple kids of minor gods, couple Hermes kids—it all kinda adds up to a mess.”

“...It’ll be better than camping,” you said, though mostly to yourself as you took your bag off your shoulder and let it thud to the ground. 

“Hey,” Luke said, and his voice was softer, “it’ll be okay. With any luck, your parent’ll notice you now that you’re at camp, and you’ll be claimed before you know it.” 

“I hope so,” you murmured. 

“Luke, who’s the new girl?” 

A boy with curls just as good as Luke’s walked up and clapped him on the back, smiling at you in a way that instantly set you at ease. He also wore the orange camp shirt, with long tan sleeves below that he’d pushed up to his forearms. He had kind eyes. 

Luke said your name, his own smirk on his lips as he looked back at you. “You’ve probably heard about her dramatic entrance by now, but she’s the newest resident of the Hermes cabin.”

“Unclaimed or your sibling?” he asked. 

“...Unclaimed,” you said yourself. You hadn’t even been here for more than two hours and it already felt like your own brand of shame.  

He repeated your name with a nod and held out his hand. “I’m Chris,” he said. “Fellow unclaimed kid.”

A little bit less of a scarlet letter, at least. You swallowed your budding insecurity and shook his hand. “Sounds like a shitty club to be in.”

He snorted. “You’re telling me.”

“How— how long has it been?” you asked hesitantly, almost afraid to know the answer. 

His lips pressed into a tight smile. “Couple years.” 

“Gods,” you murmured. You didn’t know if you’d be able to wait that long. It had been hard enough already growing up without one—if your mother was just out of reach after all this time, you would surely lose your mind. 

“Don’t worry,” Chris said, his expression softening a bit. “It won’t take that long for you. I can tell.” 

“That’s what Luke said,” you responded wryly. “Do I give off a vibe that says ‘I’m unwanted, but not for too long’?” 

Luke laughed and shook his head. “I promise, it’s all gonna be okay. I’ve been the counselor here for a couple months—kids get claimed all the time. I bet you’re next on the list.” 

“Maybe,” you said. You didn’t believe it as much as they did—if they did at all. 

You heard the door open and your head automatically turned to the noise, and you felt the heat rush to your cheeks in embarrassment as Tate came through, slightly out of breath. You stared at Luke—he said thirty minutes at least. He just shrugged. 

“I figured you would be here,” Tate said, his chest rising and falling just so as he walked—trotted?—inside. “You didn’t exactly wait.” 

You opened your mouth to speak up, but Luke beat you, already putting on a charming smile. “Sorry. We got to talking, and then I offered to show her around the Hermes cabin. Just so she  could put her things down, y’know.” 

“‘Course,” Tate nodded. “That— that was probably a good idea. Would have been bad if you got lost or something.” 

“I’m sorry,” you said, and you went to pick your bag up. “Luke said you would be talking for a lot longer— I was going to come back after I was done with this.”

Tate shook his head. That nervous energy from the worst parts of the road was back, and you wondered how badly the talk with Chiron and Mr. D went. “No, it was a good idea. Better than you getting lost around camp or caught up with some troublemakers. Thanks, Luke.” 

“‘Course,” he said. 

“Not sure she’s in much better hands with Luke,” Chris said wryly. “He’s head troublemaker in the cabin of troublemakers.” 

Luke just chuckled and shook his head. “It’s her first day. I wouldn’t let anything happen to her.” 

You were only able to glance at Luke for a moment before your attention was drawn back to Tate as he gestured outside with his head. “Chiron’s waiting outside. He wants to talk to you some before the tour.” 

And now you had to deal with it too. “...Great,” you said. You set your bag back on the ground, in your newly coveted corner.  

“It’ll be fine,” Tate promised. “You already went through Hades to get here— he’s not gonna pile on you more. That’s why Mr. D is back at the Big House.” 

This time, you did look at Luke. Thankfully, he understood. 

“Dionysus,” he explained. “He’s our camp director.” 

You blinked. “The god?” 

“Yep,” he nodded. “Punishment from Zeus. Not the worst gig, but he’s… interesting.” 

“Great,” you repeated, because you didn’t feel like processing that at the moment, and you looked back at Tate. “You’ll be with me, right?” 

He nodded. “Not for the talk, but for the tour.” 

You let out a loose breath, because it was going to be fine. He was just the authority figure of the one safe place in the world for you, and you were just an annoying kid that had no idea what the hell was going on. 

“Great,” you said for the third time. You looked back at Luke. “I’ll see you around?” 

He smiled and bowed his head. “Definitely. You do kinda live here indefinitely now.” 

You nodded, more relieved than you wanted to show, and you started following Tate out.

You heard Chris mutter something to Luke, and you turned your head in time to see Luke jab him in the side. His head perked up when you laughed, and his whole expression changed as his smile returned and he did a little wave. 

You couldn’t help but smile back as you did the same, and you left the cabin with a little pep in your step. 

—

“You promise you’ll be safe.” 

“Yes, Tate,” you said with a slight laugh. “The worst is already over—you got me here, and we’re both alive. I’m gonna be fine.” 

“I know,” he said, and he managed his own smile. “I’m just worried about you. You don’t spend two weeks on the road fighting for your life with someone and not get a little attached.” 

“You’ll be back here, right?” you asked. “I know your whole thing as a Protector, but you’ve gotta drop the demigods off too, right?” 

“Of course I’ll be back,” he promised. “It… just might be a while. You’re the third demigod I’ve gotten to camp safely, now—Chiron’s trusting me with a bigger mission. It might be a couple months, but I’ll be back.” 

“And you’re telling me to be safe,” you said wryly. 

“I’ve been doing this for a while,” he said. “You just got here.” 

“I know,” you said, and you pulled him into a hug. “Just don’t get killed out there.” 

Tate laughed and patted you on the back before he pulled away. “So long as you don’t killed out here.” 

“Thanks for everything,” you said with a nod. 

“Thank you,” he said, and he gestured at the pavilion with his head. “Now get over there and make some friends. I’ll see you around.” 

You hugged him one last time before you reluctantly went off, and you looked back to wave him goodbye before you really started on your way. 

Your head still spun with all the information Chiron and Tate had imparted on you—so much about Greek mythology (and how it was all real), ADHD and dyslexia (and how they weren’t just there to make your life harder), your godly parent (who would hopefully claim you within the month) and so much more that you knew you would forget in an hour or two. 

And Chiron’s talk. God, it felt more like you were in the principal’s office than anything, even though he was nothing but kind. You couldn’t help but be overwhelmed from it all, and though the talk was probably meant to stave some of that anxiety off, it really didn’t. 

But you’d always felt out of place all your life. And now you were finally where you were meant to belong—that had to count for something. 

Tate had dropped you off at the pavilion—nearly dying had taken a lot out of you, and it just happened to be lunch—and just as you neared the tables and realized you had no idea where to sit, your eyes were drawn to a boy raising his hand and calling your name. 

You looked over and saw that it was Luke, the counselor from earlier, and you couldn’t help but smile. True to his word. 

You weaved your way through various campers and around tables full of kids to finally stop next to Luke’s table—Chris, the guy from earlier, sat across from him, and they both smiled at you. 

“How’d the tour go?” he asked. 

“Fine,” you said with a nod. “A little overwhelming, but better than I thought.” You pulled at your new camp shirt, the fabric noticeably brighter than a majority of those around you. “I match now, at least.”

“Orange suits you,” Luke remarked, and he patted the open spot next to him. “Sit down—stay for a while.”

You chuckled as you sat down. You still felt out of place, but at least they weren’t going to hang you out to dry. “Bright orange seems like an odd choice when we’re trying to stay hidden.”

“Probably so Chiron doesn’t lose us,” he joked. “This place is huge, and there’s a lot of us. When the newest camper gets turned around in the woods during capture the flag and nearly dies to a monster, it’s easier to find them.”

You frowned, and you must’ve not been very good at hiding your panic because Chris shook his head.

“Luke, you’re scaring her. She’s already been through enough.” 

“Don’t worry,” Luke said, patting you on the shoulder. “Just a little halfblood humor. You’re gonna be fine, I promise.”

“It doesn’t feel that way,” you said wryly. “It feels like I nearly died four hours ago and now I have no idea who anyone is or what to do.”

“Not true,” Chris spoke up, and he smiled. “You know us.”

“I’ll look out for you,” Luke promised. “And pretty soon, you’re gonna be good enough to look out for me.”

You let out a long lasting sigh. “God, I hope so.” 

—

“You’re not holding it right.” 

You adjusted your hold on the hilt, resisting the urge to wipe away the bead of sweat dripping down your forehead and the even stronger urge to hit him. 

“You’re still not holding it right.” 

Your teeth grinded together as you turned to look at Luke. “Are you gonna actually help me, or just stand there judgmentally?” 

“I dunno,” he said. “The weather’s pretty good over here.” 

You groaned and moved your non-dominant hand closer to the pommel, shifting your other down as well. “Is this worthy of your approval, Your Majesty?” 

Luke chuckled as he walked over to you, and you could feel the calluses on his hands as he adjusted your form with slight touches to your arms. “It is acceptable, my lady, but your posture is not.” 

“I don’t know how so many people at this camp like you,” you grumbled. “This is awful, and so are you.” 

He smiled. “You’ve been here for two weeks. Give yourself some grace.” 

“I’ve spent one of those trying and failing at the most basic basics of sword-fighting,” you said. “I spent the past hour losing to an Ares kid who I’m pretty sure actually wanted to kill me.” You looked over at Luke. “Thanks for that, by the way.” 

“Trial by fire,” he supplied. “You’re still alive, so obviously you’re doing something right.” 

“Yeah, probably because you’re here,” you said. “You can’t just kill someone when their counselor’s standing right next to them. It’s bad publicity.” 

Luke huffed a laugh and shook his head as he crossed his arms. “Stop talking down on yourself. You managed to make it here with a couple monster attacks on the way—what’d you use then?” 

“I started off with a screwdriver I stole from the garage before Tate and I left,” you said. “And then I stole a hunting knife from some outdoor store. Not exactly top-tier.” 

“Lotta stealing,” Luke chuckled. “Maybe you are a Hermes kid.” 

“They nearly caught me,” you said. “Definitely not.” 

“Regardless of thievery, you still survived,” he continued. “You’re not a bonafide swordsman, that’s fine. But you’re resourceful, creative—scrappy in a fight is just what we need sometimes.” 

“Great,” you mumbled. “I’m ‘scrappy’.” 

“It’s a compliment,” he promised. “If we were all sword-fighters, we wouldn’t get far. Someone like you is gonna do us a lot of good.” 

“If I don’t die before I even get out to the battlefield.” You knocked the helmet off of one of the straw dummies with your sword and sighed as it clattered to the ground. “This is the only enemy I stand a chance against.”

“You’re thinking too much about it all,” Luke said. “You’re literally wired for battle—didn’t you feel it during your fights on the way to camp?”

You shrugged. You guess you did—you remember not even taking the time to analyze the situation, just knowing your lives were in danger and finally feeling the ever-present jitters in your bones settle for the first time. 

“It was rough,” you finally said. “But… it did feel like I knew what I was doing. Like my body understood it all even when my mind was still a couple steps behind.”

“And that was without training, and with,” Luke huffed an incredulous laugh, “a screwdriver. Just imagine what you’ll be able to do with actual Celestial bronze and actual training.” 

“…I think I remember why people like you,” you said reluctantly. “And why I liked you.” 

Luke grinned as he stood up. “That’s the spirit.” He picked up the fallen helmet and placed it back on the dummy, then looked at you. “I think I’ve put you through enough suffering. Let’s get lunch.”

“So a compliment was all it took for me to get out of this?” you asked in exasperation, gesturing with your sword as you worked to undo the ties on your armor with your other hand. 

“Exactly,” he mused, and he took the sword from you to store it away. “I don’t get nearly enough compliments these days, y’know. Sometimes you end up taking that out on campers that don’t know how to swordfight.” 

“Luke Castellan,” you grumbled as you finally got your breastplate off, “you are a piece of work.” 

He winked. “Thank you.” 

—

You didn’t think you were built for this life. 

It was the only thought running through your head as you sat at a crowded Hermes table, absentmindedly picking at fruit with your fork as you stared off into the distance.

You’d been at Camp Halfblood for a month now, but it had already felt like a lifetime. 

You’d managed to make a few friends—a Demeter girl who grew you a bouquet of your favorite flowers as a consolation prize for fighting dirty during training; an Athena boy who told you whatever interesting fact popped into his head first every time you ran into each other; the Hebe girl who had the misfortune to have the corner opposite you in the Hermes cabin and showed you skincare tips once in a while. 

Throw in a smattering of Hermes and unclaimed kids and a counselor that seemed determined to make you smile, and you weren’t as lonely as you thought you’d be. 

You were learning how to fight in your own way. Luke was right—you weren’t a swordsman, but you were damn good up close and personal. He’d taken you to the camp armory, you found a Celestial bronze dagger that spoke to you, and from then on you’d actually been doing well in training.

Your corner of the Hermes cabin didn’t feel as sad anymore, either. Luke took you to the camp store for retail therapy after you nearly burned your jeans off on the climbing wall, so now you had an AC/DC poster (courtesy of the little money you had) and an I ❤️ NY keychain to attach to your backpack (courtesy of Luke’s idle hands).

You were starting to come into your own, sure. You were doing better in training and making friends in the cabin you were stuck in and starting to get used to burning part of every meal, but the most glaring issue of all still hadn’t been resolved.

You still hadn’t been claimed. 

And maybe it shouldn’t have been such an issue for you, but how could you not feel shitty? How could you see all the different tables and all the different kids talking and smiling and joking with each other that had parents who cared enough to at least claim them, and not feel unworthy?

Because you did. You felt unworthy, and it didn’t matter how many times you took your sparring partner down or bested the climbing wall or actually hit the bullseye at archery practice—your mother didn’t think you were good enough, so neither did you. 

“How’re you doin’, Berkeley?” 

You frowned. You didn’t have to look up to know it was Luke as he sat down next to you. “What?”

“Did you not hear me?” he asked, but you were already shaking your head.

“Berkeley,” you repeated, finally glancing at him. “That’s not my name.”

Luke shrugged. “I dunno what to tell you. You’re unclaimed. UC. University of California—first one I think of for you is Berkeley.”

You were staring now. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’ve got tons of UCs. I’ve gotta keep track of them all somehow,” Luke said, and he pointed at campers both at your table and walking around as he talked. “That’s LA, Irvine, Davis—the others aren’t here, but you get the gist.” He looked back at you. “Been savin’ Berkeley for someone special.”

“Oh gods,” you said, horrified. “I’ve got to get claimed.”

One of the girls at the table—Irvine?—rolled her eyes as she stood up and flicked Luke on the head. “Be nice,” she said before walking away. All he did was smile.

“Maybe give it to someone else,” you said. “I don’t feel special.”

Luke’s brows creased. “If you don’t like it—”

“It’s fine,” you said. “The name doesn’t bother me. The reason I have it does.”

His eyes softened as he said your actual name. “It’s only been a month. You’ve still got plenty of time.”

You looked across at the Hebe girl you’d become friends with—Marisol, if you remembered right—and hoped that your eyes didn’t show the desperation you felt. “How long did it take for you?” 

She offered a sympathetic smile. “Six months. But it probably won’t be that long for you.” 

“That’s what everyone keeps saying,” you mumbled. But it had been a month, and you hadn’t gotten a single sign. 

“Because it’s true,” Luke urged. “Whoever your mom is will notice you—you’ve been killing it lately.” 

“Really,” you said flatly, “I’ve been killing it.” 

“Yes,” he said. “You don’t know it because you’ve only got your own experience—you went from nearly dead on our doorstep to taking down most of your opponents.” 

“In training,” you said. 

“That still counts!” Luke exclaimed. “Y’know, you’re holding yourself back. You’re incredible, but you’re the only one that seems to not notice it.” 

“And my—” 

“Do not say your mom,” he said, pointing a finger at you. “We’re not talking about the gods right now, we’re talking about you. And you, Bee, are killing it.” 

That gave you pause. “Bee?” 

“I’m trying to get you back up and you focus on the nickname?” Luke asked wryly. 

“Just explain it,” you said. 

“Bee shortened from Berkeley,” he said. “Not fully unclaimed, but still something special.”

God, you hated him. You’d been feeling shitty for a majority of your month here, but he always managed to make you smile.  

“Sure,” you said. 

“And a little annoying,” he added, earning himself a jab in the side as he laughed, “with a bit of a sting.”

“Aren’t you just so clever?” you mused, though you couldn’t help your smile widening.

“It’s in my genes,” he said proudly.

For the rest of a less than exciting lunch, Luke kept you occupied. Whether it was stories of his life before camp, or the couple of months that earned him counselor before you got here, or getting the other campers at the Hermes table to talk about themselves, he made sure you didn’t get a chance to spiral. 

By the end, your face hurt from smiling

As you finished cleaning up, Marisol turned to you.  “Me and a couple other girls were gonna go play volleyball—do you wanna come with us?” 

“Yeah,” you said, and your smile grew. “Yeah, I’d love to. Thanks.” 

“‘Course!” she exclaimed, and she linked arms with you. “I’d be a fool not to get you on my team after you took down Liam yesterday.” 

She continued to talk as she pulled you along, and you looked back at Luke. He chuckled and gave you a thumbs up. “Go get ‘em, Bee!” 

You gave him one back, and as you turned back to Marisol, you found that you couldn’t stop smiling. 

—

It was two in the morning and you couldn’t stop crying.

You finally had a mattress against your back, and however stiff it was, it was better than the floor. A decent amount of kids got claimed over the past month, and half the cabin left after the summer was over, so you finally had the privilege of a bunk—thankfully, Marisol did too, and she was below you. 

At least, until the summer-only campers that all the Hermes kids liked more than you returned. Then it was back to the floor.

Unless you got claimed before then. But that was less likely than being able to muster some good will from your cabin mates. 

Because it was embarrassing, truly. You’d been at camp for four months now, and you hadn’t even gotten a single goddamn peep from whoever your mother might be. You just woke up every day on the floor, moseyed about a camp that still didn’t feel like home, burned offerings to a god that didn't want you, and went back to sleep on the floor. 

And now you were crying in a bed that was barely even yours and it was two in the morning and you were wondering if it would have just been better for you to die on the road to camp the first time, because at least then your mother might have actually paid attention to you. 

“Hey.” 

And now you were really wishing you’d died because you’d woken someone up and they’re just gonna hate you more— 

“Are you okay?” 

You finally turned your head from where it had been buried in a pillow, a laissez-faire attempt to suffocate yourself or maybe just muffle the noise, and you saw Luke Castellan. Counselor of a cabin of thieves, vagabonds, and rejects, and maybe the only person that you didn’t want to see you like this. All that good will, the unearned faith you’d accumulated—this was the easiest way to lose it. His eyebrows were creased, and his whisper held what sounded like concern, but he was required to be concerned. 

You nodded, still not moving, still not speaking. Tears rolled down your cheeks and stained the bed sheet. 

“You’re gonna have to be a little more believable than that, Bee,” Luke murmured. 

“No, I don’t,” you whispered back. 

You got the tiniest huff of a laugh out of him, and he gestured towards the closed door with his head. “Wanna take a second?” 

“It’s past curfew,” you mumbled. 

“And you’re miserable,” Luke said. “You can’t feel any worse getting eaten by harpies than you do now.” 

Still, you stared at him. 

“It’ll be okay,” he promised. “Right outside the cabin. Harpies won’t even know.” 

You rubbed a hand across your face, coming away wet with tears, and you realized that he wasn’t just going to leave you like this. So you got up as quietly as you could, careful not to disturb your bunkmates, and followed Luke. He pushed the door open and shut so quietly you wondered how many times he’s snuck out. 

The cold air was sobering, and you wiped away more tears before wrapping your arms around yourself. Camp Half-Blood was always supposed to have perfect weather, but you guess not even they were immune to November nights. 

“So,” Luke started, and in your peripherals you could see him leaning against the side of the cabin. You could feel his gaze on you, and you just stared off into the distance. 

“So,” you repeated. 

“You wanna tell me why you’re crying in the middle of the night?” he asked. 

“Not really,” you said, because it felt ridiculous that a boy your age was acting like he’s ten years your elder. 

Luke chuckled and tipped his head. “Fair. You want to say anything at all?” 

“I’m sorry for waking you up.” 

He shook his head. “I was already up. I’m a light sleeper.” 

“Seems rough in a cabin like this,” you said. 

“I’ve gotten used to it,” he said. “Did you have a nightmare?”

You frowned, because now it really felt like he was babying you. Luke must have caught on, because he laughed a bit and shook his head.

“Demigods have… extremely vivid dreams,” he said. “Typically horrific nightmares. Sometimes prophetic.”

Your frown deepened. “That’s awful.”

Luke shrugged. “It’s just the way it is. The gods can’t interfere in mortal affairs, so I guess it’s their way of letting us know what’s wrong.”

You shook your head with a sigh. “No nightmares, thankfully. Just… feeling overwhelmed.”

“About what?” he asked. “I told you you’ve been doing great.” 

“It doesn’t matter how many times you say it,” you said wryly. “It doesn’t mean I believe it.” 

“There’s no reason you shouldn’t,” he asserted. 

You huffed a laugh. “It’s been four months, Luke. Four months since I got here after nearly dying in five different states, and I don’t even know who’s responsible for it.” 

“Ah,” Luke said. “The unclaimed thing.” 

“Yeah,” you said wryly. “I guess you could call it that.”

“Sorry,” he said, and he shook his head. “It’s a bigger deal than that, I know.” 

“Maybe it isn’t,” you said. “There’s at least six other kids in there dealing with the same thing as I am, and none of them are waking up their counselor in the middle of the night with their tears.”

“Don’t talk about yourself like that,” Luke said with surprising conviction. “Like your feelings aren’t valid. Because they are.” 

You crossed your arms. “Doesn’t seem like it.” 

“They are,” he insisted. “A— and you’re not bothering me. We’re friends, and we help each other. I care about you, y’know.” 

“I never said I was bothering you,” you said wryly. 

“You thought it,” Luke said. “I know you did.” 

“...Maybe.” You sighed and shook your head as you looked out at the stars. They really were beautiful here. “I just can’t help but be bitter about all this, and I feel so shitty about it.” 

“Would it make you feel better to know you’re not the only one that thinks that?” he asked. 

“A little, yeah.” You glanced at him. “No one else seems too bothered that their parents are never around.” 

“Most of them have accepted that it’s just the way it is,” he said. “Doesn’t mean you have to.” 

“Have you?” 

Luke sighed after a moment of reluctance. “I… I have a complicated relationship with my dad because he was around. It was almost… worse to know him, and then to have him leave.” 

“It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,” you quoted. 

“I don’t know about that,” Luke murmured. “But it certainly helps to talk about it.” 

You glanced over to see him gazing off into the distance, a look in his eye that you couldn’t quite place. This was the most he’d ever talked about his past to you, you realized—and it still wasn’t much. 

“When were you claimed?” you asked after a moment of contemplation.

Luke shrugged. “I never really had to be. Hermes stayed with my mom for a year after I was born, and she told me who he was when I was a little older. I’ve known basically my whole life—he had no reason not to claim me as soon as I got to camp.”

“So you’re saying my dad could be keeping secrets from me too,” you said. 

“He might not know,” Luke said. “A lot of times, they don’t talk about it. Sometimes, we don’t find out until a monster’s trying to kill us on a field trip.” 

You huffed. “What a great existence we’ve been blessed with.” 

Luke smiled, though it was tighter than usual. He let out a deep breath, then fully turned to you. 

“Do you have your dagger with you?”

You frowned. “It’s under my pillow. Why?” 

“Under your—” Luke stared for a moment before he laughed and shook his head. “A little paranoid?” 

You shrugged. “You said it yourself. You’re a cabin of thieves.” 

“True,” he admitted. “How’d you like to get some of this emotion out?” 

“We’re sneaking out even more?” 

“It’ll be fine,” Luke promised. 

“You always say that,” you said. “Eventually, it’s not gonna be true.” 

He laughed and gestured at the door. “Get your dagger. We’re gonna make this a very bad night for some mannequins.” 

-

“Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.” 

You huffed as you ripped your dagger out of the dummy, a few strands of straw coming out of the new hole you’d torn in its forehead, and wiped the sweat off your forehead. “Are you kidding? This was a great idea.” 

“Not this part,” he said. “The ‘being alone with you during a rage’ part.” 

“I’m not in a rage,” you muttered as you slashed at the breastplate, “I’m blowing off steam.” 

Luke hummed. “And you thought you weren’t a good fighter.” 

You stabbed at the armor again then rammed your fist into its head, and you took a step back as the mannequin thudded to the ground. “I guess I just need to think about my mom before I go into battle.” 

“Y’know, Bee,” Luke said, “you scare me sometimes.” 

You shook your head, wiping your blade on your night shirt to get any debris off as you turned around. “You’re really gonna stick with that?” 

“I told you I’d stop if you didn’t like it.” 

“It’s not that. I just…” You sighed and shook your head again. “It doesn’t matter.” 

“Of course it does.” Luke crossed his arms. “Everything you have to say matters.” 

“Not if I say it doesn’t,” you countered, and you looked at him. “Who do you think it could be?” 

“Your parent?” he asked. You nodded. 

“Definitely not Apollo,” Luke said. “You’re way too dreary to be a kid of the god of the sun.”

“Gee,” you said dryly, “thanks.” 

Luke shrugged. “You asked.” 

“Well— who else?” You picked the dummy back up and dusted the armor off. “Athena, maybe? I’m smart.” 

“Not smart enough to not be out past curfew with me,” he said. 

“You suggested this,” you scoffed. “And I definitely needed it. If we get caught, I’m blaming you.” 

“And why do you think that would work?” he asked, amused. 

“You’re the camp’s golden boy,” you said. “I doubt you’d get in much trouble.” 

“Sure, sure,” he said, nodding. “Or you just think I’m good enough to talk my way out of it.” 

You tilted your head. “That too.”

“I never thought Ares before,” Luke chuckled, “but after all this, I think you might have it in you.” 

“God, I hope not. Priya hates me.” 

“She doesn’t hate you,” Luke said. “She just tried to kill you that one time.” 

“And that other time during capture the flag,” you said. “She’s out for blood, Luke.” 

He chuckled and shook his head. “She always is. She’s probably already moved onto her next victim.” 

“I hope so.” 

“Maybe Aphrodite?” he suggested. “You’re awfully pretty.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“It’s not flattery if it’s true,” Luke corrected. 

You huffed a laugh but couldn’t help the slightest smile as you shook your head. “It’s not Tyche, at least. I have the worst luck.” 

“Maybe you’re a Big Three kid,” he said. “How do you feel about the sky?” 

“I like it,” you said. 

“The ocean?” 

“Not so much.” 

“And the darkness?” 

You huffed a dry laugh. “I’m not a Big Three kid, Luke. Even I know that.” 

“No, you don’t,” he said. “You can never know for sure until you’re claimed.” 

“If I was, I would be the biggest disappointment,” you said, looking at your reflection in your dagger. “Breaking their pact for a kid that can barely fight.” 

“Why do you always do that?” 

Luke’s voice had lost the joking edge from before, and when you glanced over at him, he was frowning.

“Do what?” 

“You always put yourself down,” he said. “You don’t even give yourself a chance to believe that you’ll be great, or that you’ll succeed—you’re just a coward, or a failure, or worthless at the first bump in the road.” 

“Luke—” 

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I need you to understand that you are so, so much more than whatever that shitty voice in your head says.”

You went silent. Any words you could have even said stuck in your throat. 

“This is not an easy life,” Luke asserted. “We’re thrown into an ocean before we know how to swim, and we have to find the shore all on our own or die trying. We—” he laughed, but there was no heart in it— “we’ve got our parents above us that could guide us, could save us, but most of the time they refuse to even acknowledge us. And we’ve got every single goddamn obstacle in the way trying to kill us.”

He inclined his head towards you. “But in spite of all that, you’re alive. You’re still here. You’re pushing through everything in your path, and you are still fucking here. Do you get that?”

“…I’m still here,” you repeated, and your hands clenched into fists. It had never felt more right to have your dagger in your hand. 

Luke nodded resolutely. “And you’ve got a couple lifeboats to help along the way.”

“You mean it?” Your voice came out softer than you thought, in stark contrast to the stiffness of your bones, but you felt like a kid all over again. 

“With all my heart,” he promised. “For as long as you’re here, I’ll be here.” 

Your throat tightened, and the telltale beginnings of tears pricked behind your eyes. This time, when you spoke, your voice was little more than a whisper. “Thank you.”

“Always,” he said. “And I mean that.”

You nodded, maybe a few too many times, and cleared your throat as you looked back at your dagger. “It’s late. We should get back before we actually get in trouble.”

Luke nodded too, and he helped you move the dummy back into place. You hated how your heart jumped into your throat when your hands brushed for the barest moment, but thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice. 

“Thank you for this.” You played with your hands as Luke finished putting everything else away—extra insurance to make sure no one knew you were here—and only managed to make eye contact just as he looked at you. “It… it really helped.” More than he knew, you were sure. 

Luke smiled, and he offered you his arm. “Always.”

You took it, ignoring the heat in your cheeks. “Just… don’t tell anyone about the crying.”

He chuckled as you started walking together. “After the way you’ve been handling that dagger? I’d be a fool.“

-

“Luke,” you groaned, “this is awful.” 

“You were the one who said you wanted to spend time with me,” he said, giving you a crooked smile. “Spending time with me after the worst cabin inspection ever means cleaning the place head to toe for our next one.” 

“Is skipping dinner really worth it though?” you asked as you scooped up a pile of dirty clothes and tossed it into the basket between you two. 

“It’s the only time this place is completely empty,” he said. “I told you I could handle it alone—you’re the one that insisted on helping.” 

“Maybe I do want to be a Big Three kid,” you grumbled. “At least I’d only be cleaning up my own mess.” 

“You’d also have the wrath of the gods and every monster in the world to deal with,” he said. 

You shook your head. “A small price to pay for a clean cabin.” 

“And then you wouldn’t get to see me when you wake up every day,” he mused. “A much bigger price to pay.” 

You huffed as you dropped to your knees, reaching under a bed to grab a stray camp tee. “Keep talking, pretty boy. It won’t clean the floors.” 

Luke grinned. “You think I’m pretty?” 

“I think you’ve got the messiest cabin in the world,” you said. “We’ve gotten the lowest rating every day for the past two weeks. I’ve been here for seven months now, and I don’t think we’ve ever gotten a full five.” 

“Which is why you’re helping me!” he said. “Because you’re as sick of scrubbing the pegasi stables as I am.” 

“You’re the counselor here!” you exclaimed. “You’ve gotta whip your siblings into shape.” 

Luke gestured at you. “You’re basically my co-counselor. It’s just as much your responsibility.” 

“And just what makes you think that?” you marveled. 

“You’re the person in the cabin I like the most,” he said, “and we spend a lot of time together. That’s enough to make you my partner.” 

“My stuff is always clean,” you said. “It’s you and the rest of the Hermes kids that’ve gotten us stuck in the stables and the kitchens every afternoon. Not me.”

You started remaking the unmade bed—would it kill any of the Hermes kids to make theirs right after they got up?—and shook your head. “It’s just not fair. Aphrodite’s cabin is basically Barbie’s Dreamhouse, and Demeter kids can grow plants to make it all pretty. We’ve just got a cabin of slobs.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, but when you glanced at him, you saw he was smiling. “It’ll all be fine.” 

“You always say that.” You got the fitted sheet into all the corners then looked at him full-on. “Even when it’s not about something as stupid as laundry. How do you know?” 

Luke shrugged as he nudged a ladder to a top bunk back into place. “I don’t. I just hope for the best.” 

“How do you do that?” you asked. “How does anyone here do that? I feel like I’m the most pessimistic person here.” 

“Every single one of us is an anomaly,” Luke said. “Freaks of nature. By all accounts of logic, we shouldn’t exist. But we do. All of mythology does. And when we have to literally fight for our lives for every single day, it doesn’t do much good to sweat the small stuff.”

“All I do is sweat the small stuff,” you grumbled, and you stretched your back out before you continued. “D’you think they’ll get annoyed that we just pooled all their laundry together again?” 

“Nah,” Luke said. “If they didn’t want to have to pick all their stuff out after we so graciously do the laundry for them, they would keep their things clean in the first place.” 

You chuckled and shook your head as you finished laying out the sorry excuse for a comforter—it would end up on the floor five seconds into the night, but Sisyphus and the boulder and all that—and sat down on the fruits of your labor. “I think this mess is the one thing I won’t miss when I get claimed.” 

“You’re not as down about that as you used to be,” Luke noted.

“You know how they say a watched pot never boils?” 

He actually laughed at that as he leaned against a bed post. “If you don’t care, you’ll get claimed faster?” 

You shrugged. “Nothing else has worked. And like you said—don’t sweat the small stuff, right?” 

“Like you said— all you do is sweat the small stuff.” 

“Maybe I’m gonna try and turn over a new leaf,” you mused.

“I think that would be good for you,” he said. “You’ve been happier lately. It’s good to see you happy.” 

“You’ve been watching?” you asked wryly. 

Luke smiled. “You know I always am.” 

You ignored the warmth stirring in your chest as you shrugged. “I’ve spent way too much time this year being sad over things I can’t control. Might as well start focusing on the things I can.” 

“And to think,” he mused, “this is the same girl that wanted nothing to do with me when we first talked.” 

“Oh, please,” you said dryly, “I’ve always wanted something to do with you.” 

“And you still understand that flattery gets you everywhere,” Luke said with a grin. He pushed himself up and held out his hand. “C’mon—this place is clean enough. I think if we run, we can still make dinner.” 

“Think we’ll get in trouble for partially skipping?” you asked as you stood up and took his hand, swinging your intertwined hands a bit as you walked together. 

Luke chuckled as he pushed the door open and you walked out. “After the work we did here? We should be hailed as saints.”  

-

“Luke,” you whispered. 

His eyes shot wide open as he jolted up, and you had to stifle your laugh at his bewildered expression before he realized it was you. 

He said your name groggily, rubbing his eyes as he kept himself propped up with his other arm. “What d’you need?” 

“The stars,” you said. “They’re beautiful tonight.” 

“So are you,” he mumbled. “You don’t see me waking you up in the middle of the night to tell you that.” 

“Luke,” you said, but you couldn’t help your smile. “On topic.” 

“The stars,” he said, barely nodding in his addled state. “Good for them. I’m going back to sleep now.” 

“No, Luke—” you laughed softly and took his hand. “Come stargazing with me.” 

He closed his eyes, but he didn’t take his hand away. “You’re insane.” 

“Please,” you said. “I could never see the stars at home, not like this. They’re brighter than I’ve ever seen.” 

“It’s so late,” he complained. “Can we do it in the morning?” 

“Do you know what stargazing is?” you asked, amused. 

“Hey, lovebirds.” The annoyed, tired voice of a camper rang out as they hit the wall. “Take it outside so we can sleep.” 

Again, you had to bite back a laugh. Luke looked like he was holding back a groan, but he got up anyway, rubbing the grogginess out of his eyes. You moved to the door as quietly as possible, and you waited until he joined you on the small porch. 

“Thank you,” you said, hearing the door close, “and sorry.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Luke covered up his yawn as he held a jacket out for you. “Put this on. I’m not gonna be responsible for you getting a cold because you want to stargaze in February.” 

Your eyebrows rose as you took it. “Is this yours?” 

“Don’t think too much into it,” he said, but he had the slightest smile on his lips. “You wanna see the stars, right? Let’s see ‘em.” 

“Not here,” you said, shaking your head as you zipped up the maroon hoodie. You held out your hand once you finished. “Do you trust me?” 

“Oh, gods,” he muttered, running a hand through his messy hair. “We’re doing a trust exercise too?” 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you remarked. You took his hand and started dragging him along, a clear spot in mind. 

“You’re kidding me,” he said in exasperation. “I thought we were just gonna look at the sky for a couple minutes— you’re taking me to a second destination?”  

“Hey,” you said, “don’t sweat the small stuff.” 

“Oh, I can’t wait to use that on the harpies when they catch us and eat us,” Luke said offhandedly. “‘I’m sorry, ma’am—we’re really trying not to sweat the small stuff.’” 

You laughed as you continued on your way, and out of the corner of your eye you could see Luke smiling too, despite himself. Suddenly, though, his grip tightened on your hand and he pulled you behind one of the thicker columns of the pavilion. 

“Wh—” 

He shook his head then gestured with it to the other side of the pavilion. One of the harpies—Aello, if you remembered correctly from Chris’s rant the past week about cleaning dishes—was walking past, muttering things to herself. 

“Speak of the devil,” you marveled. You definitely weren’t a child of Tyche. 

Luke gave you a look that quite clearly said be quiet, and for some reason that only made you want to laugh more. He must have seen that glint in your eye that he’d grown used to, because he placed his hand over your mouth right before the dam was about to burst. 

You squeezed his hand tight as you tried to keep yourself from blowing your cover while Luke occupied himself with actually watching to make sure your path would clear. You were pressed right up against each other, and even through the jacket, even in the cold, you could feel his body warmth. He did say he ran hot.

Eventually, Luke let out a labored sigh and let his hand drop, and you wheezed, nearly doubling over. 

“There is something wrong with you,” he said. He was barely able to hold back his own amusement.  

“Oh my god,” you breathed, “that was awful.” 

“That was your fault!” he exclaimed. 

“How was it my fault?” you argued. “You’re the counselor here—you’re meant to be the responsible one!” 

“I was being responsible!” Luke laughed again as he ran his hand through his hair then used it to gesture at you. “You were the one that nearly got us caught—you were the one who wanted to be out here in the first place!”

 “Right,” you said, pointing your finger, “we gotta get to the beach.” 

“Stargazing on the beach,” Luke marveled. “Definitely worth nearly getting eaten.” 

“Oh, shut up,” you said as you continued to pull him along. “You could’ve said no.” 

He squeezed your hand for a moment. “We both know I can never say no to you.” 

Once you got to the beach you let go of his hand and laid down, taking care not to get sand in your sneakers. Luke sat down next to you but stayed up, watching the tide go in and out. 

At night, without a hundred campers running around making all the noise they can, you actually felt like you could breathe. 

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” It almost felt wrong to break the sacred silence, to insert yourself in the ambiance of nature working together in all its glory. 

“Yeah.” Luke’s voice was softer than usual, that rough edge you’d grown used to absent in the face of calmer seas. “Yeah. It’s…” 

“Serene,” you suggested. 

“Beautiful,” he said. When you glanced at him, he was already looking at you. 

“Very smooth,” you said wryly. “Now stop flirting and look at the stars.” 

Luke chuckled lightly as he let himself fall back. His hand bumped yours as he adjusted his position, and your breath caught in your throat for the barest moment. You moved it away. 

The two of you laid there together in silence gazing at the stars for what felt like forever. The gentle waves coming to shore then leaving, the scattering of sand from quiet winds, and not a single angry car horn or police siren. 

You missed home, the city. You were headstrong in your belief that Detroit was better than New York. But gods—sometimes, you just couldn’t beat camp. 

You didn’t know what possessed you to break the silence. But something had been tugging at you since the moment you laid down on the beach, and so you did. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” 

Luke didn’t miss a beat. “Always.” 

“I…” you trailed off for a moment, but you bolstered yourself. “I’m scared of what comes next.” 

You heard Luke shift in the sand and felt his eyes on you. “What do you mean?” 

“After this,” you said. “The honeymoon phase of being a demigod.” 

He huffed a laugh. “I wouldn’t say we have a honeymoon phase.” 

“You know what I mean.” A shiver went down your spine and you put your arms on your chest. Like a coffin. “I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.” 

“I think you need to stop getting up in the middle of the night,” he said. “It seems you have all your existential crises then.” 

You exhaled out your nose, a sorry excuse for a laugh. “I’ve heard about quests—how they can happen for no reason except a god’s will, to— to prove that you’re worthy. And all I can think about is that my mother will never claim me until I prove I’m worthy or die trying.” 

Luke was silent. You could feel your throat closing up, the threatened onslaught of tears. You blinked them back. 

“All my life, I have never felt seen,” you murmured. “And I’m terrified that the only way I will be seen is when I die.”

“Look at me.” 

You turned your head—Luke’s eyes were piercing in the moonlight. 

“I don’t care what anyone says, especially that voice in your head—you’re worth everything and more,” he said. “And you are worth so much more than becoming a martyr for a god’s approval.” 

“I wish you could tell my mom that,” you mumbled. 

“I would march right up to Olympus and say it to her face,” he said. “And if it bothers her that much, she can smite me right now.” 

That got a breathy laugh out of you from the pure absurdity. Luke’s eyes flicked to the sky as he waited, and when he didn’t instantly die a horrific death, his gaze went back to you. 

“I see you,” Luke promised, his voice low. “And I’ll make everyone see you the way I do. I swear it.” 

You were starstruck. You couldn’t look away from him, from the determination etched into each detail of his face, the softness in his eyes directed wholly at you—the fact that he was here at all in the first place at an unholy hour just because you asked. 

Oh gods. You were in trouble. 

“It’s late.” You finally managed to break the spell that held you under. “We should go.” 

“Yeah.” Luke made no motion to move, still focused wholly on you. 

“Luke,” you whispered. 

You could have sworn his eyes moved down to your lips, but he was sitting up so quickly that you knew you must have imagined it. You cleared your throat as you followed suit, brushing the sand off your—his— jacket. 

“This was nice,” he said after a moment. “...Thanks for waking me up.” 

“Of course,” you said. “There’s… there’s no one else I would’ve wanted to share it with.” 

Luke smiled, and you didn’t think he’d ever looked more beautiful than he did now, awash in the silver moonlight. If you were braver, you would have taken his hand again. You would’ve done what the voice in your head desperately wanted to do—had wanted to do for the past two months.  

But you didn’t. 

“I guess it was worth nearly getting eaten, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said, and he shrugged. “But most things are worth it when it comes to you.” 

You nearly melted right there, and it was a credit to your strength that you didn’t say anything horrifically stupid. Instead, you put on a smile, hoped he couldn’t see how much he was killing you, and started back up on the path. 

“C’mon,” you said. “Before we end up having to clean the entire camp for breaking curfew.” 

“Whatever you say,” he mused. 

-

You groaned as you slumped into your usual spot at the Hermes table. You heard Luke laugh, and you felt his eyes on you as you put your head in your arms.

“What’s got you so down?”

“I’ve been fifteen for three days and I already feel like an old woman,” you said. “Everything still hurts.”

“Capture the flag was meant to be a birthday gift,” Luke said wryly. “And we did win.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” you grumbled. “I swear, some people went after me on purpose just because it was my birthday. I’ve got bruises all over.”

“You know, we have an infirmary for a reason.” 

“They’re battle wounds,” you said. You picked up your head just to take your goblet. “Lemonade. Actually, pink lemonade.” You took a sip, but even that didn’t make you feel better. You buried your head back in your arms with a rough sigh. “Signs of our victory.”

Luke huffed a laugh. “Sometimes I really don’t…”

He trailed off suddenly, and you heard a collective gasp go up at the table.

“What?” you asked halfheartedly. 

“You— you’re—” 

You didn’t know why he couldn’t finish his sentence. You picked your head up to see Luke’s face awash in golden light, his eyes wide. Everyone else at the Hermes cabin was just as awestruck, and Marisol fumbled around in her purse until she pulled out her compact. She opened her foundation, the mirror pointing at you, and you realized why.

A glowing, golden, translucent sickle with a few sheaths of wheat floated above your head. You frowned.

Before you had the chance to say anything, Luke was yelling your name and tackling you in a hug. You let out a grunt of surprise as you barely managed to brace yourself, and when he pulled away he was smiling wider than you’d ever seen.

“You’re claimed!” he exclaimed, his hands gripping your shoulders. “You— you’re finally claimed!”

“Demeter,” you said, almost absentmindedly. It still hadn’t quite hit you. 

“Demeter,” he repeated, nodding rapidly, that gigantic smile seeming like a permanent feature at this point. “I told you everyone would see you— I told you we would make them see you the way I do!”

The rest of the table was chattering away, and you could feel Chris patting you on the back and saying words that went in one ear and out the other. The rest of the pavilion was starting to catch word, and you could see a couple kids from a table on the opposite end standing up and craning to see. Maybe your new siblings. 

(You should be happy.)

Your new siblings. 

…Your new cabin.

You could still barely think, like there was static in your brain. Luke’s hands on your shoulders were the only thing grounding you. 

(You should be ecstatic.)

A year of tears, silent prayers, and apathetic resolution had finally come to a close, just days after your fifteenth. 

(Why are you not smiling?)

You’d been claimed. But you didn’t think you’d ever felt more lost. 

[da-rulah]

The Mayor's Daughter - Mary Goore x f!Reader [Part 4]

Summary: Mary can't think straight; at least, not about anything but you. He's angry, and he's hurt - rightly so - but he can't help the feeling that he's missing something. His spider senses are tingling, and his saviour complex is nagging in his head...

Meanwhile, you're dragged to a formal dinner at the Town Hall with your father's sleazy political associates. What could possibly go wrong?

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Word Count: 13.6k

Warnings: Angst, childhood memories/trauma, alcoholism, addiction, minor drug use, creepy men being creepy, unwanted physical touch/harassment, abandonment, panic attacks

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5 | PART 6 | PART 7 | PART 8

ALSO AVAILABLE ON AO3 | MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

A/N: Once again, a huge thank you to @her-satanic-wiles & @angellayercake for workshopping and beta reading this fic with me! I live for their reactions every time I sent them an idea or a draft... 🤭 This chapter got away from me, as so many do, and ending up pretty damn long... Enjoy!

He had to be quick. Any longer, and he might be chased out. But he couldn’t help himself... he wanted to look, to touch...  

“HEY!” A gruff male voice shouted from somewhere behind him. Mary startled, stumbling back and shoving his hands in his pockets. “These are for people who know what they’re doing, not little hooligans!”  

The store clerk came rushing over, coming in between Mary and the beautiful Gibson Les Paul on display, hung up on the wall amongst the others. The body shone in a stunning hue of deep red wood, orange bursting from the fret board. He’d always dreamt of owning a guitar like this – or any at all. He just wanted to pick one up, to learn, to play.  

“S-sorry mister... I didn’t mean to-” 

“Go on, out with you! Comin’ in here every damn day, gettin’ in the way of my customers. Go on, get!” The old man shooed a 10-year-old Mary out of the store, shutting the door in his face and folding his arms behind the glass, watching until Mary finally sagged his little shoulders and sighed to himself, trudging down the sidewalk with his head hung low.  

Other people were allowed in to look at the guitars, to touch them, test them; why wasn’t he? Sure, he knew he was a kid but he wasn’t a bad kid... He knew he could never afford a guitar like that Les Paul, but oh how he dreamed of owning his own guitar. Just a little acoustic thing to practise on. He'd put in the work, he’d swear it. He just wanted to learn.  

Still, Mary headed home with his hands in his pockets and his head hung low, avoiding the eyes of the adults around town who looked down on him with looks of either disgust or pity; he was never sure which was worse.  

“Mom?” he called out as he walked into the small and run-down little apartment block on the edge of town. They’d had to move in here almost a six months ago after his father left, unable to afford much else on his mother’s salary; her job at the local diner didn’t pay well. 

Music from the radio filtered through the hall, along with the smell of yesterday’s spaghetti being reheated on the stove. “In here, baby,” a weak shout came from the kitchen. She sounded weaker with each week that passed, barely eating and drinking far too much to be considered healthy at all. Mary had spotted that, not totally understanding the ramifications of it at his tender age but he was wiser beyond most 10-year-old’s years. That’s the thing about a shitty childhood; you grow up quick. 

Still, he was grateful his father was out of the picture now. Honestly? The lesser of two evils. It was better him gone than be here still, hurting everybody around him. 

Mary headed into the kitchen, sitting down at the small table for the two of them and waiting patiently as his mum stirred the pot over the stove, her back to him. He watched as her left hand lifted a glass from beside the stove; a wine glass, half-filled with the cheapest red on the market. 

“Good day?” she asked, looking briefly over her shoulder. Mary just shrugged; he hadn’t paid much attention in school, and he didn’t want to tell her about being chased out of the music store. Although he wasn’t sure what he’d done to get kicked out, he still lived under the assumption it was somehow his fault.  

His mother hummed along to the radio as she heated their food, taking gulps of the wine to her left and refilling it before plating up two small bowls of food – hers noticeably smaller – and sitting opposite Mary as she placed them down. 

“Thank you,” he smiled at her shyly, never forgetting his manners as he tucked into his meal. His mother smiled fondly at her boy, twirling her fork in the pasta noodles as she sipped her wine. The radio played to fill the silence, songs from another decade that had his mother reminiscing over happier years. 

As he chewed, he thought back to that guitar, how he’d do anything to have one like that. But he’d settle for a smaller, cheaper, second-hand one. He’d be delighted with one. He just wanted to learn how to play, and then maybe one day, his mom could hum along to his songs on her radio.  

“Ma, I think I know what I want for my birthday...” 

“Oh? Well good! I was wondering when you’d give me some ideas,” she smiled. Mary hesitated, chewing his lip. Was he asking for too much? Perhaps, but he had to try at least. “Come on, baby, what is it?”  

“Well... can I get a guitar? Not like, an expensive one or anything... Just second-hand or something. I wanna learn to play, Ma. I think I’d get real good at it!” he rambled, his excitement barely contained as he thought about how people might change how they saw him if he could prove he was good at something, that he could work hard and prove himself.  

His mother’s smile faltered, fading as she dropped her fork against her bowl and grabbed her wine glass, finishing the rest of it off and pouring herself another hefty glass.  

“Baby, guitars aren’t cheap, even the second-hand ones...” she began, her voice quiet and full of regret. 

“No, I know, but I thought, maybe if I could get a job somewhere, I could mow lawns or something, maybe help Mr Rogers at the carpenters or get a paper route, then maybe I could-” 

“Baby you’re ten years old, you should just be a kid as long as you can,” she smiled sadly, her eyes betraying her as they glassed over with tears. It broke her heart to see her little boy so desperate to be a man, to help her, to help pay for his own damn birthday present.  

“I... I can still be a kid, I just thought I could help?” he questioned. 

“I just don’t think I can afford it baby...” Mary’s shoulders slumped, his own fork dropping into his bowl as he sat back against the chair in defeat.  

“Could you stop buying wine for a little, Ma? I just really want a guitar... And then you can get more again. Just for a bit, I promise!”  

If her heart wasn’t already breaking for her little boy, it did then. The guilt rose like bile in her throat, her eyes staring at the bottle on the table, her glass emptied again and the taste lingering on her tongue. She’d had her own selfishness reflected back at her, a mirror held up to the truth; the truth being that her lips were stained with the red of her addiction, paired with her sunken eyes, bearing the weight of her sorrow. 

She should try, she thought to herself. For him, for her little Mary. He never asked her for anything, and the one thing he wants in the world for his birthday was a crummy little second-hand guitar? She should be able to give him that; as a mother, she wanted to give him the world. He certainly deserved it after all he’d been through.  

“I-I’ll... I’ll try, Mary. I’ll really try,” her voice cracked, swallowing the guilt down and forcing the tears to recede. Mary nodded to himself, looking down into his bowl and back to hers that even untouched, still had less in than his half-eaten leftovers.  

He stood up, the bowl in his hands and placed it down in front of her. She needed to eat more, he thought.  

“Oh, baby no, it’s okay. You should ea-” 

“I’m not that hungry, Ma. Please take it.” 

She stopped protesting, nodding as she held a shaking hand out to hold his cheek, stroking her thumb over the pudge he was yet to grow out of with a gentle smile.  

“Thank you, angel,” she told him, pressing a wine-stained kiss to his forehead. “I promise, I’ll try harder.” 

Deft fingers plucked at the strings of a battered old acoustic guitar. The wood was splintering where the neck met the body, the varnish worn down in places that hands would dance over as it had been played to within an inch of its life. Stickers littered the body, hiding nicks and damages from over the years but they too were beginning to wear down to white patches of nothing.  

Still, she sang like a dream the way she always had. Mary’s skilled hands worked her strings mindlessly, drifting from riffs he’d learned of his favourite bands over the years to riffs of his own he’d written – the most recent sounding much more melancholy than he’d anticipated.  

Sitting in his dimly lit studio apartment, he reclined against the wall at the head of his bed with his first guitar in his lap. His intention had been to drift off into his own world, to write some riffs for songs he could present to the guys and form into tracks for upcoming shows, but he’d been unable to focus, his fingers working on muscle memory alone as his head drifted to the same thing he’d thought of for the last few days.  

He’d had time to calm down, for the fog of anger to dissipate and now he’d entered the reflection stage. The anger morphed into hurt, reminded once again that no matter if you wanted him or not, you still were ashamed to be seen with him. He didn’t fit your image, his mere existence in your life was inconvenient and a black stain on your pristine white image.  

He wondered if cleaning himself up was an option for a brief moment. What if he didn’t paint his face? What if he wore a shirt instead of his cut off band tees? What if he styled his hair different? All the ‘what if’s swam around his head, but they’d be lies. Mary was many things, but never a phony. He refused to bow down to public opinion and become one of the masses if it meant sacrificing everything that was genuinely him.  

He decided he’d rather be hated for who he was, than adored for something he wasn’t. Which is exactly the life you were living. 

You’d chosen a world where people loved you, fell at your feet to be known by you and yet somewhere along the way, you’d sacrificed whoever you truly were, covered it up with bows and frills and shiny trinkets. He almost felt sorry for you.  

Still, he couldn’t swallow the nagging feeling that he’d done something wrong, that he was letting you slip through his fingers. He wasn’t dumb; Mary knew there was more to you than this image. He’d seen glimpses of it, this vulnerable yet feisty woman clawing at you from inside. Frankly, you drove him crazy. He'd never wanted anything for himself so badly in his life, except maybe the guitar in his hands. He couldn’t lay his eyes on you without wanting you; perhaps up until recently, he thought that was simply physical attraction, a need to take you and have you both coming undone together.  

But the way you plagued his mind, how he thought of you during the smallest moments of peace to himself... he was beginning to understand he’d formed a kind of connection with you he couldn’t begin to explain. But he was starting to recognise a feeling within himself that stung like rubbing alcohol on a wound, a feeling that shot him right back to his childhood, to a place so painful he’d shoved it down and ignored it for years.  

Before he could go down that route, his shook his head to rid the memories and lay his guitar gently beside him, reaching for his smokes on his nightstand. Lighting one up with his zippo lighter, he rested himself back against the wall, swiping a hand down his face in exasperation. He’d spent too long on this, too many moments infiltrated by thoughts of you.  

If Mary was being honest with himself, he only had to ask himself one simple question; were you worth compromising everything he knew about himself? Were you worth him changing himself, becoming something he wasn’t so he could be ‘acceptable’ in your world? 

No.  

Because that was a world that would only ever see him as a delinquent. They had when he was a child, a teenager and now into adulthood. The second they’d known who his father was, who his mother was, they’d judged him. That would never change, so why should he? 

The town hall ballroom was the last fucking place you wanted to be at any given moment, let alone when it was filled with governors, police chiefs, politicians and seedy businessmen. If you’d had your way, you’d have stayed tucked up in bed, like you’d spent most of your spare time in the last week or so since the Bicentennial fair. Facing reality was something you’d tried to avoid, but that wasn’t going to be possible for Daddy’s big dinner party for all the town’s biggest officials. 

No, you were to be paraded like a shiny trophy daughter tonight, mingling with the rich and seedy underbelly of your father’s political career. These people made your stomach turn and your skin crawl. You observed them from the corner of the room, a glass of prosecco in a hand covered by white satin gloves to the elbow, in a fancy, floor-length, glittered evening dress of the same pale peach colouring as the bubbly. Your mother had picked the outfit, “elegance with a touch of sparkle” she had said. 

Watching them mingle and chatter away, you could barely help the expression on your face turning to one of vague disgust. Your father made his way around the room, shaking hands and rubbing shoulders with the elite while your mother followed in tow, laughing at all the jokes she must have heard a thousand times over the years and nattering with the wives in the room about the latest gossip.  

Shallow; all of this was so fucking shallow. But the worst part? This was your future. Your mother... her life was the future your father had paved for you, expected you to walk. You couldn’t think of anything worse.  

“Pumpkin! Come and say hello to Mr. Nelson,” you father flagged you down from your inner monologue of disapproval, notably stood with an old man you recognised as the town’s previous Mayor. Mr. Nelson had handed the title over to your dad when you were little, staying a consistent advisor in the governing of the town’s affairs ever since his retirement six years ago.  

You’d never liked him. There was something untoward about him, sleazy and manipulative; but that’s politicians for you.  

You knocked back the rest of your prosecco glass for a bit of liquid encouragement and walked towards them with your prettiest fake smile on.  

“Good evening, Mr. Nelson,” you said, taking his outstretched hand to shake. 

“Good evening, my dear!” He didn’t let go of your hand like you’d expected, instead tightening his grip and pulling you to lean forwards so he could press a whiskered kiss to your cheek – or what was actually closer to the corner of your lips. When he leaned back, he winked at you, still keeping hold of your hand to lift it, unashamedly scanning his eyes over your body in your dress and twirling you like a doll on a music box. “My, my... how you’ve grown, hm?” 

Your eyes locked onto your father, who was smiling at you fondly as if there wasn’t a problem. You, however, were exceedingly uncomfortable. You looked back to Mr. Nelson, smiling and acting the part. Honestly, you’d always wondered if acting would be a good career for you; you did it often enough.  

“Quite the beautiful young lady these days,” Mr. Nelson commented, letting go of your hand and coming to stand beside you, a hand resting on the small of your back as he turned to speak to your father.  

“She gets all that from her mother, of course,” he smiled proudly, squeezing the shoulders of your mother beside him, who swatted him with her own gloved hand.  

“Oh, stop it, you charmer,” she laughed. You recoiled from the interaction, uncomfortable that there was still a hand on you at all, let alone on the small of your back. 

“Your father was telling us about your college days; quite impressive, my dear!” Mr. Nelson said, his hand patting just above the curve of your behind.  

“Y-yeah... I mean, thank you, sir,” you smiled graciously. How could you get out of this?  

“Now, if only we could find her a nice man to settle down with,” your father joked, your mother smiling along with him as Mr. Nelson chuckled.  

“I’m sure that won’t be difficult, hm? Plenty of fine men about town. Any catch your eye?” he asked, looking down at you with a raised white eyebrow.  

Instantly, your mind flew to Mary. Certainly, he was not the kind of ‘fine man’ Mr. Nelson or your father would envision for you; in fact, you’re sure they would recoil in horror, but you couldn’t help but think of him. Any opportunity for your brain to remind you of how painfully you’d fucked that up, it would take.  

You took too long to answer, head full of Mary as it so often was.  

“Pumpkin, Mr. Nelson asked you a question,” he insisted with an expectant nod of his head.  

“Oh, not to worry. She clearly has somebody in mind, if the mere mention of a man has her daydreaming about him, hm?” he chortled, his hand now slipping lower to pat at the curve of your backside. Instinctively you jumped forward half a step to get away from the unwanted contact, head whipping to your father in the hope he’d seen that, that he’d step in and defend you. But of course, he didn’t.  

“Pumpkin? What’s gotten into you, hm?” His glare was disapproving, his eyebrow quirking as he waited for your answer, but an awkward silence fell on the four of you instead.  

“I, um... I’m so sorry, I think I lost my balance. These, uh, damn heels, that’s all,” you laughed nervously, averting the eyes of everyone around you.  

“Perhaps a little too much bubbly,” Mr. Nelson accused, tipping his head towards your empty flute in your hand.  

“Y-yes, maybe... Perhaps I need some air. Would you excuse me?”  

You were turning and leaving before your father could stop you, shoving the glass in your hand onto the tray of a waiter on your way to the door, ignoring the calls of “pumpkin!” behind you, sounding aggravated and embarrassed. Heads turned to watch you leave but you couldn’t look at them, overwhelmed and uncomfortable. You just had to get out.  

You headed directly for your father’s office, a small and private space to collect yourself before inevitably having to go back to the ballroom sooner rather than later, lest your father come looking for you.  

Finally alone and in a quiet spot, you slumped into your father’s chair behind his desk, spinning absentmindedly from side to side guided by your stiletto on the ground. You focussed on breathing, helping to subside the panic that had risen in you. Bad enough you’d been forced to come to this thing, let alone subjected to the wandering hands of a man who’d known you since you were barely out of diapers. This evening was the nightmare you’d expected it to be.  

Looking around your father’s office, it hadn’t changed much. The American flag stuck in his pen cup, the portrait of President George Washington on the wall, the photo frame on his desk that housed a very official looking family portrait taken when you were still in middle school. 

This was your life. This façade of pomp and circumstance, governed by sleazy men and dodgy business deals... this was all you could see for yourself. No wonder you were clinging onto Mary by your perfectly manicured fingernails, allowing him back in so easily whenever there was room in your mind. He was the antithesis of that horrendous life already mapped out for you. He was the embodiment of freedom to you, someone that lived their life governed by them and them alone.  

He liked dark things, heavy music, grungy clothes. He didn’t restrict himself, lived freely, chasing the dreams he so obviously strived for. He didn’t care what people thought of him, he lived his truth.  

You wished you could live like that. 

Lost to your musings and memories of brief encounters with Mary, you startled at the sound of the door to your father’s office slamming shut, with him stood before it. He’d come alone, his arms folded over his chest in his crisp tuxedo, and a hardened look of fury in his features.  

Your stomach dropped and you sat upright immediately; this wasn’t going to be pretty. 

“What the hell was that?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper and yet spat through clenched teeth. 

“Daddy, I just... Mr. Nelson, he-” 

“Don’t you ‘daddy’ me. Do you realise how embarrassing that was for your mother and I?” he scolded. You swallowed your words, thrown right back to being told off as a child. “Mr. Nelson thinks you were drunk. Are you?” 

“No, daddy, I swear!” you protested, having only drank two glasses... on an empty stomach and faster than a shot of your favourite flavour schnapps.  

“Then explain why you were so damn rude to him, hm?” he raised his voice, stepping towards you and leaning down on his own desk by his palms.  

“He put his hands on me! He’s a creep, dad!” you matched his volume, defending yourself. Your dad just scoffed at you, shaking his head in disbelief.  

“He’s a respected member of this community. One bad word from him, and this could all be over for us. My career, our way of life, everything! Do you understand that?” he shouted. How silly of you to think your own father might take your side when one of his creep associates lay a finger on you.  

“It was a knee-jerk reaction, he touched my ass dad, like some fucking pervert!” you yelled back, standing from his chair and finding the guts to finally answer back, to fight for what was right instead of pander to him. Mary would be proud. 

“You watch your mouth, young lady. I am your father-” 

“YES! YOU ARE! And as my father, I thought you might stand up for me, oh, I don’t know, maybe be disgusted when some old man lays a hand on your daughter’s ass!”  

Your father lifted an accusatory finger at you, wagging it in your face as if scolding a bad dog. “He was talking to you about your future. A future that he can take away with a snap of his fingers.” He demonstrated with the hand he waved wildly in front of you. “You’re lucky your mother has such a way with words...” 

“You mean she’s a good liar,” you laughed humourlessly. “Suppose you have to be in this kind of life...” His face paled, his eyes darkening and appearing to sink further into his skull as he stood up straight, his brow furrowing. 

“I have worked for over two decades to build us ‘this life’,” his voice deepened, darkening considerably as he loomed over you. “Look around you. Do you think this just happens? I have done nothing but provide for you, you ungrateful little girl.” 

“This is the problem... I’m not a little girl anymore, and you still treat me like I can’t think for myself. I’ve got my own mind, things that I want to do. Do you give a shit about that at all?” The anger inside you you’d caged up for too long was surfacing, the heat on that simmering pot turning up with every word out of your father’s mouth. Already you were too far gone to reel it back in. Whether he liked it or not, he was going to hear this. 

“I give a shit about this family!” he screamed. “I will not allow you to tear it all down in some childish tantrum!” 

“Tear what down?!” you protested, “I just want to be able to do something for myself for a change, to start my life! It’s got nothing to do with your prestige as Mayor, I just want to be able to finally crawl out from under your shadow!" 

Your father ignored you completely, still only seeing the pigtailed little girl from the portrait on his desk standing in front of him. He had no idea she’d grown up before his very eyes. He’d blinked and missed it, too damn focussed on his own career and image to notice.  

“You selfish little brat. You don’t get it, do you?” he sneered, “This is MY TOWN! MY LEGACY! You will live by MY RULES!” 

And truthfully, that was all it was ever going to boil down to. His fucking legacy.  

You sagged your shoulders in defeat, tears begging to fall out of anger. Everything you thought your dad still believed, he’d proven to you in just a few minutes; you were still a child to him, and his legacy was more important than your own happiness. Nothing you could say would win this fight. Nothing would make him see how badly he was hurting you.  

You took a deep breath, composing yourself to speak a little calmer, more collected. With emotions heightened, it was easy to yell and scream back at him, to get carried away but you were determined to show him this was not some ‘tantrum’. You meant this.  

“What if I don’t want to do that anymore?” you asked, staring him straight in the eye. The air seemed to thicken around you as you waited for it to soak in, for him to hear you, process, and respond. The silence was suffocating.  

“I’m sorry?” he asked, turning his head to present his ear as if he hadn’t heard you, but he most certainly had. He just wanted you to repeat yourself, testing you, warning you; did you have the balls to say it again? 

“What if... I don’t want to live by your rules anymore?” You spoke calmly, methodically. You will listen, you thought to yourself. 

Your father straightened up again, his head twitching as he tidied up his cuff links, straightened his bow tie and slicked back his hair before he gave you the time of day. This was just a part of his intimidation, his macho technique, reminding you he was a distinguished man, one with power. When he finally looked you in the eye again, his face was set in stone.  

“Then you can get the hell out of my office.” 

Like a punch to the gut, it knocked the wind right out of you. He wanted you to leave.  

“F-fine...” you stuttered, walking around the desk as if to head for the door, pulling your cell phone out of your clutch, “I’ll get one of your lap dogs to take me home, and we’ll talk about this in the morning,” you told him, trying to keep a modicum of dignity, prove to him you were an adult and taking the moral high ground. But your father laughed... 

“I don’t think you heard me. Perhaps you didn’t understand...” he turned around to face you, now stood by the door to his office. “This is my town, Pumpkin. This whole town is my office.” 

The weight of what he was saying fell like a barrel of hot tar over you, the scorching, searing pain radiating through you. You stared in disbelief, waiting for him to laugh, to tell you he was kidding, just pushing your buttons to see your reaction but nothing... He just stared at you, as you stared at him, like a deer in headlights. 

“Y-you’re not serious...?” you dared to whisper, shaking your head in denial. 

“Deadly. Get out,” he growled, “or do I have to call security?” 

Those angry tears turned into streams now falling down your cheeks silently while you were unable to blink, processing his command until your body moved of its own accord, reaching for the doorknob and opening it behind you.  

“I’m sure your precious town will love to hear about this,” you threatened, wiping the tears away with the back of your hand. He just smirked and folded his arms over his chest again.  

“Careful, Pumpkin. Daddy’s got one hell of a legal team; and they’re all eating out of his palm in that ballroom tonight.” 

He had you beat. Checkmate. Every credible lawyer – and the seedy ones – were on his damn payroll. You couldn’t win this no matter what you did. You just had to walk away...  

And so, you did. Quietly, you slipped out from the opulent town hall and found yourself stood on a street corner a couple of blocks away, out of the sight of not only your father and his invitees behind the huge windows of the ballroom, but out of sight of his cronies, already given the instruction to make sure you left quietly, and didn’t attempt to come back in. 

You were alone, as you had become so accustomed to being. 

Every riff felt wrong. For over a week now, Mary tried to write something new, something fresh that he’d never heard before, that excited him and inspired him but... nothing. He was beginning to think he’d lost his touch. He knew he couldn’t force inspiration to come, but this was a longer, drier spell than even he was used to... 

He reached for his pack of smokes on the nightstand where they usually sat, only to discover he was fresh out – that last cigarette had truly been his last.  

“Shit,” he cursed to himself, crushing the empty box in his palm and throwing it in the general direction of the trash can, hitting the rim and bouncing off to the floor beside two or three other crumpled cigarette boxes from the last few days.  

Whew, he thought to himself, smokin’ more now, too. Awesome. Still, ignoring the mess he’d neglected to tidy, he stood up from his bed with a stretch, abandoning his tattered acoustic on his bed. His leather jacket that he’d slung over the back of his couch still held his keys, wallet and cell phone from his last outing to the gas station, and so he slithered his arms into the sleeves and headed for the door.  

He knew he didn’t need to take the van to travel the four blocks to the gas station on the edge of town just for cigarettes, but there was something about a late-night drive that calmed Mary. It always felt like one of those rare moments where he got to be himself; a decent band on the stereo and some open road to clear his head.  

He also knew he didn’t need to go all the way to the gas station for smokes; the convenience store on the corner would do just fine. Except, Forrest usually worked the late-night shifts at the gas station, and he’d get to take advantage of his staff discount. 

“Hey man!” Mary called out as he walked into the store, the bell dinging above his head. Forrest looked up from the magazine he was reading, slumped over the counter. 

“Well, look what the dogs dragged in...” Forrest smirked, “where’d you fuck off to the other night?” 

Ah. He’d never explained where he’d disappeared to the night of the fair, nor had he seen any of his friends since. He hadn’t realised he’d shut himself off for that long, but seemingly, he had. 

“Oh, uh...” he stammered, thinking up an excuse.  

“Some chick got your attention, huh?” he stood upright and folded his arms, leaning against the edge of the counter. “I don’t know how you do it, man. You got ‘em lining up out the door. You shoot strawberry milkshake outta that dick, or what?” Mary relaxed instantly, his alibi already created for him.  

“Why, you wanna taste?” he mocked, shooting a flying kiss at him as he stepped up to the counter in an overly camp, seductive walk to make the other laugh. 

“I’ll stick to the slurpie machine, thanks,” he joked, pretending to gag at the thought of Mary’s strawberry milkshake. “You need somethin’, or you just here to entertain me?” 

“Outta smokes,” Mary shrugged. “I’ll grab the usual.” 

Forrest nodded, turning his back to fish through the cigarettes that lined the wall behind the counter, coming to the brand Mary would usually purchase. Mary looked to his left, seeing a special offer on party size bags of Takis and an array of candy bars. He chucked a bag up on the counter with some candy and fished inside his jacket for his wallet as Forrest rung him up.  

“Big plans tonight, huh?” 

“Oh yeah, big night in with my favourite girl, Mary Jane,” Mary waggled his eyebrows suggestively. 

“Explains the snacks, you always did get munchies worse than any of us...” he laughed, punching his employee code into the register to add his discount; something he did without thinking these days. Mary was always grateful. “$15.75” 

“Thanks, man,” Mary handed over a twenty, shoving the change back in his wallet just as his phone started to buzz in his other pocket. He whipped it from his jacket, checking the caller ID when his chest tightened.  

You. 

Mary sneered at the phone in his hand, shoving it back into his pocket with a scowl on his face. If Forrest noticed, he didn’t question it, probably assuming it were a telemarketing scam.  

“We should get a practise in before Saturday,” Forrest suggested, “I think Davey’s free on Tuesday? And I'm off too.” Mary hadn’t forgotten; they had a show to play in the city, some new goth club were having a metal night, and word of Mary’s band was starting to spread beyond the scene they’d been playing for the last two years. 

“Uh yeah.” His phone stopped buzzing in his pocket. He ignored the feeling of disappointment in him, that gnawing voice in the back of his head that told him he should have answered it. “Yeah, I think I’m free. You wanna see if Jed’s about?”  

Forrest made a noise that sounded vaguely like an affirmative as Mary picked up the bag with his purchases inside.  

“Alright, uh...” Mary’s phone began vibrating in his pocket again, barely any respite since the last call. He ignored it, trying to claw himself back to reality instead of letting his mind drift to whatever you could possibly be calling him for. He was sure it was only one thing, anyway. “Let me know, man!” 

“Yeah, see ya!” Forrest grinned, shutting the register with a ping and picking up his discarded magazine as Mary turned and left, the bell dinging above the door again. He stood outside for a moment, fishing his phone out of his pocket and seeing that it was indeed your name that flashed on his screen.  

Once again, he ignored it, shoving it this time into the back pocket of his jeans and skulking back over to his van, parked in a bay near the door. It stopped just as he wrenched the door open with a rusty creak, throwing his bag into the passenger seat. He climbed in behind it, slamming the door shut and settling into the seat as he shoved the keys into the ignition. As he turned them and the engine roared to life with his stereo, he took a deep breath, leaning back against the head rest and desperately willing the thoughts of you to leave him be. 

He’d wasted too much time on you already, and he meant what he’d said last time. He was tired of being everybody’s dirty little secret, and he wasn’t about to answer your fucking booty call. Not again.  

Reaching into the plastic bag beside him, he pulled out his carton of cigarettes and ravaged the packaging until he could pry one from the box and shove it between his lips, pushing the lighter button in on his dashboard and waiting patiently for it to heat. Closing his eyes, he waited for the telltale click, reclining into his seat, when his phone began to buzz in his back pocket once again.  

Mary’s eyes shot open, anger coursing through his veins. Were you that desperate to get laid? It wasn’t fair. He thought he’d made it clear where he stood, that he wasn’t interested in being picked up and dropped whenever someone felt like it anymore. He had to start thinking less with his dick and more with his head – and his heart. 

But you were not getting the message – ignoring your calls wasn’t working. Maye he just needed to say it in black and fucking white.  

Muttering curses to himself, he fished his phone from his back pocket where he sat, seeing that the caller ID did indeed read “Doll” again. He turned the volume of his stereo way down, took a deep breath, and answered the call.  

“Look, I’m really not interested in being your booty call, Barbie,” he spat down the microphone, “so you might wanna just give it up now before you embarrass yourself.” 

He was met with silence. He almost wanted to laugh, picturing the look of sheer shock on your face as you sat surrounded by your pink frills and stuffed animals in that ivory tower of yours. But instead, he waited. Would you dare speak? Argue with him? He’d managed to rile himself up enough by this point that maybe a fight was exactly what he needed to expel the rage.  

The silence continued for a beat too long, and confusion set in. His brow furrowed, checking his phone screen to see if you’d hung up but no, you were still connected. He lifted the phone to his ear again, waiting... and then he heard it. 

A sob.  

A sob so small and timid, he thought maybe he wasn’t supposed to have heard it. But instantly, his face paled, and his chest hollowed. Every muscle in his shoulders that had tensed in his anger when he picked up the phone instantly turned to jelly. He’d expected resistance, maybe a “fuck you, Goore” or something to that effect. He’d expected an argument, rage, denial or defence.  

He waited again, clicking the side button on his phone to turn the volume up in case he’d missed it. Now, he heard the sniffles too, along with the shuddering breath from an inhale that sounded uncontrollable. And then another small, suppressed sob. 

He panicked, sitting bolt upright in his seat and pulling the cigarette from his lips as he looked around his surroundings as if there was something, someone who could help. Of course, there was nothing.  

He didn’t expect you to react that way... Perhaps he’d been too harsh, maybe yelling at you wasn’t the right way to go about this, to cut his ties with you before they were truly bonded, but he hadn’t even thought it through. Mary just thought severing it with a quick, clean blow would do the trick... 

“I-I... d-didn't... know who... to call,” you wept down the phone, breathing irregular as if you were suffering a panic attack. “I’m s-s... sorry.” 

Instantly, Mary knew he’d fucked up. You weren’t calling him for a hook up, this was something different. Something had happened. You had already been in this state. And you’d turned to him for help. Mary swallowed a gulp of nothing, now realising his mouth and throat had gone dry whilst his jaw had hung open in bewilderment and panic. 

“What’s going on?” he asked, frenzied. He waited for a response, only hearing more sobs; ones that you clearly were unable to hold back as you tried to speak, to tell him what had happened. Whatever it was, it was bad enough that you couldn’t say it without losing the small semblance of composure you had. You were in no fit state to talk about this on the phone. 

The hand holding the phone dropped to his lap for a moment as he muttered a “shit” to himself, slamming his head back against the headrest. He was really going to do this, wasn’t he? He was going to run right to you, to go and fucking save you with some twisted sense of duty towards you. But then, yes, of course he was; Mary’s saviour complex had kicked in the second he heard that first tiny, frail sob. 

He held the phone to his ear again. 

“Look just... fuck, just breathe alright? Slowly, if you can. I’m coming, just make sure your window’s unlocked,” he instructed you, pressing his foot down on the clutch and shoving the gear stick into reverse.  

“’m not... home...” you sobbed. Mary paused, confused.  

“Well... where are you?” he asked, now more concerned as to what the hell had happened. If someone had laid a fucking finger on you...  

“R-Raynor... street...”  

Dead centre of town; anything could have happened, anybody could have been around.  

“Alone?” he asked, incredibly uncomfortable with the idea of you being alone at this hour in the middle of town.  

“M-mhm...” Mary cursed to himself again, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder while he used both hands to spin the wheel of his van, quickly looking in his mirrors to reverse out of his parking spot before he could speed off into the night to come and find you. 

“I’m coming, alright? Stay there. Keep your phone close, stay on the line. You keep off the street ‘til you hear me coming, you understand?” His instructions were clear, almost military-like. He needed you to hear him plainly.  

“Oh...kay,” you sobbed, trying to quieten your sobs and regain control.  

“Keep breathing, I’m on my way.” 

Mary picked the phone from between his ear and shoulder and hit the loud-speaker button, throwing it onto his dash so he could drive easier through the streets as he headed into town. Thankfully the roads had been somewhat empty, most traffic lights turning green on the approach and no one to get in his way or flag him down for speeding at this hour. He just needed to get to you, as fast as possible. 

Turning onto Raynor street, he slowed right down and got a good look; you were nowhere to be seen. He prayed to a god he didn’t believe in that you’d just followed his advice, hiding down an alleyway off the main street to keep out of sight of any passersby with bad intentions. He turned his stereo back up, a clear indication that it was him who was driving slowly down the street, watching and waiting for you to pop your head out of somewhere. 

“C’mon, doll... where are you?” he muttered anxiously to himself, looking down every nook and cranny between buildings.  

The music you heard edging closer down the street echoed what you could hear from your phone speaker, telling you that the vehicle approaching was him. A wave of relief washed over you, and you stepped out from between a hair salon and an apartment block near the end of the street. Mary's headlights caught on your dress, the sparkle catching his eye immediately and he sped up until he could break suddenly right next to you, jumping out of his van and running around it to get to you as quickly as he could. 

His hands gripped onto your biceps and he held you out at arm's reach to get a good look at you; carefully placed make up had streaked from your tears, black rings forming around your eyes where your mascara had run. Your eyes themselves were bloodshot; how long had you been out here like this before you’d called him? You shivered in his hands, the cold of the night getting to you in this dress that left your arms and shoulders exposed, doing nothing to warm you at this late hour. He didn’t even think, shucking himself out of his jacket and wrapping it around your shoulders where his body heat had already warmed it.  

“Are you hurt?” he asked, cupping your face in his hands and swiping the tear tracks away with his thumbs. You shook your head no, another sob rising in your throat now that he was here. You weren’t sure what you had been expecting, his initial reaction to your phone call clearly indicating he was still very much mad at you; not that you could blame him. But it didn’t escape your notice that he had come anyway, and the expression on his face was almost one of terror before his eyes had fallen on you, and softened considerably. 

Something in him cared.  

“Alright, come on... get in,” he settled a hand between your shoulder blades, guiding you gently and quickly to the passenger side of his van where he opened the door for you, helping you up. You settled into the seat, curling in on yourself and hugging Mary’s jacket closer to you for the warmth the night had stripped from you as he climbed in the driver’s side. He turned the stereo right down, the music now only to fill a silence rather than to alert you to his arrival.  

“Is there... somewhere you want me to take you?” he asked, an awkwardness coming over him. He had no idea how to react in this situation, no clue what had happened or why you’d called him of all people when you had an entire security team on your side. 

You seemed to think about it for a moment, a fresh wave of tears trickling from your eyes and dripping to your lap when you looked down in an attempt to hide your face.  

“I... don’t have anywhere...” you sobbed, your fists tightening around the edges of Mary’s jacket to have something to ground you while your shoulders shook.  

Mary watched on helplessly, his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to reach over, to pull you into him and hold you so you could let out the much more violent sobs you were so obviously holding back. He was so used to the feistier side of you; your smart mouth, your confidence... It’s what drew him in, what attracted him to you like a moth to a flame. This wasn’t you. 

It stirred up a need in him to help, to sacrifice his own discomfort in favour of your comfort. Instantly, he put you first, forgetting any resignations he had about ever seeing you again. That anger he harboured at how out-of-touch he thought you were? It dissipated the second he’d heard the first sob. He’d been triggered like a sleeper cell, instantly needing to patch up whatever wound you’d suffered. 

“You don’t wanna go home?” he asked, figuring he already knew the answer. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. When you shook your head violently, he got the confirmation he needed. “Alright, well...” He was going to regret this, wasn’t he? But he’d said it before he could stop himself. “You could stop at my place for a bit.” Yep, he regretted it. “If it’s not too weird, or anything... I mean, I live alone, if you’re worried about my friends being ther-” 

“Okay...” you sniffled.  

Mary stopped rambling, instead reaching for the cigarette he’d never lit and thrown on his dash with his phone. Once again, he pushed the cigarette lighter in to heat up, adjusting the heating in the van to a warmer temperature too to warm you up. 

“Alright um, sure...” He held the cigarette between his lips, shoving the van into gear and continuing down the street. “There’s a carton of cigs in the bag by your feet, if you want one,” he offered – more to fill the silence between you than anything. The quiet stereo could only do so much. 

You sniffled and reached down to the bag, fishing through the plastic until you found the carton he’d mentioned and pulling one out for yourself hoping it might help to calm you. With a pop, the lighter signalled it was ready, and Mary held it out to you first as he focussed on the road. You lit it carefully with a small ‘thank you’ and settled back into your seat. The first drag helped settle your nerves, the heating in the van calming the shakes you’d had too, although you weren’t sure if that had been the panic or the cold of the night. 

A few streets into the journey back to his place, you couldn’t take the quiet any longer. The awkward air between you felt so stale, icy in comparison to the warmth the van generated. As much as you wanted to relax in his presence – as he up until now had always been able to make you do – you just couldn’t. Not with the elephant in the back of the van, so to speak... 

“I’m sorry... for calling,” you mumbled, still too full of shame to be able to look at him directly, only stealing a glance from the corner of your eye. Mary took a long drag of his cigarette, flicking the ash out of the crack he’d opened in his window. He looked between you and the road, as if thinking through his response a few times.  

“You don’t have to apologise for that. I’m not one to leave a lady out in the cold...” he shrugged. He certainly wasn’t; literally or metaphorically.  

“Thank you for coming, Mary. I didn’t know where to go...” Every time you thought back to the fight with your father, fresh and hot tears would well up in your eyes. It didn’t escape Mary’s notice, and he wanted nothing more than to reach over and squeeze your hand with reassurance. Instead, he settled on trying to lighten the mood a little. Comedy always had been his defence mechanism, after all... 

“Dressed like that? I’d have said... Cinderella’s ball?” 

You scoffed, the first genuine smile he’d seen from you as you shook your head. “Shut up,” you told him.  

“You couldn’t call on the creatures of the forest to come help?” he continued, smirking when he saw your shoulders shaking in silent laughter, elbow propped up on the edge of your window. “Tinkerbell not got any pixie dust left for ya?” 

You reached over and playfully slapped his chest, earning you an ‘ouch’ and an act of feigned pain as he recoiled. But you giggled to yourself, the absurdity of it all finally hitting you. Here you were sat in your sparkly peach gown with your satin elbow gloves, high heels and fancy hairdo, cradled by Mary’s leather jacket in a beat-up van that was old enough to still have a damn cigarette lighter in the dash. Perhaps you were Cinderella... Did that make Mary your Prince Charming, or your fairy God mother? 

Now he’d heard you giggle – something he always loved hearing out of you – Mary could relax a little. There was still an awkwardness between you both, neither one of you could deny that, but the first layer of ice had been broken. For now, that would be enough. If you wanted to talk to him about what had happened when you got to his, then fine. If not, he figured that was okay too. At least he’d know you were safe and had someone by your side who cared about you; and yes, Mary could admit to himself now that he did care about you... 

Just, maybe not to you – not yet. But it wasn’t something he could exactly deny either, when he’d dropped his ‘big plans’ of getting high and demolishing a bag of snacks alone with his guitar the second he’d heard your despair. And all of that in spite of his lingering anger towards you. How quickly he’d flipped that, from wanting nothing to do with you to racing to your rescue. 

Mary’s apartment was small, as you’d expected. As you followed him inside, you looked around. The kitchen sat directly to your left cut off by a half wall to corner it in, a couch that looked like it had seen better days backed up against that half wall and pointed at an old television. Mary’s bed was unmade and pushed up against the far-right corner, facing the bathroom that took up as much space as his kitchen did but was the only room closed off. In the way of bedroom furniture, all he had was a small nightstand and a chest of drawers that had been knocked about some...  

It seemed cosy, lived in. It wasn’t particularly tidy; a blanket strewn over the tatty couch, vinyls laying on top of his little coffee table and around his record player in the corner of his living space, guitars laying up against the wall here and there, an acoustic on his bed, pots and pans stacked up on the draining board in his kitchen – clean, but not yet put away.  

Had Mary known he was having royalty stop by, he might have tidied up a little, but this was how it looked most of the time. He didn’t spend much time at home, especially now that his band were starting to take off a little. But truthfully, he avoided being alone at all costs. He got too much thinking done alone, hence why he had his distraction methods of weed and song-writing.  

Mary scratched the back of his neck awkwardly and went to flick on a lamp by the couch. He quickly whipped around the space, picking up the strewn vinyls, straightening up the blankets. “Sorry about the mess,” he set as he jetted past you towards his bed to pick up his guitar and straighten out the blankets and pillows. You stood awkwardly in the entryway, his jacket still hanging off your shoulders as you picked at your gloves.  

“No, it’s fine, it’s not that bad,” you told him, noting the few personal belongings Mary had too; most notably the little picture frame on a windowsill by the couch. A strikingly beautiful woman, and a goofy little boy snuggled tightly in her lap. Both were grinning into the camera, the boy’s front teeth missing. You guessed that was Mary, and the woman, his mother.  

“Can I get you anything? I don’t know, a drink maybe? Or, uh...” He stood awkwardly, nervously wringing his hands and fiddling with his rings. It was so out of character for him, usually cocky and confident in everything he said or did. In a way, it was quite endearing...  

“Maybe some water, if you don’t mind...” You winced at your own request, feeling like you’d already asked for too much tonight.  

“Yeah... yeah, sure!” He jumped into action, rushing into the kitchen to fetch a clean glass from the cabinet. “Make yourself at home,” he told you, nodding towards the couch he’d just tidied. You walked towards it, draping his jacket over the arm and sitting on the edge of it, playing with your gloves until he came and sat opposite you, handing you a cold glass of water. 

You took it with a thank you, downing a third of the glass once the water hit your tongue – you hadn’t realised just how thirsty the tears and panic had made you.  

“So, um... you wanna tell me why you’re dressed like that?” Mary nodded at your dress, getting himself comfortable and ready to listen. You looked down at yourself, feeling utterly ridiculous now. This was your world... glitter, glam, sparkles; and you despised it.  

“Fancy dinner at the town hall – pompous twats and vile politicians. Mom picked this out,” you scoffed. 

“Huh,” he mused, “I mean, if it helps, you do look pretty...” he shrugged. A warmth rose to your cheeks at his compliment. “The mascara smudges are a nice touch, I think.” You laughed at that, wiping your fingertips along the underneath of your eyes and seeing the black collecting on the white satin. “So... what happened?” 

He asked you so gently, and instantly you felt safe. His gaze wasn’t judgemental, just soft. In fact, it had taken you this long to mentally note that Mary wasn’t made up with his usual faded skull paint and fake blood. His face was clean, you could see every detail. You could see every emotive line, every twitch of his expressions and a vulnerability in him that the face paint usually masked. He had a kinder face than people gave him credit for. Suddenly, you got it. He was putting on a mask every day, just like you.  

And so, you told him. You told him how you’d felt in that ballroom, looking around and seeing the real scumbags of this town. You told him about Mr. Nelson; what he’d said, what he’d done. Mary’s face hardened at that, an anger and protectiveness washing over him that had his fists balling up tightly. You told him how you’d excused yourself, and how your father had followed you to his office. Throughout, he stayed quiet, letting you speak and listening to everything you said. He’d react every so often, fetched you some tissues when the tears had started again. You told him everything, including how your father had screamed at you to follow his rules to not damage his “legacy”.  

“And I told him I didn’t want to do that anymore... I wanted to do my own thing and live for me.”  

Mary’s eyebrows raised in surprise, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.  

“Shit... What did he say?” he asked, obviously knowing it hadn’t ended well.  

“Told me to get out of his office,” the tears came again, your voice raising in pitch as you tried to hold back the sobs, “that this whole town was his office. Threatened me with lawyers if I tried anything. So... I just left.” 

“He kicked you out into the street, alone, dressed like that, in the middle of the fucking night?” Mary’s anger was clear, spitting venom between clenched teeth. He couldn’t understand the nerve of your father, how he could be so damn stupid putting you in danger like that. “Fucking arrogant asshole...” 

It was clearer to him more now than ever that he’d been so wrong about you...  

He shuffled closer to you on the couch, cautiously wrapping an arm around your shoulders to comfort you in some way. Truthfully, he wanted to completely envelope you, to hold you and rock you and let you cry and sob and scream if you needed it. But it wasn’t until you lay your head on his shoulder that he felt okay to do so, finally pulling you into him to wrap his arms around you and let you cry into his chest.  

He felt so warm beneath you, his heart rate a little elevated but the thumping kept you grounded as you held onto his shirt, curling into a sparkly little ball in his side. Mary cradled your head to him, stroking your hair and whispering to you about letting go, that you were safe here. 

If he was being honest with himself, he knew how shitty he’d been to you. He’d become far too defensive too quickly, unable to see past his own injustices in his world to understand that your world came with them too. There had been signs of your confinement, of the tight leash you were kept on, but he’d wilfully ignored them, striking them off as privilege. Your bedroom alone should have been a giant red flag; how was a grown woman still sleeping in a child’s bedroom?  

“I’m sorry, doll...” he told you, muttering into your hair as his lips gently pressed to the top of your head.  

“Not on you, Mare. This has been coming for a while...” you sniffled, wiping your tears with your gloves as you snuggled into him a little further, utterly comfortable in his hold. 

“No, I mean...” Mary sighed to himself, “I’ve been an asshole. I got too defensive, thought you were just being a brat or something, y’know? I judged you and I shouldn’t have.” 

Slowly, you sat upright, turning to look at him as his arms fell to his sides.  

“You don’t have to apologise, I get it... I wasn’t exactly good to you either,” you admitted, looking down at his shirt now stained with tears to avoid his eyes. “You were right, I was treating you like I was ashamed of you.” 

Mary sat up straight, clasping his hands together as he nodded in understanding. “We’ve all got our shit, doll.” His eyes drifted to the picture on his windowsill, and you couldn’t help but follow his gaze. You saw how he clenched his jaw, fiddling with the rings on his fingers as sadness crept into his eyes. 

“Who was she?” The question slipped out before you got the chance to stop yourself. From the way Mary tensed up beside you, you could tell it was a sore spot.  

“That’s my mom,” he looked back to you, a sad smile on his face.  

“Is she...?” 

“Dead? No...” he laughed awkwardly. “But she is in a care facility. That’s just the only photo of us I’ve got.”  

You nodded in understanding, not wanting to push the matter. But Mary felt like sharing... You’d been vulnerable with him, shared your shit. Maybe he should share his too, or at least some of it. Maybe you were the only person he could be honest with. You were certainly the only person he’d wanted to get to know him in a long time.  

“She was a drinker. It got worse when my dad left, but he was a waste of fucking space anyway. We, uh, didn’t have a lot...” his eyes flickered to the battered old guitar that now leaned against the wall by his bed, “but eventually her liver kind of gave up, so she’s on dialysis for the rest of her life. She needs constant care, but she’s still with us.” 

“I’m so sorry... no wonder you thought I was just being a brat,” you laughed awkwardly, feeling a little pathetic now. 

“Like I said, we all got our shit. It's not a contest, I just... realised I wanted you to know something real about me.” 

Silence descended over you along with the weight of what he’d just admitted. Mary wanted you to know him. He wasn’t running or hiding himself from you. He’d shared something so personal to him, and you felt that it was something not a lot of people might know about him, if any. Something about you made him feel just as safe as a part of him did for you.  

You looked at him; really looked at him. There was a sadness in his eyes, something you could notice now that you were sat merely inches apart from him with his mask firmly ripped away and laying in pieces on the floor. Whatever wall he usually put up, he’d let down just for you. You felt close to him, unbelievably so. You felt an urge to protect him, defend him. You felt a pull towards him, undistinguished in its meaning but so strong you couldn’t ignore it anymore.  

And as Mary stared back at you, his wounds exposed, he too felt that same pull. Who was he kidding? He’d felt it for a while. How else would he explain being unable to go barely minutes without thinking of you over the last few weeks?  

His eyes flicked down to your lips, heart racing and mind spinning out of control. He’d never felt so exposed. He wanted to kiss you, to show you what he felt in that moment, but it scared him. He already had shared so much, feeling just as vulnerable as he had as a child.  

In your corner, the silence got heavier with every second that passed. If he was going to kiss you, you would let him. You couldn't think of a better way to show him just how much you cared, how close you felt to him; that you truly wanted him.  

Just as you thought he might lean in, he snapped out of his trance, sucking in a breath between his teeth.  

“Well, hey... you can stop here tonight. I can find you something to wear, I’m pretty sure I got something in the back,” he joked, wiggling his eyebrows, “I can take you from riches to rags!”  

He slapped his thighs and stood up from the couch, marching over to the dresser by his bed and rifling through his drawers. You stayed put, thrown off by his sudden escape. From such an emotional, tender moment to him throwing that wall back up, closing up shop... You almost got whiplash from the speed at which he put the brakes on. Disappointment lay heavy in your chest.  

He came back over with a folded t-shirt and some plaid pyjama pants you could tie up to keep them on. “There’s clean cloths in the bathroom under the sink if you wanna wash up, towels if you wanna shower,” he handed you the clothes where you sat. “I’ll take the couch, you got the bed and we’ll figure out a plan in the morning.”  

“O-okay...” you stammered, standing up with the folded clothes. Frankly, you felt a little dazed from his shift in demeanour, but you could hardly blame him either. Sharing that had to have been harder than you first thought. 

You walked past him into the bathroom, locking the door and pulling on the string light to awaken the fluorescent bulb above you. Now catching a glimpse of yourself in his mirrored medicine cabinet, you saw the state of yourself. Make up smeared all over your face, streaks of black running from your eyes to halfway down your neck. They looked bloodshot and tired, staring lifelessly back at you. Your hair had fallen out of place from its fancy updo, and you looked as if you’d been dragged through a cornfield by your ankles. 

Deciding against a shower, you settled for wiping the make-up from your face and taking your hair down, attempting to detangle it with the comb you found in the medicine cabinet. You’d found a bottle of cologne in there too, which when you sniffed, smelled exactly like Mary had smelled the night he’d climbed through your bedroom window. You smiled fondly at the memory, noting how the bottle was largely untouched, still having the price tag on it which only confirmed that he’d bought it and worn it just for you. 

By the time you were done and changed into the clothes Mary had found you, Mary had made himself a makeshift bed from the blanket he’d previously folded on the couch and one of the pillows from his bed. He was already laying under it, having changed into some old shorts and removed his shirt.  

“You can put your dress on the dresser, and I can run out and grab you something to wear tomorrow so you’ve got something other than this to wear,” he called from the couch, sitting up so he could speak directly to you.  

“Thank you. I’ll get out of your hair tomorrow, I’m sure my dad just needs to calm down...” you told him. Mary couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed, but also, protective. He wasn’t about to send you home to that, and he didn’t want you to feel like a burden on him either.  

“Sure, if that’s what you wanna do...” he muttered, his lips straightening into a line as he nodded. “Well... get some rest.” 

“Yeah, I will... thank you, Mary,” you told him. 

“Don’t sweat it,” he smiled, laying down on the couch and pulling the blanket over his bare shoulders. Without another word, you placed your clothes on the dresser and crawled into his bed, notably cold without him in it. Mary flicked off the lamp by the couch, plunging the apartment into mostly darkness save for the moonlight and the nearest streetlamp shining through his window. 

The same window where the picture of him and his mother sat.  

He could see it where he lay. In fact, he couldn’t look away. That smile on both of their faces reminded him of a time that was so rare. He could still hear her laughter mixing with his giggles as she’d hugged and tickled him, his grandmother who was long since gone snapping the picture on a whim.  

That little boy didn’t have many memories like that to come. He’d grown up far too soon, knowing how desperately his mother needed the help. His childhood was the two of them stuck out at sea, a hole in their boat – and Mary was the only one fishing the water out with a bucket. Eventually, it was bound to go under, so he worked harder, did everything he could to keep them afloat and yet... it wasn’t enough.  

The world had got him all wrong. When they thought he was bunking off school, he was working for a dollar an hour. When he’d been caught shoplifting, it was for a gift for his mother’s birthday. When he’d dropped out of school, it was to work every hour God sent to keep them from going hungry. When he finally did go off the rails in his late teens, it was after his mother’s liver failed. This poor, grown-up little boy had no one to look after anymore, and he’d spiralled. He was his only responsibility, but he’d never learned to care for himself – just the people around him. He always had to save them.  

Mary wiped the stray tear from his cheek, rolling over to face the back of the couch and will himself to sleep. He couldn’t tell if it was an hour or mere minutes that passed as he lay there, huddled under his old blanket on a couch that poked at his ribs under the cushions.  

“Mary...?” you whispered into the night, testing and hoping that he’d still been awake enough to hear. When he looked up, he saw you sat up in his bed, surrounded by emptiness, hugging your knees to your chest. In the dim streetlight, tear tracks sparkled on your face just like your dress.  

Before he knew what he was doing, his feet had carried him across the room. Tentatively, he sat at the edge of his bed, close enough that he could reach out and tuck your fallen hair behind your ear. Neither of you spoke; there was no need. It was obvious you needed the proximity, both vulnerable and in need of comfort.  

Mary’s eyes flicked between yours and your lips again, hesitating as his mind raced with conflicting arguments for and against giving in. He still wasn’t sure you truly wanted him. Maybe all you wanted in him was a friend, the sex having been a distraction or way to rebel. All Mary knew for sure was that you’d trusted him enough to be the one you called when you were in trouble. He didn’t want to break that trust now...  

But it was like you could see the cogs turning in his brain, the inner argument going on inside him. The battle wouldn’t be won by him alone; you were going to have to prove to him that you wanted him, that he wasn’t just your dirty little secret or some booty call. 

Slowly, you shuffled yourself closer to him, unwrapping your arms from around yourself and instead, pushing his floppy hair from in front of his face, getting a good look at him. That gorgeous face of his sat bathed in the dim light, caught between distant sadness and childlike wonder. With one last flicker down to your lips and back up to your eyes, he caught you smiling softly at him, your fingertips dancing across his jawline.  

And then finally, you leaned into him and pressed your lips gently to his. His eyes fluttered shut just as yours did, and he relaxed under your touch as if his limbs had melted. Mary, now feeling marginally more confident in where he stood, tilted his head to better sculpt his lips against yours. He was so gentle with you, his hands lifting to hold yours against his cheeks by the wrists. As the seconds passed, your lips moved together in tandem, both of you leaning into each other until he was able to wrap a hand around your waist and hold you against him, cradling each other in such a tender moment.  

This was undeniably different to any other kiss you’d shared. There was no move to advance, no desperation, no frantic arousal or rushed passion. This time, you simply held each other, seeking comfort in the affection you had for each other.  

As you parted, you rested your forehead against his, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck as he held you still so close to him, not yet willing to let go.  

“Stay with me tonight...?” you requested, hoping he’d have no problem with the idea. Mary just nodded dumbly, overcome with a warm desire to never let you sleep alone again. You reached around you, pulling the blankets off of your lap to welcome him into them. He climbed in beside you, resting his head on the pillows as you, without a second thought, curled into his chest and let his arms envelope you. Neither one of you wanted to be alone tonight after sharing pieces of your soul with one another.  

Exhausted from the outpouring of emotion, you were soon lulled into a deep sleep by his rhythmic heartbeat and natural warmth. Mary, although exhausted himself, was still barely awake when he felt your body go limp against him. He smiled to himself, satisfied in the knowledge that he’d given up a part of himself he was sure he’d never trust anybody with.  

And yet, the wound was still open; spinning with memories, his mind lingered on one in particular, triggered when his tired eyes had fallen on that battered and beat up old guitar against the wall. That thing served as a reminder that Mary had only ever had Mary looking out for him, and that given a choice between himself and somebody else, he would always save anybody but himself... 

Mary waited patiently on the couch, his attention span null and void as the after-school cartoons blared on the TV set in front of him. He sat on the edge of his seat, quite literally, his feet kicking back and forth as he watched the clock. 

With the big hand on the 2, and the little hand on the 6, she’d be home any minute now. So, Mary waited as patiently as he could. 

Except, it wasn’t until the big hand had done a full circle, and the little hand was on the 7, that he heard the keys fumbling in the lock of the front door, followed by a telltale creak, and the slam of it behind footsteps.  

Mary jumped up, already on edge and over-excited. He ran into the hallway, to find his mother leaning against the wall with her eyes shut, head back against the plaster. She looked sick, her skin paled more than usual and her lips tainted with a familiar red stain.  

“Ma?” he asked, placing his little hand on her arm. Her eyes shot open, and she looked down at Mary next to her.  

“There’s my boy!” she slurred, leaning down to smother a sloppy kiss to his cheek. He wiped his cheek in childlike disgust, giggling to himself. “Happy birthday, baby!”  

She stood as upright as she could manage, bringing her purse with her while she stumbled into the living room, into the armchair Mary’s dad used to occupy that faced the TV set. Mary followed, bouncing on his feet with excitement. He’d waited all day for his mom to come home, hadn’t been able to focus in school for even a second. He stood and waited in front of her as she settled into the chair, dropping her purse in her lap.  

“Would you like your present baby?” she asked, smiling through hooded eyes that could barely focus. Mary nodded frantically, his heart pounding in his chest.  

It had been weeks since he’d spoken to his mother about the guitar he so desperately wanted. He’d spent most of his weekends at Mr. Rogers’ workshop, sweeping up wood shavings and running errands for a little bit of pocket money to help his mother save for this exact moment. He couldn’t wait any longer... 

His mother giggled, reaching into her purse and pulling out a small, square-shaped gift wrapped in balloon wrapping paper.  

For a moment, Mary was confused... But this had to be just a decoy. He remembered seeing these CDs in the music store; ‘Guitar Basics for Beginners’, audio instructive lessons that would be far cheaper than real in-person lessons.  

He tore into the paper, throwing the trash to the side and flipped the CD around to look at the front. It was an album; State of Euphoria by Anthrax. Mary’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion, surprised to find it wasn’t what he’d thought.  

“That’s the band you like, right? Or... One of them,” his mother hiccupped, leaning on her elbows with a grin. 

“Y-yeah... thanks, ma.” His tone was unmistakably disappointed.  

“What’s wrong?” she asked, swiping her thumb across his cheek and pinching it lightly. Mary chewed the inside of his cheek, wondering if he should say anything. He wasn’t one to be ungrateful, this was still a pretty great gift. Anthrax were one of the bands he had found he really loved recently. 

“No it’s great, ma, really. Thank you... It’s just,” he paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully, “could I get my guitar now? I read this book that teaches you about the frets and the notes of the strings, and stuff!” His words were rushed in that way over-excited children speed up the longer their sentence becomes. 

If his mother’s skin could pale any more, it did then.  

“Well, I... I couldn’t get the guitar, baby,” she told him, trying to let him down gently.  

“But... I helped Mr. Rogers? I thought we had enough?” he asked, his cheeks heating as if he were about to cry, but he didn’t want to make his mother feel bad by letting them spill.  

“I-I’m sorry, Mary... I needed to use that money...” she shrank back within herself, shame and guilt weighing on her shoulders.  

“For what?” he asked, genuinely confused, his tears building in his eyes. He was devastated... He worked so hard to get the guitar, to prove his mind was made up and he wouldn’t give up on learning it. But his mother just stared at him, her lip trembling as she saw her little boy so heartbroken. 

She knew exactly what she had spent it on; the very thing she promised she’d try and give up. 

“I... I’m s-sorry, b-baby,” she sobbed, tears spilling down her pale cheeks and her chest tightening around her breaths. She broke down, sobbing into her hands and hiding her face from the son she’d just disappointed so tragically. 

Mary wanted to be angry. It wasn’t fair... It was him who worked for that money, him who had tried so hard to help her. She was supposed to be the one adult he could count on, they were a team, weren’t they? He never asked for anything, ever. But just once, he wanted this. But she’d put her wine and God only knows what other alcohol before him again.  

He wanted to be angry. He tried to be. But his mother was hurting, she was crying, sobbing in front of him. She needed help. She was broken. She hadn’t meant to do this... right?  

Of course not. Her alcoholism had just gotten out of control, and unfortunately, addiction is a lonely and selfish ailment. Sober, her mind wouldn’t even think of doing something so selfish. But these days, she was rarely sober.  

Mary looked at his mother, crumpled up and sickly looking, weeping into her palms, and he just wanted to save her. He always wanted to save her.  

“Ma, it’s okay...” he told her, trying too hard for an 11-year-old not to cry. “Ma, don’t cry... I can keep working for one, it’s okay. I like the CD, I really do.” he squished himself between her and the arm of the chair, wrapping his arms around her and cuddling into her. She was inconsolable, sobbing so loudly she drowned out the cartoons on the TV set. She’d lost control of herself, and Mary was the only one around to pick up the pieces.  

“Shh, ma, it’s okay. It’ll be okay!” he told her, squeezing her as tightly as he could. “I’m here, don’t cry.” 

She’d screwed up big time, and whether Mary had chosen to forgive her or not, she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself for this. If she wasn’t already buried up to the neck in a pit of self-loathing, this was the last shovel full of cement to trap her in. 

But Mary had already decided that he’d do what he could to dig her out. She was his mother, she did everything for him that she could... why wouldn’t he help her too? 

A guitar could wait a little while longer. For now, his mother needed him – and he’d work as hard as he needed to save her.  

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5 | PART 6 | PART 7 | PART 8

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[xxnghtclls]

A little spontaneous analysis on Sukuna and his view on love and rejection that I blurted out while reading about Heian Era marriage this morning 🤓

That Sukuna panel came to mind with him saying, he’s “a cursed, unwanted little wretch”. (I was told “hated” was another way to translate it, but it’s the same in the end).

Disclaimer: These are just my thoughts using this specific translation. However Sukuna is a complex character and nothing is black and white and I’m probably heavily cherry picking here or reading way too much into this more than I should or would be necessary. 😆 WELL

Somehow it struck to me that one of the FEW things we know about Sukuna, is that he never married or bore any children. This is even more interesting, considering the fact that in the JJK verse, we do have a few absent wifes/lovers to name, that we know little to nothing about. Be it Megumi‘s mother, Kaori or a nonexistent wife of Sukuna. People often claim that Sukuna is a virgin, cause he didn’t marry or had kids. This is a whole other discussion, but this claim kept lingering in my head and made me think about marriage in the first place. Marriage and children often being a wholesome concept of love in our modern understanding, I first thought the marriage thing to be in connection to his claim to love being useless, that he not even once had interest in love. I think there‘s more to that.

(although I do think that someone who claims that love is worthless kinda sounds heartbroken, but yeah anyway)

But then I thought „wait we’re speaking ancient times, did love play any role in marriage anyway?“

We still don‘t know the social status in which Sukuna was born in, but in regards to heian era, marriage was first and foremost a thing to secure and show social status. Marriages out of love weren‘t common, even seen as unrealistic.

Marriages were mostly arranged, often when they were still teenagers even. And this is what caught my attention. Sukuna says he was born a cursed unwanted little wretch and I first assumed this claim purely focuses on his parents and his early childhood.

But given the social norms in heian era, what if it also meant that he was literally unable to marry later on, that he wasn’t just unwanted by his by his parents, but by a possible spouse as well? Him saying he was “cursed and unwanted” indicates that it was a state he was put in, not a state he sought out to be. You could even argue, that him saying he was “unwanted” or “hated” even required him not wanting to be treated that way. Which child would want that? Which makes it even more interesting that he says, that he never thought about needing someone else to fulfill him. In connection to what I said before, it could almost sound hateful. As well as this moment here, which always occurred to me as if he said it from own experience.

Because when you grow up in a surrounding that hates & repels you, it makes sense that you grow indifferent to society, but it doesn’t necessarily mean it was always that way. Him being unwanted makes so much sense in connection with him saying, that he focuses solely on himself and that he has complete disregard to others. Which makes sense, when it’s a result of not having anybody who wants or loves you. It leaves you with yourself and yourself only.

I know a lot of you really wanna fight the thought of Sukuna having a hard childhood but who cares honestly? I don‘t think it would make him less of a strong character. Every human is the result of their surroundings and as stated, Sukuna is human too. Based on that, you could even argue that the only kind of love he knows and sees as the real love, was an aggressive one. This would explain why he sees the slaughter of those who fought Kashimo as love.

Ok back to marriage! When I read about marriage, there was another thing that caught my attention and that was poetry! We know Sukuna is a little nerd, who is eager to learn and it’s indicated that he even enjoyed poetry. (His immediate reaction to Yorozu‘s Haiku being that it lacks the seasonal word.) Back then, when someone was about to apply for marriage, what did they do? Yeah right, they wrote letters to someone.

As I stated above, you could assume that there was a time, where Sukuna was not utterly hateful and indifferent to social contacts (I know that’s a reach, but that’s up for interpretation as long as we don’t know his backstory.)

If we assume, that Sukuna was born looking the way he looks, then it wouldn’t surprise me if there was a lot of rejection involved in the way the proposal was practised as described above. I don‘t wanna paint Sukuna as the poor rejected here, but idk maybe he was.

We all eagerly await Sukuna‘s backstory and I‘m so excited to learn about him. This suddenly turned into an analysis of Sukuna and his view on love and whatnot, but please remember, I’m not saying that any of this might have actually happened.

It’s just some connections my brain made while reading about marriage and thinking about some of the stuff that Sukuna said. I just had to write it down.

Here‘s the source: click

[domm1etae]

sent to tempt me - chapter eight

chapter eight: unwanted attention

chapter summary: Yunho's library meeting with Mingi turns humiliating when flirty girls target him, triggering confusion over his feelings. Later, Yunho's mother calls, adding pressure

pairing: yunho x mingi

genre: smut (not yet but there will be eventually), angst, fluff, romance, m/m, non!idol!ateez, sub!yunho, dom!mingi, drama, coming of age, collage, religion

rating: 18+ (for the whole series bc there will be smut eventually) | mdni

word count: 2.7k

warnings under

collage, roommates, sub!yunho, dom!mingi, bad boy mingi and religious church good boy yunho same-sex attraction, m/m, teasing, dark themes, homophobia, self discovery, pet names, strangers to lovers, religion and religious topics, aaaand more will be added soon hehehe

previous chapter | next chapter | AO3 | this fics masterlist

author's note: next chapter will be out soon bbys i am already working on it!!

The clock read 2:57 PM, and Yunho was on the verge of a minor breakdown. His heart pounded like it was staging a rebellion, and the closer he got to the library, the worse it got. He adjusted his grip on the strap of his bag for the tenth time, sweat forming on his palms despite the crisp fall air.

It’s just a meeting, he told himself for the hundredth time. A project meeting. People have these all the time.

But then again, most people didn’t have to meet their ridiculously confident, infuriatingly sarcastic, and stupidly attractive roommate for these meetings. Most people didn’t have to face someone who could make them feel small with just a look—or worse, a smirk.

He caught sight of the library doors and paused. What if Mingi was already inside, waiting? Did he look too eager? Too nervous? Yunho exhaled, trying to shake the nerves off. He couldn’t just stand here forever.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside, the smell of books and faint coffee hitting him immediately. And there he was.

Mingi.

Leaning back in one of the chairs like he had all the time in the world, legs stretched out under the table, and a pen twirling between his fingers. Yunho’s chest tightened at the sight. His roommate looked like he belonged on the cover of some magazine—not sitting in a library for a school project.

Mingi didn’t even notice him walk in at first, too busy staring at the ceiling as if it held all the answers to life. Yunho hesitated, suddenly hyperaware of how stiffly he was walking. Finally, he shuffled over to the table and cleared his throat.

“H-Hey,” he mumbled, sliding into the seat across from Mingi.

Mingi’s eyes flicked over to him, a lazy smirk pulling at his lips. “Hey, roommate. You’re on time for once. Miracles do happen.”

Yunho felt his ears heat up immediately. “I... I’m usually on time,” he protested, even though it sounded weak, even to his own ears.

Mingi snorted, clearly unconvinced. “Sure you are.” He leaned forward, sliding a notebook across the table. “Anyway, let’s get this over with. Decadence isn’t gonna analyze itself.”

Yunho nodded, fumbling with his bag to pull out his notes. His hands shook slightly as he flipped to the right page, the edges of the paper crinkling in his grip.

“Decadence,” Mingi said, leaning back again. “Oscar Wilde and his whole ‘live fast, die pretty’ thing. Sounds like a blast.”

Yunho blinked, unsure how to respond. “I think it’s more about moral decay and the pursuit of pleasure,” he said softly, hoping he didn’t sound stupid.

Mingi tilted his head, considering. “Moral decay, huh? Guess that makes sense. But honestly, Wilde seems like the kind of guy who’d throw the best parties.”

Yunho’s brow furrowed. “I—I don’t think that’s what he meant.”

Mingi grinned. “Relax, I’m kidding.”

They went back and forth like that for a few minutes, with Mingi throwing out sarcastic comments while Yunho tried to keep the conversation on track. It wasn’t easy. Every time Yunho thought they were making progress, Mingi would derail the discussion with another offhand remark.

And then, just as Yunho was starting to feel a little more comfortable, two girls appeared.

“Mingi!” one of them called out, her voice annoyingly high-pitched. She was petite with bleached blonde hair tied into pigtails. Her friend, a taller brunette, followed close behind.

Yunho immediately stiffened, his shoulders hunching instinctively.

The blonde leaned on Mingi’s shoulder like she had every right to be there. “We were just talking about you,” she said with a smile that was anything but innocent.

“Good things, I hope,” Mingi replied smoothly, his tone dipping into something low and teasing.

Yunho stared down at his notes, pretending to read them. He could feel his cheeks heating up again. Why did these things always happen around him?

The brunette giggled, brushing her fingers against Mingi’s arm. “Always. So... who’s your friend?”

Before Mingi could answer, the blonde zeroed in on Yunho like a hawk spotting prey. “Oh my gosh, I’ve never seen you before! Are you from another school or something? Mingi you are keeping the prettiest friends only to yourself.”

Yunho opened his mouth, but no words came out. “I—uh—no, I—”

“He’s my roommate,” Mingi interrupted, his tone casual. “He studies here. Real quiet type.”

“Your roommate?” the blonde echoed, her eyes lighting up with interest. “No way! What’s your name?”

Yunho glanced at her, then at Mingi, who was watching the exchange with a look of pure amusement. “Y-Yunho,” he stammered.

“Yunho,” she repeated, rolling the name around like she was testing it out. “So... are you single?”

Yunho froze. His ears felt like they were on fire. “I—uh—”

“Oh, come on,” Mingi cut in, laughing. “You really gotta ask him that? Just look at him. You can tell a woman’s never touched him. Look how red he is.”

Yunho’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and anger. “That’s not—”

“Or what?” Mingi interrupted, his grin widening. “Am I wrong, roomie?”

The blonde rolled her eyes. “Mingi, don’t be such a jerk. Don’t judge a book by its cover. The shy ones are always the biggest freaks in bed.”

Yunho’s brain practically shut down. His cheeks burned, and he couldn’t bring himself to look at anyone.

“Trust me,” Mingi said, shaking his head. “I’ve been with enough people to know. Yunho’s as innocent as they come.”

The brunette pouted, leaning closer to Yunho. “Oh, come on, Mingi. Don’t be rude. I bet Yunho could give it to me good aaaaall night long.” She leaned so close that Yunho could feel her breath on his face.

That was it. Yunho shot up from his seat, grabbing his bag. “Excuse me,” he muttered, his voice barely audible, before practically running out of the library.

“Wow,” the blonde said, throwing her hands in the air. “I try to be nice to the nerd type for once, and he does this. God, what’s his deal?”

Mingi laughed, leaning back in his chair. “You scared him off. Better luck next time.”

-----

The walk back to the dorm felt endless, even though Yunho’s legs were moving faster than usual. His cheeks still burned, not from the kind of heat people whispered about when they talked about crushes or flirty encounters, but from pure, unrelenting embarrassment.

The second he got inside, he closed the door a little harder than necessary, his bag hitting the floor with a dull thud. He stood there for a moment, breathing heavily and staring at nothing in particular.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair.

He wasn’t mad at the girl, really. She didn’t know any better—how could she? But the way she leaned in so close, the way her fingers brushed against his arm, the way she said that… thing about him? Yunho’s face heated up again just thinking about it. Not because it had excited him—no, not even close—but because it hadn’t.

His reaction hadn’t been normal. He knew it wasn’t normal.

Any other guy would’ve felt something. That’s just how it was supposed to work, wasn’t it? A pretty girl shows interest, flirts a little, touches your arm, and you feel your stomach flip or your heart race or... something. But not Yunho. All he’d felt was awkward. Uncomfortable. And a little desperate to leave.

And that was wrong, wasn’t it?

Yunho sank onto his bed, dropping his head into his hands. His brain wouldn’t stop racing, wouldn’t stop poking at the memory like a sore tooth.

Why didn’t he feel anything? Why didn’t her touch make his heart skip the way it was supposed to? Sure, she wasn’t the kind of girl he’d normally talk to, but that didn’t matter. She was attractive—objectively attractive. Yunho should’ve felt something. But he hadn’t.

The worst part was, Yunho knew he wasn’t supposed to think about things like this in the first place. His whole life, he’d been told that thoughts like these were dangerous. Sinful, even. Thinking about a girl in that way? It was forbidden.

But wasn’t it also forbidden to feel nothing at all?

Yunho groaned, flopping back onto his bed and staring up at the ceiling. His hands clutched the fabric of his sweater, the soft material bunching under his fingers.

Why don’t I feel anything? he thought. Why don’t I think about girls the way I’m supposed to?

He pressed his palms over his face, trying to block out the thought, but it refused to go away. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, there was something even worse gnawing at the back of his mind. Something he didn’t want to acknowledge, but couldn’t ignore.

The way he felt about Mingi.

Yunho swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.

It wasn’t like he wanted to think about Mingi. He didn’t choose to. It just... happened. And that made it even worse.

Mingi, with his sarcastic smirks and his lazy drawl, the way he acted like he was above everything, like nothing mattered to him. Mingi, with his sharp eyes and sharp tongue, always knowing exactly what to say to leave Yunho flustered and off-balance. Mingi, who leaned too close, stood too tall, spoke too softly sometimes, like he was trying to make Yunho’s heart stutter.

It was wrong.

Yunho’s chest ached, his breath coming quicker as the thoughts swirled faster and faster. Thinking about a girl like that was bad enough, but thinking about a boy? A boy who was his roommate?

It was the worst kind of wrong.

Yunho squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would make the thoughts disappear. But it didn’t work. It never worked. Because no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many times he told himself to stop, the thoughts always came back.

He hated it.

Hated the way his heart skipped when Mingi looked at him too long. Hated the way his stomach twisted when Mingi teased him. Hated the way his mind wandered, late at night when he should’ve been praying, to things he couldn’t even say out loud.

And yet...

Yunho’s hands curled into fists, the fabric of his sweater stretching under the pressure.

And yet, he couldn’t make it stop.

He felt like he was stuck in some kind of endless loop, spinning between guilt and confusion and frustration, with no way out. He didn’t understand why Mingi acted the way he did, why he always had to push Yunho’s buttons and make everything so complicated.

But maybe Yunho didn’t understand himself even more.

Yunho hadn’t moved from his spot on the bed. His arm was slung over his eyes, blocking out the pale glow of the dorm room ceiling light. His head was still buzzing, a jumble of thoughts fighting for space, each one more unwelcome than the last.

And then, his phone rang.

He sighed heavily, dragging his arm away to glance at the screen. The name “Mom” blinked at him, bright and insistent. Ignoring it wasn’t an option—not when ignoring her could lead to endless texts or another, more persistent call.

With a reluctant groan, he swiped to answer. “Hi, Mom.”

“Yunho,” she said, her tone even and purposeful. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” he replied automatically.

“You don’t sound fine. Are you eating properly? Studying hard?”

“Yes, Mom,” Yunho mumbled.

“And have you been to church?”

The question made his stomach twist. “Uh, yeah,” he lied. “I’ve been.”

“Good.” Her voice carried a faint edge, as though she didn’t quite believe him. “You know how important it is to stay close to your faith, especially in a place like college. There’s too much temptation out there. You need to be careful.”

“I know,” Yunho said quietly, his grip tightening on the phone.

“You’re staying away from trouble, right?” she continued, her tone growing stern. “There’s no drinking, no wild parties?”

“No, Mom,” Yunho said quickly, the thought almost laughable.

“Good,” she said again, but there was a pause, heavy and expectant, like she wasn’t quite finished. “You’re not... letting yourself get distracted, are you? By... other things? You know what I mean right. Some pretty ladies?”

Yunho’s stomach dropped. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’m not distracted.”

“Alright,” she said, her tone sharp and clipped. “I trust you, Yunho, but you know what’s expected of you. You’ve been raised with values—don’t let anything or anyone take you away from that. Understand?”

“I understand,” Yunho murmured, his voice tight.

“Good,” she said once more. “I’ll let you go now. But remember, you have a responsibility—to yourself, to your family, and to God. Don’t forget that. If you ever introduce us to a girl someday, I’ll be glad, but make sure she’s Christian—and focus on your studies first.”

“I won’t,” Yunho said quietly, his voice flat.

She hung up first, leaving Yunho sitting in the oppressive silence of the room. He stared at his phone for a long moment before tossing it onto his desk.

Why couldn’t she just let it go? Why did every conversation feel like a checklist of things he could mess up?

The guilt was already creeping in, but Yunho shoved it aside. He couldn’t deal with that right now.

Instead, he kicked off his shoes, pulled the blanket over his head, and closed his eyes. Sleep would make it better. It always did.

----

The grogginess of waking up too late weighed heavily on Yunho as he blinked at his alarm clock, the glowing numbers reading 1:00 AM. He groaned, rubbing his face. That nap had turned into an unplanned deep sleep, leaving him disoriented and even more irritated with how the day had gone.

"Ugh, great. Just what I needed," he muttered, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed. His mouth was dry, his thoughts still muddled with remnants of frustration over the library incident. He grabbed his phone to check for notifications but found none, not that he was expecting any.

Yunho shuffled to the kitchen, his socks scuffing the floor as he made his way to the cupboard to grab a glass. He yawned as he filled it with water, the sound of the faucet cutting through the stillness of the dorm. The silence was comforting, though a little eerie this late at night.

As he leaned back against the counter and sipped his water, he heard the faintest sound—like the shuffle of footsteps outside their door. Yunho froze, the glass paused midway to his lips.

At first, he thought he was imagining it, but then came another sound. A thump. A muffled groan. His heart rate spiked.

What the hell?

It was late—too late for someone to be coming by. Mingi should have been home by now, considering how he’d gone off with his admirers earlier. Was someone trying to break in? The thought sent a cold wave of panic through Yunho, and he set the glass down with trembling hands.

Every noise seemed magnified: the quiet creak of the hallway floorboards, the faint shuffle of shoes, the sound of a hand brushing the doorknob. Yunho’s mind raced, conjuring every horror story he’d ever heard. He clutched the edge of the counter, his eyes darting to their apartment door.

Then it started to open.

His breath caught. He took a step back, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. Should he grab something—a knife, a chair? He wasn’t prepared to face an intruder!

The door swung inward slowly, and Yunho braced himself for the worst. But instead of some dark, faceless threat, it was Mingi.

Or rather, a version of Mingi Yunho had never seen before.

The taller boy stumbled inside, his shoulders hunched, his normally styled hair a wild, disheveled mess. Blood trickled steadily from a cut just above his brow, a thin line streaking down his temple to smear faintly along his cheekbone. His lips were split, dried blood crusted at the edges. The collar of his shirt bore faint smears of red, and a nasty bruise was spreading under his left eye, swollen and darkening with every passing second.

[circeyoru]

This is my first time requesting by the way, hopefully it isn't too much >m>

I really really love your Alastor x readers by the way! Not just Unwanted Soul. They give me so much life asdfghjkl

I've been craving for some hurt/comfort. So what if soul owner reader was having a bad episode of self-hating intrusive thoughts that drove them towards self harm?

Maybe this was before Alastor gave them his soul, so reader still thinks that he'll leave them sooner or later.

Maybe Alastor was out during the time that reader may have needed his presence the most? Thoughts of self-hatred became too much, too hurtful... too real. 'They were too weak. Too pathetic. A waste of space. This is why people avoided them. Ridiculed them. Rightfully so. How could anyone waste their precious time on someone as unlovable as them?'

How would Alastor react coming home to the aftermath of reader's self harm?

Also, since he's obsessed with the reader, I can honestly see him patiently being by their side in every step of the way as they recover from their episode, no matter if they'd relapse. Alastor would prove those intrusive thoughts wrong just by being there and being ecstatic to be in reader's presence even if they could offer him nothing at that time.

Hello~ Thank you for supporting my writings! Your first-time request got me thinking and I added it to the main story instead of as trivia~

Unwanted Soul _ Part 6 = Requested

[Yandere!Alastor x Owner of his Soul!Reader]

But let's also add a bit of extra to this, yeah?

At this point, you'd have read the newest part, if not, why you still here? Kidding, you'll just be spoiling yourself. Not my problem, it's your reading experience.

So! Raeder/you are a pessimistic person, no doubt you guys got this after I revealed how you died.

Now to spoil a bit (if it's not obvious to you), you were in that state because you thought Alastor really left you without saying anything. During your days alive, you also have that urge to self-harm, but it was never fatal, nor will you draw blood because it was a pain to deal with afterwards. Now that you are a demon and there is the basic regenerative ability, you do harm with the intent to draw blood.

The self-harm part is answered in the actual story, but the add-on is your depressive mood.

It's obvious to Alastor because when you are in that state, you don't do anything but lie in bed, maybe listen to some music. Alastor learn best that you'd prefer not to talk or move much, and you'll stay in bed hugging something.

So what Alastor does is that he stays by your side no matter what until you request something that makes him leave, even then he wouldn't leave for longer than half an hour. Because he usually takes his time with making your meals, it takes way too long. He'll eat cup noodles with you. You have to help him though, since you're the expert and it's a way for him to cheer you up. He's fine with just lying next to you and doing basically nothing. As long as you're there with him.

Something you don't mind and want Alastor to do to talk without wanting your input. He'll do it too, it boosts hid ego and pride to know what he's best at can comfort you as well. He's a Radio Host and for you, you'll enjoy a private broadcast from him.

"Welcome, My Dearest! To my broadcast! Let's talk about an insufferable fellow called Vox."

"Hehe..."

Your little laugh is what he needs to get by, you little smile is what he wants to see on your face.

[themsource]

Where did your idea of having Ford and Stan have different birthdays come from? 👀

Thank you for the question! :D

I actually wanted something that can be seen as a bonding activity to serve as more of a start to their division, a bit of foreshadowing if you would, kinda like fate playing it's part since the day they were born.

And I wanted it to be a bit of a catalyst for Ford on a subconscious level that gives him more of an opportunity to get that 'suffocated' feeling like he has in canon by getting a taste of something that's just his own (and suffering for it by seeing how upset that makes Stan through the years to the point of there being a bit of bitterness there as he does his best to sacrifice in a way to keep his very much loved twin happy).

Birthdays to me have always been a very personal affair. It's supposed to celebrate your life and the joy you bring to others by existing. In this case with the twins, sharing one would be more of celebrating them both existing rather than just one.

So imagine Stan who hated having the separate birthdays (an independent thing in a very much codependent relationship 'without ford I was just half of a dynamic duo') and had gotten used to Ford indulging him (reassuring him that someone fully understood and valued him being around just as much as themselves), slowly getting cut out from that, getting it rubbed in his face that he was younger by only a few minutes the older they got and the separate birthdays emphasizing that (being taught to believe that makes him somehow less important, an 'extra' - damn that cardboard sign. Tough love was an extreme back then, and making your kid stand outside for two days holding a sign saying 'extra stan 2$' is certainly not the best way to go about motivating your son to do better in school Filbrick!). It adds to his own resentment and the feeling of both being unwanted and unloved, helping propel him into running away when he does.

It's just... this whole tangled ball of emotions.

Because you have Filbrick and Caryn too who didn't help, and usually tried to provide best they could given what I imagine was a financially tight upbringing. I mean they had the twins share a holiday sweater to keep warm for crying out loud. I think... they were as good of parents as they could be given the times they were in and the mindset of society at large had both with money and standards. Throwing Stan out in canon while in anger, was awful, I won't forgive that, but it did happen a lot back then especially at 17-18 when kids were both 'considered' or officially adults, and could go off on their own. You can still see that kinda thought process even nowadays in older folks to prevent 'mooching' or 'being a bum'.

Anyways that's why when it came to birthdays I saw that Filbrick and Caryn really wanted to help promote future independence between the twins when witnessing how close they were (because Filbrick honestly wasn't going to foster a relationship where Stan and Ford needed to rely on each other to survive - not in a dog eat dog world. If you read lost legends he goes off about Ford 'sticking his neck out' for Stan and punishes both of them for Stanley's actions).

Unfortunately, with that saying of 'The path to hell is paved in good intentions', Filbrick and Caryn messed up. They tried their best to give them both the best birthdays, but with tight money they didn't plan too well and so didn't give equal treatment (they couldn't afford two cakes, buying a cupcake after was already a luxurious stretch - 5$ for a cake was sacrificing a weeks worth of groceries already), and ended up playing it a bit too casual and brisk with Stan's celebration over how embarrassed and guilty they felt.

That's not to say there still wasn't a bit of selfishness there as Filbrick did see Ford as the one that could potentially help them out the most financially in the future given his smarts (being a man 'tough as a cinderblock' and focused on the ability to provide it's obvious why Filbrick had an obsession with money), so Ford was given the cake and clear favoritism.

But again, both parents still tried, and ended up failing too. Humans are complicated when it comes to emotions and thoughts like that and mistakes do happen with first time parents sadly.

So that's why I made the birthdays separate! Where I got the idea from. It allowed for room with character divergence and altered growth in my AU from canon. As well as things that could be explored further with the characters.

Plus angst, glorious, glorious angst 😭

[isnt-it-pretty]

When I was a kid, I didn't read. One of my learning disabilities is reading, and it was really difficult for me to make sense of words. They gave me as much extra help in school as they could, but it didn't really do anything. I was several grades behind everybody else, and tbh, I was probably halfway illiterate by the time I was ten, but I honestly can't remember.

And then my older sister brought Sandry's Book home from the library as an audiobook. This was in 2008, when audiobooks were a lot less common than they are now. It was on a CD and I remember sitting in my room listening to it, and feeling my chest swell from joy and excitement.

It was life-changing. I was enthralled by the story of these four kids. I read the physical book along with it, and finally, finally, reading made sense. I could finally match up the sounds I heard with the words I saw, and it clicked in a way it never had before.

I taught myself to read from Tammy's books. The first book I ever read cover to cover of my own accord was Magic Steps. The very first piece of fanfiction I wrote was on loose-leaf paper for Tamora Pierce.

As a bullied kid, it was clear I was unwanted everywhere I went. But in Tammy's books? Those four were unwanted too. They were hurt and angry but they often chose to be kind, even when it was hard. They stood up for what they believed in even if nobody else did.

These books changed my life in ways I can't express. I'm not sure I would love reading as much as I do if I hadn't been given her books. If I didn't read, I definitely wouldn't write.

Even if the books aren't complicated technical writing-wise, and the world-building doesn't always line up, they will forever hold a special place in my heart. I wouldn't be who I am without them.

[lemon-natalia]

Nona the Ninth Reaction - Chapter 31

quick note first of all, would anyone be interested in me also doing a liveblog for 'The Unwanted Guest' as well as these remaining chapters?

and after three books we’re back on the Ninth where this all started. Kiriona’s putting on a bit of a show with the ‘Home sweet home’ thing, but it really can’t be pleasant returning to somewhere she spent an absolutely horrible childhood trying to escape, and without Harrow no less

this might genuinely be the first time there has ever been a dog on the Ninth, i don’t really see the cult of goth priests being big on pets

‘then again, i’m not sure of John period’ yeah me neither, quite frankly even after a book which spends half its page time detailing his backstory i’m still unsure about what exactly his plans and powers are

‘a string of fairy lights wouldn’t have gone amiss’ honestly given Harrow’s general penchant for interior bone design, i think she could be persuaded if the fairy lights were made out of actual bone somehow

ohh holy shit there was a good moment while reading that description of Gideon surrounded by corpses with blood on her sword that i fully thought that she’d come back to the Ninth on some weird revenge mission and just straight up murdered Crux

‘My lady, you have come home to us … at last’ why is this making me feel things for Crux of all people. like he has no idea about Nona, or that Harrow’s lost in the River, or anything she’s been through at all. all he knows is that she left for the First, became a Lyctor, and never communicated or came home again

oh great we’re returning to possibly the creepiest part of GtN with the weird ‘devil’ things. between the duel of the Third and Sixth and possession of Colum Asht, the second half of that book is suddenly becoming very relevant again. while Nona’s been living in a combination slice-of-life/war drama, Kiriona’s life seems to have taken a sharp turn into zombie apocalypse novel. fun!

i’m very intrigued about the little pieces of John and Gideon’s relationship that we get here, notably i think (if i remember correctly) that this is the first time she’s mentioned him as ‘Dad’, seemingly completely sincerely, unlike calling him ‘Pops’ at the end of HtN. and apparently he falsely reassured her that the devils were confined to Antioch, but Kiriona seems to have fully believed him and sounds genuinely upset that he apparently lied about it

wow Crux literally cannot stop hating on Gideon even when he’s actively fucking dying. on one level i can admire the commitment but dude, this level of beef with a literal teenager is ridiculous

‘there was a figure there - dark robes with a pale face’ okay i really can’t figure out what is with the weird stalker figure here. is it Nona having a hallucination of Harrow? just a strange description of one of the nuns?

Pyrrha apparently painted a mint green nursery here a long time ago, i assume for Anastasia’s kid, which would explain the weird remark about helping deliver a baby back in chapter 10. also this implies a version of the Ninth which was at one point not quite so dedicated to the doom-and-gloom-bones-and-death aesthetic, which feels inconceivable to me

well hello Aiglamene long time no see, this is a slightly more welcome return than Crux at least. ngl i really wasn’t expecting to see all these characters from the beginning of GtN again, but it’s interesting to catch up and see how little has really changed there despite all the events of the series

ohhh my god. this is not how i expected a reunion between Aiglamene and Gideon to go. Aiglamene seems so genuinely shaken by the fact that she’s dead, and the fact that she’s apparently very angry at Harrow on Gideon’s behalf, like !! she definitely seems to care about Gideon a lot more than she ever actually let on to her

‘Nona was deeply horrified to see actual walk-around skeletons’ i think Harrow would be mortally offended that anyone in her body could find skeletons horrifying

actually yknow what i take back what i said in GtN about Palamedes, Paul should absolutely not be a therapist with this bedside manner

‘You can’t take loved away’ uh, excuse me for a minute i need to sit in a corner and cry my heart out for a moment. this moment really feels like a summary of a lot of themes in the whole series

ok the final nail in the coffin for my emotional wellbeing at the end of this chapter is that Pyrrha did actually get a birthday present, one that she’ll never be able to give her. here i am completely distraught over cheap moustache rides what have you done to me Tamsyn Muir

istg at least some part of Nona needs to live on. like c’mon Gideon died at the end of the first book and she’s still kicking, Nona can do it too. once again it is nearly the end of a Locked Tomb book and i am in severe denial about probably permanent character death

[lightlycareless]

Valentine's day '24 special — pt. 2

sequel to this.

Heya everyone!!! Sorry for the delay, you will not believe what happened to me 💀 I was intending to upload this much earlier, but by some strange reason my neighborhood just didn't have electricity anymore—for hours. BUT It's finally back, and with it, the second part of my valentine's day special :>

I won't say much, except that the whole plot turned to be quite different than what I envisioned; will I say I didn't like it? No, I feel like it was according to the character's personality and such, very... teenage awkwardness 😂🤭

Anyways, I won't say much anymore, outside of the warnings: highschool au. no major ones. angst. a jealous/possessive naoya.

Without further a do, happy reading, and happy valentine's day!

taglist: @sureconfused

You weren’t the only one excited for this day, by far, albeit for other… reasons.

Made into a well-kept secret, Naoya, heir of the Zen’in, was impatiently waiting for the day he’d effectively label himself as the best catch there ever was—

And win your affection.

Although he’ll have to admit that achieving this feat wasn’t all too easy as he once expected, less with the unwanted advancements valentine’s day brought upon.

Was it a matter of not getting chocolates? Even with his reputation, he still managed to bag a few. Naoya was handsome and rich after all, things that didn’t necessarily need to intertwine with a good personality in order for someone to like him. One has to be blind for that!

The problem here was that none of the gifts he got that day belonged to you, and that put him in a very, very bad mood.

More so when learning that Geto was the one stealing his rightful spot.

“How come he got chocolates from her, and not me?!” Naoya would cry to his best friend, Ranta, as soon as classes were over. The poor kid, although miles away and safeguarded by the other side of the line, still recoiled in surprise by his tone. “What, suddenly I’m not good enough for Y/N?!”

“I wouldn’t say that necessarily, Naoya.” Ranta attempts to comfort him, whatever he can through his friend’s frantic state anyways. “From what you told me, Geto is really popular, right?”

“I’m popular too.” Naoya quickly responds.

«But not for the right reasons» Ranta holds his tongue from saying, instead, he sighs.

“Just take it as what it was—a popular guy getting chocolates; that’s all. He must’ve gotten a thousand, he probably didn’t even notice.”

Damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t. Naoya is quickly irritated by the notion of your efforts being disregarded.

“I would’ve noticed!”

“Then do it.” Ranta says, Naoya frowns, confused. “White day is next month; it’ll be the perfect moment to let her know of your feelings!”

“What?—no. She has to come to me.” He corrected, Ranta does his best to not groan out of exasperation.

“Naoya, have you even spoken to her, outside of jujutsu stuff?”

Nope. Not at all. And yet, Naoya already envisioned you’d be the one he’d marry.

“Then start by something simple.” Ranta continues. “A letter telling her your feelings and how you’d like to know her better can go a long way.”

“But I don’t—men aren’t supposed to do that.”

“Well, what you won’t, maybe Geto will.”

“…I dare you to say that in front of my face.”

Ranta knows he’ll live to regret it later, but honestly, it was the only way he could get Naoya to actually do something about this growing infatuation he’d long determined to be more than a mere attraction.

He’s never seen his friend so… whipped for anyone before, ever, to the point of spending most, if not all, of their conversations talking about her.

There was even a moment where Ranta felt like he was unwittingly third wheeling, and they weren’t even dating yet!

But putting that aside, this could be a positive influence on Naoya’s life too. Perhaps you could soften his edges or make him a better person! —The way his mood improves whenever you’re in his mind is something he could get used to.

Except this time, of course, but that’s within reason (even for Ranta, Naoya’s jealousy still adds up.)

So, after the right motivation (or more like threat), Naoya begins to write down the perfect letter to demonstrate his feelings and intentions with you.

Or tries to.

Naoya has never considered himself particularly the best when it came to showing vulnerability, even though he’s taken countless classical literature courses many would’ve assumed amounted to something—

But like a true man in love, the things he once impossible were nothing but small hindrances along the way.

And soon, here he is, letter in hand as he heads over to the small booth Mei Mei set up for her stupid Cupid Mail thing she set up or whatever she called it—coincidentally, the perfect way to deliver his missive.

Because obviously, beneath his exuberant overconfidence, Naoya is actually very, very shy when it comes to approaching you.

“Off to confess your feelings for darling Y/N?” Mei Mei asks with a sly smirk that passes undetected to him, ass well as her words, once arriving.

“Yes, I ought to before anyone—wait, where did you even get that—”

“I have my ways.” She interrupts. But to anyone with eyes, it was nothing less than obvious. “Anyways, you know my price when it comes to keeping secrets.”

It’s not the first time he’s used her services, and it seems it wouldn’t be the last either.

“Whatever—just—send this letter for me. To Y/N.”

“Hmm… it’ll be ¥1500 please.”

“To send a letter?!” he cries. “What are you going to do, have it signed by the emperor??”

“No, but for people that already have lots of letters piled up, I tend to charge an extra fee—and an additional one if you want it to be first in line.”

“…what?” Naoya breathes.

“What? Thought you were the only one that liked her?” she snickers.

“What do you mean she has piled up letters?” Naoya asks, and having to repeat her words made his heart sink further into his stomach. “From who?!”

“That’s confidential, Zen’in-san.” Mei Mei discloses. “I can’t risk the identity of my clients—”

“How much do you want?” He counters; not buying her sudden righteousness, not even for a second.

“¥100,000”

“Fine, just—”

“Per letter.”

Naoya’s eye twitches at the outrageous bank statement he’d later have to defend before his family.

But even then, he feels no regret when it comes to knowing who could be having the upper hand against him and seize it.

“Here—take whatever you want but let me see who’s sending her letters.”

Mei Mei grins once Naoya sends her a money transfer equivalent to the 15 people that had written out their feelings for you (allegedly), happily obliging when handing over the missives for his open scrutiny, alongside some silly gifts that made him wonder if he also should’ve gotten you something more than just a paper.

However, that thought doesn’t last longer than a few seconds when his eyes fall on the names of the senders. The familiarity of one catching his attention to the fullest, blood running cold upon acknowledging the depth of your relationship with him, and what this could mean for his own advances.

Nanami.

Your proclaimed best friend…

Had sent you a letter, because more likely, he liked you.

…

Naoya didn’t bother to ask Ranta for advice for he already knew what to do. Or at least what his heart was pushing him to commit.

“She’s quite the popular one, isn’t she? Must be because of her siblings—”

“How much to not send anything to her?”

“Oh.” Mei Mei’s eyes glinted with greed and surprise. Although her interest mostly dwelled on the first. “Don’t tell me the great Naoya Zen’in is feeling threatened.”

Or more like afflicted.

“Just tell me how much. And so no one else can send her anything either.”

She smiles—Mei Mei couldn’t believe it was that easy to hit jackpot, but she won’t complain.

“A million.”

“Done.”

“Are you still sending the letter?” she still asks, shamelessly, as if she hadn’t just secured her living for the foreseeable future.

“Yes.”

Although not by itself anymore.

Understanding the sensibility in which he’d greatly miscalculated the intervention of others, Naoya rushes to make himself stand out by all means possible, as well as show just how strong his determination was to be with you.

Thus, the plushies he heard were of your liking, your favorites, or simply reminded him of you, soon began to make their way to him, settling the first foundations of the boxes he was to send you.

Alongside the sweets he’s seen you bring along for lunch, either through the nearest vending machine or gifted from your siblings and friends—didn’t matter how, just that you loved them.

To add a twist, jewelry was also included. Ones he thought would look great on you, both representing a piece of his immeasurable wealth, and his undying affection for you.

And lastly, but not least, roses. Flowers that were prided on for their beauty and significance, the perfect way to profess one’s feelings and cement them as real—he found no personal use behind them, not when he thought you much more alluring, but if necessary…

Amongst the other gifts Mei Mei managed to sneak in, like a true visionaire, for her financial gain.

Down to the smallest detail, everything was intricately planned for White Day to unfold: yes, even their tardy arrival.

The reason why Naoya chose the end of the day to deliver his countless gifts was simply because he thought he’d make a greater impression this way, give you something to think about after a long day of boring work and once back in your room.

To keep your mind completely on him, wondering who was attentive enough to bless you with all these gestures…

And of course, making you smile, cheeks flustered and face beaming in the same beautiful way that always mesmerized him—just like now.

“I… I can’t believe it.” You’d whisper to yourself while overlooking your gifts one more time; gaze lost in the ocean of sweets, flowers, and jewelry alike. There were just too many, you simply didn’t know where to start!

Or how to take them with you.

“I, uh… I think I’m going to need help to move them to my dorm” you say, eyes circling back to Mei Mei. “Do you think you can—oh.”

But she was already gone, possibly to complete more of her money-hungry schemes, such as convincing Satoru to spend more money on Suguru, or scam an innocent, unsuspecting student to confess their feelings to their crush, whom she knows has no chance with, via her postal service, or not. Mei Mei was always a mystery.

What was not a mystery, was the unwitting companionship she left you behind with, an astonished crowd slowly surrounding you the moment the first gift graced your hands, all in a similar state of disbelief, if not jealousy—

Alongside a fascinated admirer.

“Oh, how am I going to move all this—”

“Let me help you.” Keeping a close eye at a distance, Naoya sees this opportunity as his moment, and steps in.

“Naoya!” You gasp, startled by his unexpected appearance, a rare occurrence unless it involved sorcery manners, or Satoru. “I didn’t see you get here, where did you come from?”

“My class just finished, and I was heading back to the dorms.” He explains—a blatant lie, considering the teacher didn’t show up because of a date, or so many theorized. “What’s with all the gifts?”

“I know, right? Can you believe they’re all for me??” you bubbled—grabbing on the compliment bait he’d thrown. “But they don’t come with a sender.”

“Really? How weird…” Naoya plays along, wanting to hear more of your enthusiastic praises. “You don’t think it’s from a creep or something, right?”

“I don’t to think so... I don’t want to think it was.” You say, twisting your lips in concern. Naoya then quietly scolds himself for foolishly planting the seed of doubt in your mind. “Anyways, I thought it was sweet.”

As if he couldn’t fall more in love with you. Naoya smiles.

“I’m glad you did.”

For the slightest of seconds, you press your brows together, finding his words to be a bit odd, if not contradictory, to his previous statement—almost as if he were somewhat involved.

“Thanks…?”

“So…” Naoya says, walking over to one of the many baskets and picking them up. “What do you think of this?”

Even when finding his sudden interest odd, since he never struck you as the kind of person to care about these “silly” (his words) situations, you agree to indulge him only because he’s helping you.

And because this is so in-your-face, you really couldn’t blame him for being curious.

“About the gifts?” You ask.

Guess the weird part of it is that he’s insisting so much. Wasn’t your previous answer enough?

“Yeah.”

“Well, I told you; it was sweet.” You repeat, leading him towards your dorm. “And even though the mystery surrounding the sender adds a layer of romanticism to these gifts, I really want to know who did it.”

“For what?” Naoya pushes forward—all because in his mind, he thinks you’ve now unknowingly fallen for him too, and wants to confirm it.

“Oh, uh—I’m just curious! I mean, I’m human, you know?” you explain with a chuckle. “Don’t you feel the same way when this happens?”

Then, something in your mind clicked.

“No—Naoya, don’t tell me you didn’t get anything?!” you gasp.

«From the one I want, no.» he wishes to say, but it felt redundant to do so.

“I didn’t ask that.” Naoya responds instead, words that sting you, although not so much anymore, since you’ve long accepted that he can be quite… crude when he doesn’t want to talk about something.

“…Sorry.” You murmur, moving forward. Something so nice shouldn’t be ruined by his inability to socialize like a normal human being. “But… yeah, I guess I’m just curious. I mean, I’ve never gotten so many things like this before, it almost feels like I’m undeserving!”

“You’re not.”

You frown once again—why is he acting so weird, today, of all days?

“Well, at least I won’t have to buy sweets for a long time now.” You say with a smile, already savoring the delicacies before you. “Although the mochi are not making it past today! How did they even know taro was my favorite?”

And there was still one last thing for you to see—his letter.

Naoya was planning on giving it to you once arriving at your dorm, but your excitement, alongside your beautiful beaming smile, and your glistening eyes, pushed him to act now.

“Y/N.” Naoya says, a stern tone that makes you stop and turn around.

“Hm?”

“…What would you do if I… told you I knew who sent all these gifts?”

“You do?” you breathe. His heart clenches with longing.

��Hypothetically.” Naoya says. Even if he’s absolutely confident he wants to do this, there’s still a part of him, although very small, that fills him with hesitance. He can’t be judged for wanting to be cautious, right?

“Oh, well, if that’s the case… I’d like to thank him first.” You respond. “Although a bit exaggerated, it was still the nicest gesture I’ve gotten in a while. And it definitely made my day! I was just about to head to my room to whine about not getting anything, haha! Anyways… what I mean to say is, I’d like to thank them and… maybe even get to know them bett—”

“Me.” Naoya says without further precedent, you blink.

“What?”

“Me. It was me. I sent the gifts.” He reiterated, through the sudden knot forming in his throat and the rising heat of his cheeks.  “I’m the one you want to thank. The one that sent everything: from the box in your hands, to the rest of the things in your dorm.”

Naoya was wholeheartedly expecting you to glee and cheer now that the revelation was, open the door for the relationship he envisioned would begin from this day forward…

And not your following reaction.

“That’s—that’s a good one, Naoya!” You laugh nervously. “You almost got me there!”

If he didn’t know any better, it would seem you were attempting to hide disappointment. And your once dreamy laughter became his absolute nightmare.

“I’m not joking.” Naoya justifies, growing defensive of what little dignity he had left.

“Oh…” murmur, chuckle slowly subsiding while opening way to your true emotions, filling you with tension at the one outcome he never considered palpable.

“Were you expecting someone else?” He dares to ask, with an accusatory tone that lets you know you’ve stung a nerve.

And as much as honesty seemed to be the most intimidating path to take, it was still the right one.

“I—I mean… yeah.” You anxiously admit, his frown deepens.

“So, what? Even with my gifts, I’m still not good enough for you?”

“What? No! That’s not it, Naoya!” Your voice trembles—regretful for the misinterpretation of your words; but truth to be told, there was no amount of assertiveness that could’ve mended Naoya’s slowly breaking heart.

“Then what is it?” influenced by a thousand reasons, he goes with the most hurtful one. “It’s someone else, isn’t it? Was it Nanami?”

“What does he have to do with anything?” you cautioned.

“Nothing.” He rushes to cover, thankfully for him, you seem to drop the subject all together. “Why does it seem so shocking I got you these things? Weren’t you say how much liked them a few minutes ago? Or how much you wanted to thank the person behind them?”

“I didn’t—I mean… I’m still grateful for the gifts, but… I have to be honest.” You thread carefully, heart on your throat. “I don’t… know you. And you don’t know me, either.”

“What do you mean you don’t know me? We’ve worked together before, hadn’t we?”

“Naoya… We barely talk to each other outside of class, and—and… forgive me if I don’t believe your interest in me, but what am I supposed to think after the way you act whenever I’m around?”

“What way??”

While the rest of the world seemed to be nothing but acknowledging of Naoya’s infatuation with you, if not irritated by your obliviousness—

All this time, you were seeing the other side of the coin.

Starting from the silent way he’d stare at you, a piercing gaze that made you feel miniscule, scrutinized, urging you to leave his sight as soon as possible.

Followed by the irritation in his face whenever you’d interact with someone else, as if wondering where you’d get the audacity to interact with his fellow classmates, or anyone at all.

Adding the way he’d swiftly avoid you when accidentally bumping into you—uttering a quick watch out before leaving you to your own devices, careless to bother checking if you were hurt, or not.

And now, the defensiveness in which he took your skepticism.

Was it surprising that you didn’t believe his intentions? From your point of view, it was only obvious.

But to him, it was the highest of distresses.

Guess explaining his behavior towards you up to that point would amount to nothing.

Why would he bother wasting his breath affirming to you that the only reason why he did all those things was because he was afraid of approaching you? Ignorant on how to make you like him? Or because he was jealous of others?

…when he’s already ruined everything, anyways?

“I thank you for all the beautiful things you got me, Naoya, but… I think they’re better off with someone you do like.” You say, looking down at the box, before moving it closer to him. “Besides, we both know I’m not your type.”

“Not my type? What’s that supposed to mean?”

From the rumors surrounding him, to his behavior, it was the only conclusion you could get at.

But more precisely, the continuously proved reputation he’s got of dating girls only to dump them a few days later.

While he might be exceptional when it comes to giving gifts, you were looking for something a bit more… long term, permanent, in the emotional department.

And to you, Naoya was just not that kind of person.

The silence between the two gave you enough time to define your next step.

“I can give you the things back if you want—”

“No, keep them, I got them with you in mind anyways, what good will it do to give them to someone else?” He frowns, his heart effectively shattered at this point. “Or throw them away, I don’t care.”

That would be the last time you’d see Naoya that week, who’d still helped you move all of the gifts towards your dorm and placing them just outside the door before retreating to what you supposed to be the city—no doubt in your mind that he already had other plans for the day, just staying around to see if he could try his luck with you, before going to plan B.

After all, a man like him surely couldn’t settle for just one person, a date being nothing but a box to check in his routine.

And you were surprisingly accurate—

If you were referring to the Naoya who hadn’t met you yet.

Because since you arrived in his life, you’re all he thinks of. All he could bother to care for, day and night, he only longed to be with you.

But after today, he’s not sure if this is even something he wishes to continue doing. If there’s even hope for someone like him, who’s ruined all his chances—a purpose to fight for.

A friendship with you is the last thing he could expect to happen now, especially after the gruesome conclusion you granted him. Perhaps there was never even a reason to start off from, only his delusions longing for something better.

Yet, unbeknownst to him, this was only the beginning.

Ok so I do feel a bit guilty for going down the angsty path BUT hear me out, it makes sense!!! naoya is the kind of person to make up this whole life with you and he hasn't even spoken with you lol.

outside of that, the beauty of oneshots is that I can literally write 10000 versions of this same scenario 😏 I already have another one in mind, but I'll postpone it to after the other requests I have on my ask.

Either way, I still hope you enjoyed this piece :> Happy valentines day!!

Take care, and hope to see you around ❤️

[nishithedevil]

And with that, we have to the end of this fic. Thank you to everyone who read all parts, i'm glad you enjoyed reading it as much as i did writing it. Don't you worry tho, this isn't the end of my fics XD

Capital Prince and District Princess

Lucy Gray x capital gn reader

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4

As we sat there waiting for the train to arrive, Lucy Gray tapped my shoulder. I turned my head towards her, humming in question. “Thank you, truly. I don’t think I could’ve done any of this without you.” She said softly.

My demeanor eased, and I placed my hand on the bench behind her. "It was my pleasure, but let's not celebrate too soon. I want to ensure you safely return to the Covey in one piece; there's always a chance for unexpected events." I cringe internally, hoping everything goes smoothly, but I keep my concern hidden to avoid adding to her anxiety.

She nods in agreement, and as our train arrives, we seamlessly join the crowd, boarding without attracting any notice. The journey to the districts remains hushed; Lucy Gray wisely opts for silence to avoid unwanted attention. Tuning in to the radio, we stay informed, and thankfully, no one has grown suspicious of her absence, assuming she's still concealed in the vents. The atmosphere between us is mostly comfortable, except for the somber moments when we tune in to the Games' death announcements.

After about three hours, the districts finally emerged on the horizon. Lucy Gray had peacefully drifted into sleep during the train ride, a sight that melted my heart, signaling her genuine trust in me.

Approaching our destination, I leaned in and whispered tenderly in Lucy Gray's ear, softly shaking her awake. "Hey, we're almost here," my voice carried a hint of warmth, and my fingers, moved by an unspoken affection, delicately brushed a stray strand of hair from her face.

In that intimate moment, she seemed to sense my hand on her face, and as she looked up at me, her eyes meeting mine, the realization of my tender gesture washed over me. A sudden flush of embarrassment tinged my cheeks, and I stammered, caught off guard and flustered by my own actions. Groggily, she then rubbed her eyes, careful not to smudge her makeup, and sat up, allowing me to assist her in gathering our belongings before the train's impending stop.

Once it did, we swiftly exited, aiming to attract minimal attention. Out of sight from most onlookers, Lucy Gray immediately took hold of my hand, pulling me along. “C’mon, if the Covey is still here, I know where they’re staying,” she said, glancing back at me as I willingly allowed her to lead the way.

After a while of swerving between the district people, I look around and realize how truly horrible their living conditions are here. It was honestly heartbreaking. “Hey Luce,” I fall short on her steps and tug her towards me. She stops in her tracks confused and looks at me, “I just want to warn you that we can’t stay here for long. We can’t stay long enough for people to realize who you are and what you’ve done.” I warn her.

She looks down at our intertwined hands and then back at me, after a while she begins, “I know. I just have to see my family. I have to tell them I’m okay and see how they’re doin’.” She spoke, her voice soft.

I squeeze her hand in understanding, nodding behind her to signal she should keep walking. Following her lead, we reach a bar, and behind it stands a small, run-down house. Stopping in front of the door, Lucy Gray doesn't bother knocking. She releases my hand, confidently opens the door, and strides inside.

I take a few steps to get closer to her and as we step inside I look around. Inside there are a few kids, all different ages, but no one older than 18. They look at us confused but with caution and stand up abruptly. That was understandable, considering Lucy Gray didn’t look like herself and I was a total stranger to them.

“It’s me guys, Lucy Gray. It’s me, I’m back.” Lucy Gray pleaded with her hands up in the air. I straighten myself behind her.

“N-no! You can’t be. Lucy Gray is fighting in the Hunger Games right now!” One of them yells.

“Maude Ivory, It’s me I swear. Ask me something only Lucy Gray would know.” The little kid, whose name I now know is Maude Ivory, walks closer to her and asks her, “What happened that one time I ate a peanut butter sandwich for the first time?” I cock my head to the side, confused, curiously awaiting the answer.

Lucy Gray put her hands down and straightened herself up, “That’s a trick question, you didn’t eat one since you threw it at me and when I threw it back it fell to the ground since you couldn’t catch it with your mouth like you wanted to.” I chuckle at that response.

“It really is you Lucy Gray!!” Another kid yells and they all come running to hug her. “Why do you look so different?” One asks, and to that I decide to answer. “Well, I helped her escape from the Games, so she had to have a makeover so as to not get caught.”

They all look at me, confusion on their faces again. “Uh hi, I’m Y/N Y/L/N. I was Lucy Gray’s mentor and I helped her escape. As they release Lucy Gray, her family members rush to me, clinging with gratitude and repeating thank you. I laugh at their antics, patting each of them on the back. When I glance up at Lucy Gray, she wears a sweet, loving expression.

I let her stay all day in the house, deciding that having her spend these probably last moments with her family was exactly what she needed right now, and then disappearing in the early morning was the right idea.

—------------------------------------------------------

In the early morning, the Covey wishes us a safe journey. After packing our food, we set off on our way. The hike proves to be exhausting as we walk for days, striving to distance ourselves as much as possible from civilization.

All the way there we talked. I realized just how wonderful and amazing Lucy Gray Baird truly was. I was glad I could help such a beautiful soul escape from the monstrous life in the districts. We talked about anything and everything but also nothing at all. Just being in her presence was enough.

We sat down along the river under a big tree to take a break, we could see a hut in the distance, which would probably be around a 2 hour long walk from here, but we wanted to rest for our final hike. Propped against the tree, Lucy Gray lies in my lap. Suddenly, she says, "I'm grateful for this, for you." I gaze down, tilting my head in curiosity. Her smile follows as she turns toward me, plucking a small white flower beside me. Turning back to lay on her back, she twirls the flower in her hands. "All I'm trying to say is, you saved me, Y/N. You saved me from the cruel fate of our world. And now—" I gently take the flower and tuck it behind her ear, interjecting, "Now we're free. We have all the freedom and time in the world, Lucy Gray. We can do whatever our hearts desire."

In that moment, she gazes up at me, slightly stunned by my action. Her eyes linger on my lips, and a profound silence envelops us, allowing the sounds of the wind to echo around. Propping up on her elbows Lucy Gray captures my lips with hers, closing the gap between us. I hum at how soft her lips are and I could just get stuck in a loop of her kissing me. I never wanted this moment to end. We stopped for air but during that time she sat on my lap and put her hands on my cheeks, bringing me closer and kissing me, this time harsher. I put my hands on her waist moaning at her eagerness. Regrettably, the sweet moment had to end when the lack of air became an issue, and we parted, both catching our breath. Lucy Gray rests her forehead against mine as we huff, and when I look up at her, she's already gazing at me. I blush, captivated by her honey eyes. Placing my hand on her cheek, I confess, "You know, I could never get sick of looking at you." She chuckles, lightly hitting my shoulder, "Oh shut it, you sap." I smirk, realizing I've managed to fluster her.

“Oh, is the overconfident songbird flustered by my words?” I tease her as she turns redder and groans, hiding her head in my shoulder as I laugh.

I was already used to life with her, I would never trade anything for this life with the most gorgeous soul I have ever met. Waking up and going back to sleep with Lucy Gray next to me is all I need to have a fulfilled life. Anything else thrown our way we will get passed it together, no matter what it is.

Lucy Gray leans back sitting on my thighs as I lean forward to capture her lips again, a smile on my face as I safely, in my arms hold the most precious thing in my entire life.

[scoonsalicious]

Since I'm on a posting break until the 23rd so I can write, I thought I'd entertain you with some Unwanted: Unusables, or, early drafts from the fic that didn't make it into the final cut.

This first one is from an early draft of Chapter 5: Unprofessional. A little bit about the draft: In the beginning, Pocket and Bucky were never meant to actually get into a relationship. They were just FWB until Jade came along (who had many in between names, like Emily, Jewel, Sage, etc., and was NOT supposed to be crazy evil, just... kind of a bitch), and the plan was for only Pocket to catch feelings at first, and for Bucky to sleep with Jade in Russia because he actually liked her and wanted to, and to come back to the Tower with her as his girlfriend and kind of leaving Pocket in the dust.

Obviously, this isn't what ended up happening. I couldn't help myself. I needed these two idiots in love. With that in mind, please enjoy these next few days of "Unusables." This particular one starts off with Pocket going back to her room after giving Jade her Tower tour.

I'm actually scheduling all of these before I start my break, lol, so don't worry-- by the time you read this, I'll be writing more WFLT...

You made it back down to your suite in record time and were delighted to find Bucky sitting in one of your arm chairs, an open copy The Times in his hands.

"Hey there, soldier," you said as you kicked off your heels. You raised your skirt as you approached him, giving your legs the freedom they needed to straddle his lap as you sat down in front of him.

He didn't look up from his paper, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Well, hello there, Pocket." His metal hand came up to rest on your knee, fingers tracing circles on your skin. The touch sending shivers down your spine.

"Is that a pistol in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" you asked with a smirk.

Bucky snorted, finally looking up from his paper, one eyebrow raised. "Mouth like that, did they let you into this fancy building, or did you just sneak in through the vents?"

You smiled, tracing the lines of his face with your fingers. "Maybe I just I crawled up through the sewer line," you teased, putting a kiss to his jawline.

"That's my dirty girl," he grinned. You looked at him. You knew he was only teasing you, but he'd called you his girl.

And damn if that wasn't doing something to your insides.

"You okay, Doll?" he asked, looking at you with concern.

You nodded, trying to push away the seemingly overwhelming emotions that were stirring within you. "Um, yeah, I'm fine. Just got lost in thought for a minute; Jewel Carthage is upstairs meeting with Steve and Tony right now. They'll be

coming down to the common room to introduce her to everyone once they're finished."

"Oh yeah, that's right. Jewel's interview was today." Bucky's tone was completely unconvincing. "It completely slipped my mind."

"Oh, we lying to each other now?" you asked, trying to keep your voice light and your insecurity at bay. It was totally fine for him to express interest in getting to know a potential new member of the team, you reminded yourself. Totally fine and not a complete rejection of you at all. Okay, who was the liar now?

"Absolutely not," his voice was now deep with sincerity. "Never." You smiled and leaned in to kiss him, but he leaned back and asked:

"So, how did the tour go? What was she like?" You debated whether or not to tell him about what she'd said about him, but decided against it. You found you didn't want him feeling flattered by her disgusting line of questioning, and the fact that you were censoring what you said to him made you feel gross.

"Can't say I was a fan," you told him. At least that was the truth. Just not all of it. "I found her to be incredibly unprofessional and, honestly? Kind of a bitch."

"Hey," Bucky gently chastised, "give the kid a break. She was probably freaking out. It's hard being the new kid in the Tower, you know?" You shrugged; you didn't know, really. You'd been with Tony from the beginning. Bucky went on: "Remember how much of an ass I was when I first met you?" he asked, then impersonating himself, said: "'What the hell kind of name is Pocket?'" You nodded, giggling as you remembered. "But you looked past my obnoxious nerves and I wormed my way into your heart and now you're my best friend and you're stuck with me forever." You nodded, laughing at the memory.

"Well, you're lucky I wanna be stuck with you forever," you told him without thinking.

"Is that so?" he asked, voice growing thick.

"Ugh, don't let it go to your head, Barnes." You buried your head into his shoulder to cover your embarrassment, only for him to put his hands on your hips and roll your core across his clothed erection.

"Oh, it definitely went to my head, Doll," he said as he drew your hips together again, eliciting a moan from deep within you. "I just can't confirm which one." The friction was delicious, and you put your hands on his shoulders to find purchase as you began grinding against him in an increasing rhythm.

"Fuck, Pocket," Buck grunted as he thrust his pelvis up into yours, "how can you feel this fucking good before I can even get inside you?"

"Jesus, Buck," you gasped as you felt the length of him drag along your covered slit, the tip of his cock rubbing against your clit every time he pulled you forward, "just like that... Harder, please, God, please.' You were panting, desperate for the release that you were chasing. "You feel so good. God, so fucking good."

Bucky took his metal hand off of your hip and gripped your chin. "Come here," he growled, pulling your lips to his in a desperate kiss as he continued grinding you against him.

"Gonna make me cum in my pants like a fucking teenager," he moaned. His hand gripped the back of your head, pulling your forehead against his. "You're so fucking sweet, Pocket." You loved the words that came out of his mouth the more he came undone beneath you, and the fact that you were the one doing it to him made you feel incredibly powerful.

"Ms. (Y/L/N)," FRIDAY's voice filled your room, causing Bucky to halt his movements, "Mr. Stark is requesting you and Mr. Barnes in the common room for Ms. Carthage's team meet and greet in fifteen minutes."

You groaned, trying to pull Bucky closer so you could chase his lips in spite of the interruption, but he moved his head away.

"We should head up, then, huh?" Bucky gently moved to tug you off of his lap.

"We could be a little late," you said, reluctantly standing up and straightening your skirt. "There's no rule that says we have to be perfectly punctual. Let me at least get you off before we go up." You started to kneel in front of him, reaching for his belt, but Bucky stood up, stopping you.

"I don't want to be rude," he said, reaching up and freeing your hair from its bun, running his fingers across your scalp.

"Oh, God," you murmured as you leaned into his touch, "that feels fucking amazing." He brought his other hand up and began massaging your scalp with both hands, gently tugging at the roots of your hair. The sensation immediately relaxed you.

After a few moments, you felt his hands pull away. Cupping your face, he smiled at you. "Why don't I head up now, and you can get changed and meet me?"

You checked your watch; he really hadn't given you much of a choice at this point.

But then, he abruptly stopped and stepped back, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "As much as I would love to take you up on that offer, doll, we should probably behave ourselves for now." He pulled away and returned to his discarded copy of The Times. You tried to hide your disappointment. He hadn't initiated any intimate contact with you since the day he had seen Jewel's file almost two weeks ago. You were started to take it a little personally.

You had never really thought of him as anything more than your best friend (and someone you had mind-blowing sex with), but lately, there had been moments where you couldn't stop thinking about him. Moments where his touch felt electric, or his voice made you feel something deep in your core.

It was confusing, and part of you was terrified at the idea of giving in to those feelings. But another part of you wondered if maybe there was something worth exploring there. If maybe you were ready for something real.

But his recent distance had given you pause. Had you done something off putting? He had seemed to really enjoy the blow job you'd given him that night, which was the last time the two of you had done anything that could be remotely described as sexual. You made a promise to yourself to broach the topic with him when you both got ready for bed later in the evening, after the meet and greet with Jade was over and you could put her out of both of your minds, for good.

[tojikai]

THINGS THAT KEEP ME UP AT NIGHT

- “fix you” y/n never even coming close to the love toji has for his first wife

- Naomi and satoru(Literally everything regarding that)

- Naomi and yui( Literally everything regarding that as well)

- Home toji cheating on the supposed women he loves and everything y/n went through due to it(she didn’t get her happy ending:((( )

- What could’ve been with pm satoru and y/n

- Constantly hearing about how “good” naomi was to satoru even him himself still praising her in a way after what she did

- will we get a sundered or pm sequel or prequel (since home and fix you are honestly harder to see with a sequel atleast)

- does kai get annoyed/tired of the amount of asks they been getting lately 😞

Other stuff I was hoping you could answer 🥺

- did he genuinely love Naomi or did he just love her in terms of comfort? Could you explain the love he had towards her please(I’ll probably be heartbroken at the answer maybe but we love being miserable I guess lol)

- If naomi came into his life first would he date her first and last, and would yui even happen?!?!?

- ^ what would happen if y/n later on came into his life or he met both at the same time

- does satoru love yui or y/n more? What’s the difference between his love for them because when it comes to yui and y/n disappearing In the extra chapter and ask’s where you explain things, it seems like he’s more focused on y/n.

- once yui and y/n were in his life did they become the people he loved the most or did it eventually happen after his mom and Naomi weren’t in his life anymore or at some point

honestly i wanted them to end up tgt miserable without being able to have a kid while yui and y/n are in another country with toji and megumi🤭or a “Home” type ending where Gojo get’s everything thrown back at him 17393939 times harder

AHAHAH let me give my thoughts on some of this, they're really entertaining🤣

hmm pm satoru and yn could've had it all honestly.

im definitely thinking about how home yn didn't get a chance at happy ending too 🥹 (the humming tiktok sound didn't help :'>)

as for Satoru praising Naomi, yeah he's really grateful for what he did for him. she stayed w him at his lowest, he can't deny that 🥹 but what she did is not something he'll easily put behind. it almost ruined everything.

sequelssss idk, maybe when i have more time to write. as of now i am writing different things bc my interests switches really fast. like strangely fast, i kinda wanna get checked bc of this.

NOPE, kai's never annoyed w questions bc i really enjoy these stuff. even just reading your thoughts and reactions is very interesting to me. PLUS, i get a lot of ideas from them. they trigger ideas LMAO

Satoru loved naomi in that comfort way yes. bc she was really supportive and understanding towards him. like she didn't drop her even during those worsts of him. and the fact that she had to deal w his broken fam/baby momma issues too, yeah he admires her for that. but as for love like the "love-love" he has for y/n? no. he can't love anyone in the same level as yn.

he'd probably date naomi if she came first. that doesn't mean he wouldn't date yn once they get to know each other tho. a lot of things that could lead them to each other can happen. he'd probably wouldn't want a child early on in the rs if he and Naomi were dating. even yui was a surprise (not unwanted tho <3)

if he met both at the same time, he's going w yn lmao. he won't be able to stop it.

he's more focused on yn bc yn is mom. where mom is, yui is LMAO that doesn't mean he loves yui less tho. like w yui its more of nurturing and guiding. while with yn, ofc its romantic.

yn became the love of his life when he woke up one morning and thought of how nice it was to wake up next to her warmth🥺it was like she couldn't ask for anything anymore. along with that was yui ofc, she was pregnant that time and when she was born was one of his happiest days. even when he was with naomi, satoru has accepted that yn will always be the love of his life. it was just that in his mind he just gotta move on and forget bc back then it felt like nothing good will ever happen in their rs again. until he saw her w toji and then bam, he woke up. he's not having that everyday, he can't do it.

btw the home ending for naomi and satoru would've been fire. like they live the rest of their life regretting the decisions they made. but i think satoru wouldn't be able to handle being away from yn and yui even if that meant being an outsider in their new life alone 🥹

[dendroaspis-viridis]

The Hunt Ball

Katareth is the unfortunate recipient of an invitation to one of the Pentaghast’s famous hunt balls. Thankfully, a certain necromancer will also be in attendance.

Rating: T (Content warnings listed under the read more.)

Read it on AO3

Content warnings for unwanted physical contact (though nothing overtly sexual), depictions of overstimulation, consumption of alcohol, and a very brief blink-and-you-miss-it mention of losing a child.

9:42 Dragon

With the Mortalitasi’s autumn rites concluded and new initiates welcomed into the Mourn Watch, Harvestmere’s arrival was heralded by cold winds and the crunch of dead leaves underfoot.

Pulling her cloak tighter around broad shoulders, Katareth walked alongside Johanna to the little Antivan restaurant they frequented for dinner. It was within walking distance to the Necropolis, and they were always greeted by the delicious scent of spiced meats and a friendly ‘Hullo!’ from the owner as soon as they stepped through the door.

After ordering their food, they sat at their usual table by the window, sipping at warm glasses of cider to chase the chill away.

“What’s been going on in that head of yours, Kitty? I could practically hear you thinking on the way over here.”

“…Can you teach me to dance?” the qunari quickly whispered, glancing around to ensure none of the other customers overheard.

Johanna blinked a few times. Of all the things she expected Katareth to ever ask of her, that certainly wasn’t one of them.

When the older Watcher didn’t respond after a few moments, Katareth hastily explained, “I know you’ve been to several balls over the years and are much better acquainted with the more aristocratic side of Nevarran culture than I am-”

Johanna raised her hand, gently halting the reaper. “First: stop rambling. Second: of course I’ll teach you what I know. Third: why?”

She rubbed at the back of her neck. “So, you know how the Prelate invites all of the higher-ranking Mortalitasi to his family’s hunt ball every winter?” Johanna nodded disdainfully, rolling her eyes. “According to him, this one will be more of a celebration of the Inquisition’s victory, instead. He stopped by my quarters yesterday to tell me my attendance ‘will be expected at the gala to display both the Mortalitasi’s and Pentaghast’s support of the Inquisitor’s divine mission,’” she sneered.

It wasn’t that Katareth disliked Inquisitor Adaar—she'd never even met the poor kid. But she did dislike how some of the same humans who once glanced at her with wary contempt now fawned over her, viewing her as an extension of the Herald’s supposedly sacred origins simply due to the horns that rose from her skull.

Johanna sighed empathetically. “Yeah, that’s politics for ya: ‘You’re not worth my time until there’s something I want from you…’”  She thought for a moment, tapping her chin as she scrutinized the reaper. “…But it shouldn’t be too hard to teach you; you’re a quick study, and it’s honestly not that different from combat footwork. We should have… what, six weeks before the ball? That’ll be plenty of time.”

-----

Six weeks came and went, stripping trees of their foliage and supplanting dormant gardens with heaping piles of snow. During that time, Johanna had resumed her place as Katareth’s mentor. Rather than imparting the qunari with the knowledge and expertise one needed to become a Mourn Watcher, she instead taught the younger woman the elegant art of ballroom dance during lessons that often ran into the wee hours of the morning. Johanna was far more patient with Kat than she’d been during their earlier days, but found that patience chipped thinner and thinner every time her feet were smashed underfoot.

Mercifully, that happened less frequently the more they practiced, and eventually Katareth was deemed a more or less proficient dancer. She was by no means perfect, but Johanna had teasingly assured her that most of the attendees would be too drunk after an hour or two to notice her crushing their toes.

“Just tie the sash around your belt once or twice… a bit tighter-too tight! Ugh, just let me do it, Kat.” The human had been helping her prepare for the ball, ironing out the finer details of the Watch’s formal grey-green dress uniform and tossing quick glances at the door every so often.

“Hm... Okay, give me a twirl,” Johanna requested as she perched herself on the edge of a table.

Katareth did as she was told, feeling very much like Thedas’ largest dress-up doll.

“Great… now do it again, but try to not look constipated this time.”

Muttering a curse under her breath, she once again turned, recalling the many many hours dedicated solely to pirouetting properly. Evidently, they paid off when the fine, crimson silk scarf that had been looped around her waist fluttered with her movements, mimicking a glittering arc of dragon’s blood. The little red ribbon that held her ivory hair in a low bun swayed as she stopped, tickling her nape.

“Oh, very good! Well done, Katareth!” Johanna praised, elated to see her teaching put to practice.

A wide grin spread across the qunari’s face. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be as miserable as she’d feared.

“And I believe with that you’re ready.” The older woman began herding her towards the door, offering advice as they went, “Remember: just grin and bear it. You shouldn’t need to be there for more than a few hours—just long enough for people to see and meet you. But there’s no shame in retreating to a terrace to get some fresh air if things get overwhelming, either.”

Opening the door and gesturing for the qunari to lean down, Johanna made some minor adjustments to the matching red silk cravat tied around her throat, plucking invisible pieces of lint from the fabric before smoothing down her waistcoat. “There should also be a few familiar faces. Most of the Pentaghast Mortalitasi will be there obviously, but I know a few other Watchers are attending for one reason or another…” She leaned to the side, looking past Katareth down the hall.

As if on cue, Emmrich appeared from around a corner at the far end of the corridor. His elegant fingers carded through greying hair as he approached, drawing Katareth’s attention to the rich maroon lacquer that adorned each manicured nail. Like herself, he was clad in their order’s formal attire, decorated with shimmering red silk that seemed to flutter and flow with his every move. In contrast to her more reserved placements, Emmrich chose a bold arrangement that accentuated his shoulders by fastening the sashes to his epaulets, letting the fabric billow behind him like wings.

“Good evening, ladies. Apologies for my tardiness; evidently I didn’t start preparing early enough,” the necromancer admitted.

Johanna’s eyes raked over his form as she appraised his work, “I’ll let it slide this time, Volkarin—but only because you clean up nicely.”

“You look wonderful, Emmrich.” Maybe it wasn’t her most elegant or articulate compliment, but an unexpectedly large portion of Katareth’s mind was now dedicated to taking in every aspect of his appearance.

He was beautiful. Not that he wasn’t attractive before, but it wasn’t something Katareth normally paid attention to, too focused on whatever trek or project or corpse they were working on at the time to pay any mind to how someone presented themselves. Suddenly struck by his visage, however, she scanned his features greedily. The carefully-applied kohl around his eyes made their umber depths seem deeper. More entrancing, somehow. His moustache was neat and tidy, sharpened to points so razor-thin the qunari could slice the pad of her thumb on one if she were ever brave enough to try, and… was that a dusting of rouge upon his cheeks?

“Thank you!” he beamed up at her. “I could say much the same about you. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in the Watch’s formal attire, but you wear it well. Red suits you.”

Before she could respond, Johanna interjected. “Yes, yes, you both look lovely. But ‘most everyone else has already left, and there’s a fine line between being fashionably late and just late that you two are tight walking.”

“Right you are. Katareth?” The necromancer gestured down the corridor in the opposite direction he came from, beckoning the pair’s departure. The two said their goodbyes to Johanna, including a quiet, “Thank you. For everything,” from the reaper.

Johanna waved her away. “Bah, get out of here! You can thank me by not embarrassing yourself tonight. Now go!”

-----

“I was roped into this by Prelate Pentaghast, but what brings you to the hunt ball, if you don’t mind my asking?” They made a quick detour to the stables, saddling their undead mounts with varying degrees of success. Katareth was an old pro, having worked with horses on and off at her adoptive parents’ ranch for the past two decades, but Emmrich found the near-endless buckles and straps needlessly convoluted and normally left anything involving them to their resident equestrian.

“My parents insist upon it…” he sighed. “Despite Philomena’s recent betrothal and even Ulrich’s wife giving birth to my third nephew, they still maintain that I—as the eldest child—find a suitable spouse, and all but force me to attend every high-profile event I can.” Emmrich twisted a tip of his moustache as he watched her secure the last few pieces of tack. “Some parties are better than others—and I admit the Pentaghasts do know how to celebrate—but they all still have the same insipid gentry who are far more interested in what you have to offer on parchment than what you have to offer as a person.”

“That sounds… exhausting.” Her hands hesitated as she slipped leather through metal. “…I apologize if it isn’t my place, but it’s not right that they place so much pressure on you. You shouldn’t have to tolerate that. After all, it’s not as if you could control being born first.”

Katareth had been spared from the reproductive stresses of succession simply by virtue of her heritage. Being Albrecht and Petra Naletski’s only surviving child (adopted or biological), however, meant that the more practical responsibilities related to the estate were slowly being handed over to her as she matured. That was nothing, though. She’d choose a few annual meetings to review finances over having someone constantly breathing down her neck to breed like some prized horse...

The necromancer’s fidgeting hand stilled as his eyes dropped to the stone floor, ruminating over her words. “I suppose you’re right…,” he went quiet for several seconds before stating in a lighter tone, “But I think we’ve bellyached enough about family for one night. Let’s attempt to make something fun of the evening, shall we?”

She stood, satisfied that everything was properly secured before offering a strong hand to help the other Watcher into his saddle. “I’d like that. After all, the party can’t be that awful, can it?”

-----

As a matter of fact, it could be.

Within minutes of handing their overcoats off to a servant, both Mourn Watchers were swarmed by party-goers vying for their attention, herding the two in opposite directions. The small crowd surrounding Emmrich seemed more or less familiar with him, if the way they pressed themselves against him and wantonly flirted was any indication.

The humans that corralled Katareth, on the other hand, kept at least a foot of distance. At first. With every successive question they asked and every clipped answer she gave, they inched closer and closer until she felt the uncomfortable squeeze of a hand on the muscles of her bicep.

Apparently, she’d been the center of some speculation ever since Albrecht first brought the then thirteen-year-old girl to Nevarra City, but as she’d never attended any of the social balls during her youth, they’d never had the chance to pry. The Watcher briefly explained how he discovered her working in one of Hossberg’s stables during the maladaptive sabbatical that followed the death of his only child while simultaneously trying (and failing) to subtly remove strange hands from her person. ‘Just grin and bear it,’ she reminded herself.

While the qunari’s towering height drew unwanted attention wherever she went, it did have a few advantages. One such boon was her ability to reach over the gathered gentry to pluck beverages from passing waitstaff. It didn’t matter what it was, so long as it was alcoholic. After tossing back a few drinks, she reached the pleasant state of intoxication where the sharp edges of the evening’s vexations were sanded, while still remaining more or less aware of her faculties.

After almost an hour of enduring questions that ranged from vapid to downright obscene, King Markus Pentaghast rose from his throne atop a black marble dais to give a short speech, thanking Andraste for sending the Herald and commending the Inquisition for its valiant efforts to protect Thedas. He also drew attention to a few key members of the Inquisition who were in attendance tonight, praising them before ending his speech with a warbled declaration to enjoy the night’s festivities.

As he returned to his throne, the large orchestra started up again, prompting couples to take to the spacious dance floor. Katareth turned upon hearing someone clear their throat behind her, greeted by the outstretched hand of an older Pentaghast man clad in dazzling armor. The alcohol in her veins muddied his given name, though she was able to recall that he was one of the handful of Pentaghasts competing for the throne that actually stood a chance at claiming it.

“It’s not often such a beautiful, enigmatic Watcher crosses my path, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t invite her to dance. Would you do me the honor, my lady?”

‘I’d sooner flay myself and roll around in natron,’ she bit back. Maybe if Katareth was a young blushing maiden waiting to be swept off her feet, or enjoyed any of the tawdry romance books Myrna tried to get her to read, she’d be swooning at the thought of dancing with one of Nevarra’s elites. Instead, she wanted to recoil from his insincere compliments and melt into the floor.

“I believe the honor would be mine, Lord Pentaghast.” Eugh.

The dancing itself wasn’t bad, per se, but… everything else was. For someone happiest in the dimly-lit repose of the Grand Necropolis, the bright chandeliers, intense cacophony from the orchestra, and searing touch of Lord Pentaghast’s wandering hands had the reaper wanting to crawl out of her own skin. Just grin and bear it.

When the song finally came to a close, Katareth thought that would be the end of it, and she could slink to some far corner to recuperate for the rest of the evening while still technically remaining present.

Before she could even turn to leave, her hands were grabbed by another human. This one was a cocky young man who loved both alcohol and the sound of his own voice, according to his incessant, slurred chattering.

Each arrangement subjected the reaper to a new face and new grievances until a gentle hand tapped her elbow during a lull. A tall, svelte human about Katareth’s age with dark hair and oddly-familiar features grinned up at her.

“Everyone looked like they were having such a wonderful time dancing with you that I had to see what all the fuss was about,” the woman laughed good-naturedly.

Katareth gave a quiet acknowledgement, dutifully twirling and dipping and spinning her partner when the orchestra picked back up again. About two-thirds of the way through the arrangement, the sudden off-key shriek of a violin’s bow across catgut was the final nail in the qunari’s mental coffin. The cacophonous floodgate of stimuli that’d been held back by a handful of drinks gave way, overwhelming the reaper.

The clanking of armor, the boisterous laughter of people who were somehow enjoying themselves, the blinding dazzle of crystals dripping from chandeliers, it was all just too much. Even the woman’s feather-light touch upon the small of Katareth’s back might as well have been a dagger attempting to carve out her kidneys.

By some great miracle she managed to finish out the dance, but knew she had a narrow window of time before the band would pick back up, trapping her in a snare of social conventions that she knew she'd be unable to manage graciously. Wide, yellow eyes darted, scanning for the path of least resistance to somewhere—anywhere that wasn’t here. Johanna’s earlier advice echoed in her mind. A terrace, yes! She just needed to find a nice, quiet terrace to lick her wounds for the rest of the evening before she could make her escape.

“Leaving so soon, Lady Naletski? I was hoping for another,” the noblewoman teased. Wait. Had Katareth given her name? Ah, who gave a shit—she had bigger issues right now. The reaper’s distress must’ve been apparent, as the woman’s tone became tinged with concern. “Are you okay…?”

“Hm? Oh, um, I’m fine! But I might slip away for a m-moment—if that’s alright, of course? Uh, I-I just need some air.” She managed to flounder out. Maker, even the sound of her own voice scraped against her ears.

Unconvinced, but now well-aware of the Watcher’s dire condition, the human pointed toward the closest flight of stairs that would lead her from the worst of the crowds, “That should be your safest option. It was delightful getting to finally meet you, as well! Hopefully we can cross paths again under calmer circumstances soon!”

Katareth wasted no time, tossing the familiar stranger a thankful wave over her shoulder as she squeezed passed throngs of humans.

Skulking off to a blessedly-empty terrace with only a handful of little blackbirds hopping about for company, the brisk Haring air was a balm to her frazzled mind. While she could still hear the orchestra, it was muffled to a pleasant background music that Katareth could tune out, should she so choose.

She wasn’t entirely sure how long she spent leaning on the balustrade recuperating with her head in her hands, but she supposed it didn’t really matter; she’d spent more than enough time mingling with the living for one night. She’d earned this. Lifting her head to look out upon the landscape, she breathed a long sigh of relief that billowed in the cold. Both moons were full and bright, casting Nevarra City in a silver glow that glittered gently off yesterday’s snowfall. It was nice. It was quiet. She could think.

And massage at the sore muscles of her neck. Humans were certainly an interesting bunch. They were resourceful, superstitious, and individualistic, among other things. But the one detail about them that consistently caused the qunari the most grief was just how short they were. Emmrich was one of the taller humans she spoke to, and she still found herself rubbing cramps from her neck on occasion…

“Sorry to interrupt your quiet time, but I couldn’t resist introducing myself,” a rough, gravelly voice came from her left. Katareth glanced, looking down—then further down still—to see a dwarf with red hair and mischievous eyes. You’ve got to be shitting me.

“Varric Tethras. Rogue, storyteller, and according to a certain Seeker, ‘conniving little shit’,” he snickered, holding his hand up to shake. The man had a warm smile, though the confidence that dripped from his words left her wary. Even though he was one of the heroes being celebrated tonight, she’d endured her fair share of self-important men for the evening. When Katareth said nothing and made no move to take his hand, he let it fall to his side, carrying the conversation for her. “The strong, silent type, then? I can work with that.”

“It’s been a long night… Uh, Katareth Naletski. Mourn Watcher.” He didn’t seem offended when she didn’t meet his eyes, instead following the little blackbirds as they flapped about.

“Katareth… that sounds like a very Qunari name to hear in the middle of Nevarra…”

She manifested a handful of Veilfire before dismissing it with a clenched fist. It required fewer words than explaining the nuances between Qunari, Vashoth, and Tal-Vashoth, and most people understood just enough of Qunari culture to know mages weren’t viewed fondly by those who still followed the Qun.

“Ah. Yep, that’ll do it. So, does that make you one of the death mages I’ve heard so much about?”

“Not really,” she waved her hand dismissively. “I’m a bit shit at magic, truth be told. There’s another Watcher here named Emmrich Volkarin, if you’d like to talk to a real Nevarran death caller.” She felt bad trying to make the dwarf Emmrich’s problem, but the necromancer was far better equipped to speak on anything arcane. Really, he was better equipped to speak on anything.

“And miss out on the pleasure of your company? Never,” the dwarf teased. “Besides, you seem like someone worth knowing.”

She hummed inquisitively.

Varric ended up being surprisingly easy to talk to, easing her into the conversation with questions she could answer with a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’. It almost made her suspicious, as multiple times during their quid pro quo, Katareth found herself divulging information she hadn’t spoken on in decades. It certainly helped that he made her quietly chuckle a few times, regaling her with stories of some of his earlier misadventures.

After a while, she saw his head turn to one of the doors leading back into the castle proper from the corner of her eye. “And that’s probably my cue to get back to the party. It was great talking to you, and I’d love to stay in touch if you’d be willing, Rook?"

“‘Rook’?”

“Yeah. Those birds you’ve been watching the entire time? They’re called ‘rooks.’” He began counting on his fingers, “They’re sociable, dark-feathered, chatty, and tend to stay in the same place their entire lives—it’s perfect, if you ask me!”

Ah. She understood, now. “If you say so.”

Varric gave her one last farewell, passing Emmrich on his way back inside.

Taking the dwarf’s place on the balustrade, Emmrich handed her a steaming mug of mulled wine. “Philomena suggested I come check on you,” he explained. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything…?”

“No, nothing like that! Uh, he just thought I was interesting—but nothing more. Wait, your sister?” She sipped, reveling in the warmth that spread through her.

He nodded, nursing his own mug, “Yes, said you were an excellent dancer, too. I’ll have to pass her praise along to Johanna; I’m sure she’ll be ecstatic.”

“I thought she looked familiar… Please give Philomena both my thanks and apologies, I was a bit… um, unpolished toward the end of our dance and she handled it very graciously.” Katareth took a longer drink, hoping he would assume the pink on her cheeks was from the cold.

The necromancer waved her shame away, “I wouldn’t worry about it too much, you certainly handled tonight better than I handled my first hunt ball, after all. And you caught the eye of one Varric Tethras.” He smirked, “…You know who’ll be kicking herself for not attending tonight?”

“Myrna!” They laughed in unison. She was probably his biggest fan, collecting signed copies of every book she could get her hands on. She was even their main source of information regarding the Inquisition due to her scouring every report from Ferelden for even a passing mention of her favorite author.

“On top of that, he even bequeathed you with one of his famous nicknames. What was it, ‘Rook’?”

“Apparently,” she grumbled.

“I could see it… After all, they’re immensely intelligent, committed, and often misunderstood by small-minded fools.” The necromancer took a long drink of wine, surveying the skyline.

“…I think I prefer your explanation.”

He smiled softly, huffing a quiet laugh.

The two Watchers stood there for several long minutes, silently basking in each other’s company as they inched closer and closer, blaming their increasing proximity on the biting cold. When their pinkies brushed against one another on the balustrade, neither retreated, and Katareth was pleasantly surprised to feel that his touch didn’t cause her to shy away. It wasn’t too much. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t enough.

Emmrich must have somehow sensed her desire, as he pulled his gaze from the cityscape to look up at the qunari. “Katareth… would you care to dance with me?” he almost whispered.

“I’d love to.” she couldn’t hide her lopsided smile. “Shall I lead?”

“If you’d prefer. I’ve no objections either way.”

The reaper nodded, moving from the railing to allow the necromancer to step even closer into her space. He placed one hand in hers, resting the other on the small of her back. Listening to the orchestra, Katareth found her place in the music, guiding her partner through the motions.

Dancing with him was overwhelming, but not in a way that had her recoiling. Instead, it was a cacophony of sensations in all the best possible ways: exhilarating and soothing and intimate and perfect. The rest of the world seemed to fall away around them, leaving the Mourn Watchers in a silvery spotlight.

Emmrich’s eyes traced along the multitude of scars and creases on her face, though she felt no judgement or derision under his umber stare. As he followed a jagged pearly scar down to where it sliced her lips, Katareth watched as a pink tongue subconsciously darted out to wet his own.

 She allowed her eyes to wander across his features, in turn. Though Johanna teased Emmrich endlessly when she first noticed the silver hairs at his temples, Katareth thought they made him even more handsome. More distinguished. Like the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that deepened whenever he smiled, or the singular paper-thin scar at his hairline.

As the music built to its conclusion, she guided the human into a few quick spins, watching in awe as the sashes at his shoulders enveloped them both in a scarlet cocoon. The grey hand at Emmrich’s waist moved to cradle the space between his shoulder blades when the orchestra hit their crescendo, concluding with a dip that left the qunari’s face hovering above his own.

The final echoes of the music faded, though neither Watcher made any attempt to right themselves, practically sharing their breaths. Maker, she wanted to close the distance… Surely, he’d taste of the rich, spiced wine they shared. But I really shouldn’t… The wine was stronger than she’d anticipated, and while she was more than capable of holding her liquor, she couldn’t definitively say the same for the man in her arms.

Besides, doing something drastic and impulsive like that would most certainly qualify as ‘embarrassing herself’ in Johanna’s bespectacled eyes.

Katareth pulled the necromancer into a standing position, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder when Emmrich swayed slightly. Whether it was from vertigo or the alcohol in his veins or an unfortunate mix of the two, she wasn’t sure.

Nevertheless, Emmrich quickly found his balance, looking between the moon’s position in the sky and the ongoing gala inside before breathlessly declaring: “And with that, I daresay we’ve stayed long enough to satisfy social norms if you’d like to return home?”

“Yes, please.” Home. She supposed it really was home, wasn’t it?

They made their way back inside, skirting around the worst of the crowds before donning their overcoats and collecting their mounts. The entire time, Katareth’s mind was fogged with a warm fuzziness that she knew wasn’t brought on by the wine.

-----

“So, what did you think of your first hunt ball?” The Mourn Watchers were a little over halfway back, riding through a gentle fall of fluffy snowflakes.

“Maker-willing, it’ll be my last.” In her opinion, there were only two positives to the evening, and her favorite was currently riding alongside her.

“Can’t say I blame you…” After a few thoughtful moments, Emmrich looked at her and quietly hinted, “You know, I think this might be my last, as well…?”

“Oh?”

His brows furrowed with determination as he took a deep breath. “I… I hate them. They’re miserable, torrid affairs, and I’m quite certain this is the first one in years where I didn’t despise every moment of it.” The necromancer’s cheeks flushed. “I just… I’m so exhausted trying to appease my parents at the cost of my own happiness—if that makes sense? I mean, Andraste’s breath, I’m closing in on forty-five and still seeking their approval!”

She nodded sympathetically. While the qunari never had to grapple with disappointing her biological parents, she had given up on trying to make Petra proud of her years ago, determining the resentful woman was a lost cause. “Trust me, I understand that sentiment all-too-well. And you have my full support, should you need it.”

He expressed his gratitude, and the pair rode in companionable silence for the remainder of the trek, returning to the Grand Necropolis just as the snowfall began to pick up.

-----

Emmrich spoke again as they entered the residential area, “While I can’t say the same for the rest of the evening, I enjoyed our time together.”

They stopped outside Katareth’s door. “Likewise. Um, we should go out more.” The reaper heard her own words and realized how they could be misconstrued with a wince. “I mean—I go to that little Antivan place not far from here with Johanna on Tuesdays and get coffee with Myrna on Saturdays. We could do something like that—if you’re interested, of course?”

He either didn’t notice her misstep, or was too polite to draw attention to it. “I’d love to. Did you-,” he paused, covering his mouth to stifle a yawn. “My apologies, ah, did you have anywhere in particular in mind?”

“Not yet, but we can decide on that in the morning.” It was rather late, and the qunari found her eyelids growing heavier by the minute.

“I'll hold you to it,” Emmrich smirked. “Oh, and one last request: could you wait until I’m at breakfast before telling Myrna about your meeting with Tethras?” he sheepishly asked.

“Of course. We’ll have to wait for Johanna, anyway, as I’m almost certain she’d throttle me if I didn’t,” Katareth snorted.

“Good point. Well, I’ll see you in the morning…” he turned to walk away, stopping briefly with a playful glint in his eyes. “…Rook.”

When she gave him a withering look, the necromancer defended himself, “You have to admit it’s better than ‘Kitty Kat.’”

“Go to bed, Emmrich,” the reaper groaned at his invocation of Johanna’s obnoxious nickname, unwilling to concede. “Your lack of sleep is making you delirious.”

He laughed, and it was the most wonderful music she’d heard all night. “Maybe you’re right… Regardless, sweet dreams, Katareth.”

“Sweet dreams, Emmrich.”